"Usually, I'm All By Myself" || Malleus Draconia

Sorry If this one is too confusing 😭 

So basically NRC (maybe Ortho too but platonic love) with a s/o that got turned into a cat by a potion mix-up, not naming names Grim and Adeuce 👀 (also, maybe reader could be like a maine coon? Idk but I love the idea of reader was a cat they would be bigger than grim but any cat is cute 😖) but the twist is that s/o is not a normal cat, but actually a flerken (If you don't know what that is, it's basically a space cat from marvel) So when Idia is petting them too aggressive or Floyd is squeezing them too tightly or if anyone is annoying them, they just open their mouth and swallow them up like a fckin snack, and maybe spit them back out when they're in a good mood leaving them so fckin traumatized. And the people witnessing it are like 🧍

I know about the Flerken! I used to be such a huge ass Marvel fan so many years ago! I fell off the band wagon right after Avengers: End Game. I even have an old fanfic posted on Wattpad for Marvel… I… haven’t worked on it in such a long time…

Please don’t attack me lol

Anyway, instead of just every character at once, I did every dorms reaction. Just to add some spice and fun to the mix!

And for the funnies

Warning: human consumption (but not gory or bloody. Just pocket dimension stuff), not part of the Big Brother Malleus writing, can be romantic or platonic (Ortho is clearly platonic)

And I do apologize for taking so long on writing this! Get distracted really easily.

Like REALLY easily. Anyway I hope you enjoy it!

“… Oops?”

Grim had no idea how it happened. He didn’t! You couldn’t possibly blame him for accidentally mixing up your drink with the potion assignment he was supposed to turn in!

But here you guys were, back in Ramshackle. Him looking up at your now fluffy fur body.

Cat.

You were now a cat.

“Listen, I can fix this!”

“Mrep…”

“Don’t doubt me hench… cat?”

Your cat self rolled its eyes and stood up on all fours. Before Grim was able to say anything, you picked him up by the scruff of his neck with your mouth and trotted out of Ramshackle.

The scene looked like a mother cat dragging away her baby kitten.

“MRAH! Let me go! I command it!”

You ignored him and went straight to the mirror chamber, hoping that one of your friends in the dorms will help you.

Heartslabyul

Ace and Deuce started losing their shit as soon as they saw Grim being dragged by a larger cat in the Heartslabyul garden.

“Grim, Who’s the fluffy one?” Deuce covers his mouth to hide his smile.

“Did you finally find your parent figure?” Ace teased.

“CAN IT, ACE!” You plop Grim down and trot over to Deuce who bent down to give you scratches.

Grim dusts himself off, grumbling under his breath. “I could have walked just fine! You didn’t have to drag me all the way here!”

You ignored Grim as you happily laid down in the grass and rolled over. Deuce’s eyes practically sparkled when you presented your belly to him, and he carefully rubbed it, making you purr happily.

“Mrah! Henchmen! Stop being difficult!” Grim shouted, his words causing Deuce to stop giving you pets and Ace to let out a strangled wheeze.

“P-prefect!?”

“Oh Sevens! What did you do this time!?” Ace crouches a bit as he begins laughing once again.

Grim crosses his arms and looks away. “I didn’t do anything! It was… it was them! They shouldn’t leave their stuff around in the first place!”

Offended! Scandalized! Wrong!

You picked yourself up from the grass and walked over to Grim…

Then swatted him.

“MRAH!?” Grim lets out a startled sound as he rubs his head. Before he was able to ask why you did that, you swatted him again. And again. And again.

Ace was on the grass floor laughing his ass off. It was like watching a cat hitting their child if they misbehaved.

“I would assume you’re finished painting the roses.” Ace stops his laughing and looks over to see Riddle, Cater, and Trey walking over. Riddle squints his eyes at the roses, seeing some of them still white and untouched by the crimson red paint.

“D-dorm Leader Riddle! We uh- we actually have a good reason why we aren’t finished!” Deuce tries to explain as he picks you up and shows you to the three upper class-men.

Cater gasps as he takes his phone out, quickly snapping photos of your fluffy figure. You only blinked at him and tilted your head, causing the ginger to squeal. “Oh my Sevens! They are totes adorbs!”

“A cat?! Why is there a cat here?” Riddle asks, his face showing confusion before he lets out a gasp. “The Hedgehogs! Are the hedgehog’s safe?! Did this cat do something!?”

“I’ll go check on them right now-!”

“There is no need to do that!” Deuce cuts Trey off. “This is the Prefect!”

There was a long pause between all the Heartslabyul students. The Three upper class-men processing what the first year just said. Riddle stares at Deuce and Ace before opening his mouth. “… what did you two do?”

Deuce sputters and Ace quickly looked offended. “We didn’t do anything! Grim was the one that did this!”

“Mew.” You let out a small meow and Cater broke out from his shock and started rapidly taking pictures once again.

Riddle groans as he takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale… he didn’t want to blow his head off in front of the Prefect after all. “Grim, explain to me… what you gave the Prefect.”

“How am I supposed to know?! It’s their fault their water bottle and the potion bottle looked the same!”

“What was the potion you made?” Grim went quiet when Riddle asked the question. The dire-beast mumbles something under his breath and Riddle’s eye twitches. “Repeat that again.”

“It was supposed to be a Sleepy time potion! To help the drinker sleep better!”

“HOW DID YOU FULLY MESS THAT UP?!” Riddle full on shouts at Grim, causing the poor, small feline cat to flinch. “A Sleep potion? You messed up a SLEEP potion???”

“Riddle-,” Trey tries to calm Riddle down, but Riddle fully ignores him.

“In what universe could you possibly mix up a Sleep potion for a transfiguration potion?! And you didn’t even bother to check what you brought first before handing it to the Prefect?!”

Riddle continues going off on Grim, scolding him nonstop.

It was too noisy.

Your maw opens, an eldritch presence unnoticed by the others in the room, solely focused on Riddle. A single pink, flesh like tendril lulls out.

Targeting Riddle.

Nobody was able to progress what happened, it went by so fast. One second Riddle was standing right between Cater and Trey, the next he was gone. All they were able to see was a flash of… something… coming from you.

Deuce was the first one to snap out of it and let out a scream, dropping you in the process. Thank Sevens for cat-like reflexes! You landed perfectly on all hours and grabbed ahold of Grim once again, and bolted out of the Heartslabyul dorm.

Trey blinks at where Riddle was once standing, then the universe snaps him out of it. “W-wait! Hold on!”

“Suddenly… Prefect isn’t as cute as a cat anymore.” Cater spoke up as he watched Trey sprint towards the direction where you left.

“Would they even be considered a cat after what we just saw?! What the hell are they?!”

“I was giving them belly rubs this whole time… they could have eaten me too…” Deuce looks at his own hands in horror. Meanwhile Ace was cursing at the sky, and Cater was swiping through his photos he took of you.

Savanaclaw

Leona let out a loud snort when he saw Grim squirming around and getting dragged by a larger, fluffier cat then him. He had to cover his mouth to hide his smirk that threatened to break across his face.

You decided to try your luck in Savanclaw in hopes maybe Leona would help you out. He was in his third year after all!… even though he’s been held back a few times already due to being lazy and not giving a damn. Either way, you hope the lion beat-man can help.

“Prefect! Stop dragging me! You are the henchman, and I am the great mage! I should not have to be treated like this! And what was that from earlier! Why did you eat him?!”

Leona was on his way out to the botanical gardens to nap and get away from his noisy dorm. Now, he is more interested in what the hell is going on.

“Oui, Grim… who’s your new friend? Did you finally get a parent figure to treat your spoiled hind?” Leona couldn’t help tease the dire-beast as he strode over to the two of you.

When you spotted Leona making his way over to you, you casually dropped Grim off. When he was released, Grim immediately ran and hid behind Leona.

“Oui, what do you think you're doing? Get off.”

“No way! I ain’t getting close to the Prefect, after they turned into that… that thing!”

Leona looks over at your new fluffy body…

You were currently grooming one of your paws and rubbing it against one of your kitty ears.

“You turned the Prefect into a harmless house cat?”

“They ain’t a normal house cat! Nor are they harmless!”

As you were cleaning yourself, you felt a hand grab you from the nape of your neck and pulled you up. Leona held you in front of him and sniffed you… just by your scent alone he was able to confirm it was indeed you. But there was also something off with your scent, something unnatural…

“Housewarden Leona!” Leona pulls you away from him and glances over to where the voice came from, noticing Jack and Ruggie making their way over to him. Ruggie was currently eating a donut that Jack offered him just a while ago. He was even going to offer some to Leona.

“Ah, what’s with the fuzz ball?” Ruggie glances over at you and then see’s Grim hiding behind Leona’s leg, taking a bite from his guilty treat. “And what’s got you so spooked?”

“Leona, is that the prefect?” Jack speaks up.

“You smell them too, right? Yeah it’s them. Putting two and two together, I’m guessing Grim messed up some sort of potion.”

“I didn’t mess anything up!” Grim tries to protest as he looks up at Leona.

Ruggie snickers as he goes to take another bite from his donut… he never got the chance.

You lick your chops, eyes focused on the pastry in Ruggie’s possession. He noticed your intent a second too late, unable to protect his treat as you collect it like picking up a mug before swallowing it whole via tentacle.

Everyone went quiet.

You let out a small burp.

“MY DONUT!”

“THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE CONCERNED ABOUT?!”Jack yells at the Hyena beast-men. “Did you not see what shot out of the Prefect's mouth?!”

“See? See?! I told you!” Grim points his paw at you while looking up at Leona. Meanwhile the Dorm Leader wasn’t sure on what to do in this situation.

Sensing how Leona was unsure what to do, you decided it was time to go.

When you began to approach Grim, he took a step back. “Mrah! You stay away, Henchmen!” Ah, so he was gonna be difficult…

Before Grim was going to protest once more, a single tentacle shoots out of your mouth and grabs him. All three of the Savanaclaw students just watched in horror as you gobbled up Grim.

And went on your merry way.

“… I think I’m just gonna go take a nap in my room.”

“I’m suddenly not hungry anymore…”

“… shouldn’t we go after them?!”

Both Ruggie and Leona walk away from Jack. Not that concerned about what happened, or want to be part of it.

Octavinelle

“Jade?”

“Yes, Azul?”

“Can you explain to me why there is a cat sitting on the lounge bar?”

You sat upon the bar, lounging without a care in the world. When you left Savanaclaw, you hoped that maybe Azul would help out. Unfortunately Jade found you and decided to give you chin scritches.

You really enjoyed those.

Right beside you was a bowl of water and a small plate of cooked mushrooms that Jade really wanted you to try out. He wanted to see if cats could really eat mushrooms. Since you weren’t fully a cat, they should be fine… right?

“I found them in the dorm, they looked so hungry and lost… and I couldn’t just let them be.”

“… so you decided to feed them mushrooms…”

Jade smiles as he watches you sniff your plate before digging in. He’s been watching you eat the Turkey Tail Mushroom for 20 minutes now. This was actually your second plate, and Jade was more than pleased when he saw you scarf down the first.

“These mushrooms better not be harmful! I don’t want a dead animal to scare off our customers.”

“Don’t worry, these types of mushrooms are nonlethal to both dogs and cats.” Jade assures Azul as he gently pets your head, causing you to lean into his touch and purr. Azul only squints his eyes at you, placing his hand on his chin as he comes up with an idea.

“Why don’t we use them to lure in some customers? They seem well behaved.”

Just when you heard Azul say that, you sat up and jerked your body a bit. Azul panics, thinking the worst. “Jade, you said those were nonlethal!” The dorm leader looks at Jade, who looked just as confused as they watched you make coughing sounds and your body jerking.

Then you spit out a large hairball.

A hairball that shouldn’t come out of a cat.

Jade and Azul step back as they just stare in shock as Grim was laying on the lounge's bar face down, covered in saliva.

You went back to eating.

Grim lets out a gasp like he’s been holding his breath the whole time he was inside your dimensional body. He was able to breathe just fine, he didn’t have to be so dramatic.

Drama queen.

“Grim?! What in Sevens?!”

“FIX THEM!”

Grim scrabbles to Azul, only for the Octo-mer to back away from the slimy dire-beast.

“I don’t care if I have to sign a contract! Just fix the Prefect!”

“Oya~? Is that the prefect?” Jade looks in amusement as he watches you finish another plate of mushrooms. Maybe he should have given you something… better to eat.

Azul pushes his glasses up as he glances over to you. Grim didn’t turn you into some type of house cat… no, this was more weird than that.

“Eeh~ What’s with the kitty cat?” Before Azul was able to come up with a good idea to turn you back… and to scam Grim… Floyd walked into the lounge.

You looked over at the eel twin and saw his smile widen as he began to approach you.

Red alert!

Danger!

Activate distraction!

Your body starts jerking again and you cough off something much larger. Something more human like…

Floyd stops in his tracks as he watches you cough up a slime covered Riddle. The poor redhead was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes filled with horror and disbelief.

At least he’s more calm now.

Floyd bursts out laughing as he sees Riddle, the laughter causing him to snap out of it and to finally take in his surroundings. Jade was intrigued by events that were unfolding. Azul stared in horror at the slime that was getting all over the lounge floor, wondering if it would stain at all.

Distraction successful!

You take this as your cue to leave, this time not even bringing Grim with you.

“H-hey! Prefect! Get back here!” Azul chases you as soon as you see an opportunity to escape the Ocavinelle dorm.

As you run, all you hear behind you is Floyd laughing at Riddle's misfortune, and Riddle trying to inform Jade on what’s happening with you.

Scarabia

“Jamil! Jamil, look!”

Jamil was currently finishing up the dishes when he heard Kalim come running into the dorm's kitchen. He lets out a sigh, mentally preparing what Kalim was going to show him. When he turned around to face the dorm leader, it wasn’t as bad as he was expecting it to be.

Kalim was holding you out to Jamil, showing you off to his best friend. You slow-blink at Jamil who only stared at you with indifference. When he looks up at Kalim, he just expresses how unimpressed he was.

“I found this cat trying to get into the dorm!”

“… and you just let them in?”

“They might be hungry and are trying to look for food!” Kalim smiles as he changes his position on holding you, now cradling you in his arms.

You weren’t hungry after your mushroom meal, but you were thirsty. Thankfully, Jamil was able to pick up on that and began to prepare of bowl of water for you. Right as he laid it out for you, Kamil was more than happy to put you down right in front of the bowl.

“Can we keep them?”

“Kalim, you don’t need a pet cat. And it would be a terrible idea to keep them in the dorm. Look how thick their fur is, they would overheat, I wouldn't be too surprised if you hadn’t found them, they would have blacked out.”

Jamil's words caused Kalim to deflate just a bit, but he was able to bounce back up. “What if we find them a new home? That way they would be taken care of and be comfortable!”

Jamil already felt a headache starting to form.

In the corner vision, you see something scitter across the kitchen counter. You lick your lips as you pick your head up the water bowl and zeroed in on the small bug…

It was a harmless beetle.

But you knew for a fact that Jamil wouldn’t think so.

When the vice house warden saw your attention drawn away from the water, he looked at what you were staring at… only to tense up when he saw the beetle.

“Kalim…”

“I see it! Don’t worry, I got it!” Kalim was more than happy to help. The sweet sunshine child went to grab a napkin and a glass cup. When Kalim retrieved his items, he turned towards the beetle and slowly began to approach the counter.

But this wasn’t just any type of beetle.

This bitch had wings.

As soon as Kalim made his first step, the thing spread its wings out and started to take off. The house warden let out a startled yelp, and Jamil was ready to scream bloody murder as he grabbed his magic pen.

As much as you would have loved to enjoy this little chaotic show, you didn’t want to be in the crossfire between Jamil and his magic.

Before any spells were casted, you opened your mouth and a large tendril slipped out and grabbed hold of the beetle, and just as quickly… you drew it back in and swallowed the thing.

Like a frog.

Both Kalim and Jamil stared down at you; the silence in the room felt loud.

“Oh! Thank you very much!” Kalim put down his items and picked you up, raising you above his head and spun around. “You wanted to help, didn’t you? That’s so sweet!”

“Kalim! That’s not an ordinary cat! Did you not see what just happen?!”

“I’m gonna name you Froggy!”

You only let out a small burp as Kalim gave you your new name, swaying you side to side.

Jamil was starting to feel that headache. Just when he was about to protest about Kalim keeping the ‘cat’ again, a familiar voice made its way into the Scarabia kitchen.

“Ah, te voilà, trickster!” Rook walks in the kitchen with ease as he strode over to Kalim who was still holding you. Kalim beams as he sees the Pomefiore Vice house warden. “Rook! What a surprise!”

Jamil took you from Kalim and presented you to Rook. “I’m guessing you're here for… this… please take them away from here.”

“Oh, why thank you! Word has spread that the Prefect has turned into an alien-like cat, and I thought it was a perfect opportunity to take them to Roi du Poison.”

“THAT’S THE PREFECT?!” Jamil yells as his headache comes in at full force.

“Oui! I must go now! So thank you!” Rook doesn’t explain anything else as he whisks you away from Scarabia.

Kalim and Jamil just stand there in the kitchen, processing the quick retreat the vice Housewarden of Pomefiore made.

Jamil rubs his temples “ … I’m going to my room and taking a nap.”

“Ah, I’ll get the washcloth.”

Pomefiore

“CUT!”

Vil’s sharp voice echoes throughout the courtyard, making everyone in the Film Club stop what they were doing.

The Film Club was currently doing a short sci-fi horror scene. Vil wanted to give himself and his club members a challenge since sci-fi and horror isn’t their usual go to genre for filming. Thankfully, Ortho and Epel are helpful for stirring them in the correct direction.

“We’ve filmed this scene over and over… yet I feel like something is lacking in this… alien…”

Everyone looks over at one of the actors who was dressed up like a snake-mix-octopus-mix-crocodile.

The actor only gave Vil a little wiggle with his costume.

“Your acting is good, but the costume… I feel like I’m looking at a child's drawing come to life. Where did we get this costume again?”

“This was actually hand made…”

“So it is a child’s drawing come to life… truly a nightmare,” Vil lets out a sigh as he walks over to Ortho to go over the footage they captured. Epel was sitting off to the side to watch how everything was going.

“Roi du Poison!” Members of the Film Club looked over to see Rook. He was practically skipping over to Vil while holding a super fluffy cat. “I have found you an alien!”

Vil blanks as Rook presented you to him. You couldn’t help but slowly blink at Vil and meow at him. He didn’t look all that impressed by seeing you.

“This is a cat, Rook.”

“Oui!”

“Why, in the sevens, would this be an alien? It just looks like an ordinary cat you would find off the street.”

You were more than just a street cat!

Rook was already sensing you wanted to show off that you weren’t just some simple cat, so he took an apple out from under his hat.

Vil was ready to question him before Rook tossed it in the air.

You zeroed in on the fruit and opened your mouth, allowing the tentacle to zip out and take a hold on the apple, and bring it back to you. Students in the Film Club let out a scream as they witnessed the slimy appendage come out of your mouth. Vil didn’t really respond, but he begins to think on how to put you in the movie now.

“House Warden Vil! You have to let them in the short film!” Epel shouts enthusiastically.

“Are they trained?”

“Even better! It's actually the Prefect!” Rook smiles as he announces it was really you.

You nod to confirm it was, and that you understood what was going on.

Vil smiles as he claps his hands together, pleased with the new addition to his short film.

And that’s how you got to be the alien in Vils New Short Film. At first the Club members were a bit weary, but upon learning that you were the Ramshackle Prefect, they fully accepted you instead of just some weird cat Rook found.

Ortho kept staring at you in pure awe when the actors went to the scene to reveal the part of the alien. You let out a hiss and revealed the bunches of tentacles and tendrils, just a cluster of horrors.

Every moment when filming was over, Ortho kept doing scans over your new body. The results he kept getting back were quite curious.

You didn’t turn into an ordinary cat. And Ortho was intrigued by this, even going as far as to send his brother the scans and data he was collecting.

One of the scenes that the club needed to capture was when one of the characters gets taken away from the alien. And you happily delivered it.

By gobbling up your fellow Night Raven Classmate.

Members from the club screamed in horror from behind the scenes as they watched the poor victim be taken away in one gulp. Vil had absolutely no words to say as he watched you target the next sad victim.

“Rook, you mentioned to me offhand that they’ll be ok, right?”

“Oui! The Prefect has taken both Roi de Roses and Monsieur Fuzzball and spit them out in safe conditions!”

Vil raised an eyebrow as he stared at his vice Housewarden, “Define, in your words… ‘Safe conditions’.”

Just when Rook was going to answer Vil, you came padding along.

Then you coughed up the club members.

Both actors just laid there on the ground, looking absolutely wrecked. Meanwhile you just started cleaning yourself.

The Pomefiore Housewarden looked at his own club members with absolute disgust seeing them covered in questionable slime and saliva. “Both of you, shower… Now!” That seemed to have snapped the two members out of their small daze as they scrambled to get up and head to their dorms to freshen up.

“Vil Schoenheit,” Both Vil and Rook turn to see Ortho hovering towards them. “If it’s ok with you, after doing today's scenes, can I take the Prefect? I’ve been doing scans and collecting data on them. I got a message from Idia and he wants to check on them.”

“Well, Idia is more then welcome to have them. We are done for today anyway.” Vil glances over to you.

You were innocently laying on your back waiting for your next victim to pet your tum tum.

“The shots we’ve collected are better than I expected them to be. Prefect,” you pick your head up and look at Vil. “You did fantastic today.”

You slowly blink at him and begin to purr.

Ortho giggles as he moves over to you and gently picks you up. “Come on, Prefect, I’m going to take you to big brother. He’s quite curious about what you turned into… and he wants to play with you.”

You let out a small mew as you let Ortho float away with you. Vil waved Ortho goodbye as he looked over the footage, pleased with the results they got.

Ignihyde

“Wehehehe~ Prefect you have such soft toe beans~” Idia happily let you sit in his lap as he played with your tiny cat paws, he was even taking photos of you from all angles. You didn’t mind, you just sat there peacefully with your eyes closed and your tongue sticking out just a bit.

Ortho giggles as he secretly records his brother playing with you. It was too cute! Plus, their mom has been asking how Idia has been doing, and Idia has been dodging her questioning and all that. Now, Ortho can have something to send to her.

“The Prefect seems to be enjoying themselves, brother! It’s said that cats stick their tongue out when they want to be playful or are relaxed.” Ortho casually mentions the fact as he does another scan over your body. He floats over to Idia and shows him the x-ray scan of your body.

“There’s… no bones.”

“And I don’t seen a stomach anywhere, though I am detecting lots of tunnels reaching to different places.”

“Pocket dimensions,” Idia picks you up, holding you from under your front arms. “Wehehe~ you're an ultra find, Prefect. Like an SSR+ find!” Idia gets off his bed and places you in his gamer chair.

You blink at him with your tongue still out as you relax fully into the soft leather. You watch as Idia taps a few times on his hologram keyboard, pulling up photos from your acting scenes and the x-ray scans Ortho took.

“You can still understand what I’m saying, right? You didn’t turn into just a kitty cat with a smooth brain, right?”

You huff at that and fully sit up, meowing at Idia and flicking your paw at him as if saying “get on with whatever you're gonna say”.

“Perfect. Now, I’m gonna show you what you are… because you look like a cute kitty cat, but that’s your character armor. What you really are-,” Idia motions to his monitor, showing the x-rays. “-is a fleshy alien thing that looks like a large parasite crammed into your cat-like body.”

You stare at the X-ray certain of yourself. It should be concerning really, because how the hell did you turn into that thing? Just a few hours ago you were human, and now you're some type of… alien? Parasite?

Either way you look sick as fuck.

“You don’t seem to be that freaked out,” Ortho floats over to you.

To show you weren’t that troubled by it, you opened your mouth and let out a collage of tentacles. One shoots out to grab Idia’s opened bag of chips, causing the older Shroud to yelp. You bring it back to your mouth and fully consume it, spitting the plastic bag out when you were done with it.

“… make yourself at home I guess.”

“Ah! So you do have a stomach! I can see you digesting the chips!” Ortho exclaimed excitedly.

Ortho sends the X-ray video of you digesting the chips to Idia, making it pop up on one of the monitors. You watched with curiosity. Some would find it disgusting but for you- you just thought it was interesting seeing how your new body functioned.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind if we can do some tests on you, Prefect.” Idia begins putting on his lab gear, carefully watching your reaction.

Ok. Sure. Running some tests wasn't that big of a deal. You weren’t in a rush at the moment, and you were curious about what you are.

That all changed when you saw something that looked like a needle.

Before you had time to back away, Ortho picked you up. And you started yowling, trying to get out of his hold.

“Ah! Prefect, what’s wrong?” Idia turns to see his younger brother struggling to hold you, clearly confused on what got you all fussy.

“Ortho! What happened?!”

“I don't know! They just started acting up!”

Using the wonderful power of cat physics, you're able to escape from the younger Shroud’s hold. Your first instinct was to head towards the door… unfortunately it was closed and you didn’t know how to open doors with your toe beans.

Idia slowly approaches you from behind as you try to find another escape route. Idia then takes the chance to dive down to get you, but you dodge him and begin to scurry around the room. You run from one side to the other, hopping on Idia’s bed and then to his shelf with his Action figures.

“Prefect! You're gonna get hurt!”

“MREOW!” You run across the shelf, knocking down the figurines and making Idia freak out.

“NO! Those are limited edition!” You didn’t listen to Idia’s screams as you practically knocked off every single one of his figurines. You look around trying to find a way out of his room, and that’s when you saw it-

The vent!

A tentacle shoots out from your mouth as you rip the grate off the ceiling. You cast the grate in the general direction of Idia, hearing the sound of what remains of the merchandise fall to the floor. And Idia loud pitch shriek.

You hop onto another shelf and use another tentacle to give you leverage as you swing yourself into the vent. You left Idia and Ortho alone in the room.

Take that! No needles today!

Idia just looks at the mess on his floor, not really sure where to start. Ortho just floats over and pats him on the shoulder, knowing that his older brother was mourning the loss of several of his collectibles.

Diasomnia

When you were able to escape from Idia’s clutches, you immediately went to Diasomnia.

This should have been your first pick! Horton would be happy to help you!

When you entered through the mirror you went straight to the dorm lounge room, ignoring students in the process as they stopped to stare at the fluffy cat walking the halls. Some even tried to pet you or greet you, but you were on a mission!

Being this alien cat was all fun but now, it’s best to go back to living life like a normal human.

“Strange, what’s a cat doing here?” You were ready to ignore the student like you did the others, but this one was quick enough to pick you up.

You were ready to swat at them but stopped when you recognized them. Sebek held you from under your arms as he scrutinized you. “How did you get into Diasomnia?” He asks, and all you do is meow at him.

“No matter! I heard earlier that Master Lilia and Waka-sama were looking for a fluffy cat. Perhaps they were referring to you.”

“Mrew.” Yes! Take me to Horton!

Sebek positions you into a better way where he cradles you into his arms. You start purring immediately, which causes Sebek to stutter. “C-cease your purring! I’m just taking you to Waka-sama and then I'm putting you down!”

No complaints there!

Sebek begins to walk you over to the dorm's lounge room. And you couldn’t help yourself so you started batting at his tie. A few times Sebek scolds you, but doesn't have the heart to stop you.

Oh he would lose his head if he learned it was you, the prefect.

“Ah! Sebek, my boy! You're back, and it seems like you brought a friend!” You perk up hearing Lilia’s voice.

You see Lilia and Malleus sitting on the couch in the lounge, Silver pouring them tea and himself a cup as well. Lilia’s eye practically sparkled when he saw you, vibrating on the spot with excitement.

Oh no.

He knows.

“So you found the Prefect, good work Sebek.” Malleus praises Sebek as he takes a sip of his tea.

Sebek though stopped in his tracks. He was happy to be praised by his young master! But learning that it was you that he was cradling this whole time…

He drops you without thinking.

Silver was ready to take his pen out and have you land safely on the ground, but you landed perfectly fine on all fours.

Thanks to your cat-like reflexes.

“P-prefect?! Why didn’t you say anything?!” Sebek yelled at you. You only give him a glare and start batting at his foot, basically telling him you weren’t happy for the fact he dropped you!

Lilia starts cackling watching the exchange between the two of you. When you were done with fighting Sebek’s shoe, you began your walk over to the couch where everyone seemed to be resting and hop on the coffee table.

You don’t stay there for long until Lilia scoops you in his arms, twirling you around like Kalim did. “Ah! You're just so cute now, Prefect!”

Is he saying you weren’t before?

In response to that, you place your paw on his nose, causing Lilia to laugh more. Malleus hums as he watches, Silver on the other hand was starting to doze off after he took one sip from his tea.

“How long has it been since you transformed, child of man?” Malleus asked as he placed his own teacup and saucer on the coffee table.

You try thinking about how long it’s been. It had to be no more than several hours, right? Then again, you did notice how it was getting darker in the Diasomnia dorm. Didn’t you drink that potion this morning???

“Based on your silence, it’s been a whole day.” Lilia nods to his own conclusion as you try wiggling out of his hold.

A whole day?! Nope! You gotta change NOW!

“Fear not my dear friend,” Malleus gets up from his place from the couch and makes it way over to you and Lilia. Lilia smiles as he holds you out to Malleus.

“Meow?”

“As cute as you are in this form, I would prefer to have my best friend back to normal.” And with that said Malleus places his hand on your head, letting a bright green light come from his hand.

In a blink of an eye, you turn back to normal…

With Lilia still holding you up by under your arms.

“I like to be put down now…”

“Aw, but I’m still having fun!” You let out a shriek as Lilia spins you once again. Malleus couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he watched the two of you.

Silver was fully asleep now, and Sebek only stared at his hands in horror.

“I was cradling them the whole time in their cat form…”

“Were they ever truly a cat though?” Sebek whipped his head to look at Silver who spoke in his sleep.

Nobody truly understood what you were. What you turned into it.

All they hope is that it never happens again…

“Oh gods, my stomach…” you were back in Ramshackle, laying in your bed and holding your stomach. You were feeling such immense pain after leaving Diasomnia. You did eat a lot of things today in that other form, and spitting stuff out as well.

Grim was currently pouring you a glass of Bubble Soda, and set down some crackers by your nightstand… not without swiping some first. “Mrah, Silver told me this would help you with your tummy ache. How you should still eat something along with the medication he gave.” Grim hands you the packet he got from second year.

God bless Silver. Lilia did cook horrible meals, so it made sense Silver would have these on hand.

You thanked Grim as you popped a pill into your mouth and slowly drank the soda Grim messily poured.

He tried.

“I’m really sorry about today… it’s my fault you turned into some weird cat thing…” Grim apologized awkwardly as he sat at the edge of your bed.

You let out a huff and grab the dire beast by the scruff of his neck, making him yelp in surprise as you wrap your arms around him.

“I forgive you, Grim. Don’t sweat it that much, ok? You didn’t know, and you made a mistake, it happens! So don’t beat yourself over it.”

Grim whines from your hug but lets you awayway, wrapping his paws around your neck to hug you back. You also promised yourself that night that you were going to double check everything before you consume it.

Can’t have you turning into an alien cat thing again…

Unless to torture Crowley, then you would be down to do that.

Overblot Gang + Rollo vs Plushies

Surely they're not jealous of a stuffed toy, right? ....right???

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle stepped into the room, exhaustion clinging to him like an unwelcome guest. It had been a day filled with chaos—Ace and Deuce were their usual disruptive selves, Heartslabyul’s hedgehogs had staged what could only be described as a minor rebellion, and the tea party had gone disastrously wrong when the tart supply mysteriously disappeared.

All Riddle wanted was to collapse into bed with you, the one person who made his world feel a little less upside-down.

But instead of finding you waiting to greet him, he found you fast asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed.

And clutching...a plushie.

Riddle froze, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes narrowing at the offending object. It was a bunny plush, worn and clearly well-loved, nestled securely in your arms. Your cheek rested against its soft head, your lips slightly parted in a peaceful slumber.

For a moment, Riddle just stared. Then the tiniest flicker of jealousy ignited in his chest.

It’s just a stuffed toy, he told himself, but the longer he looked, the more irrational his thoughts became.

Why is it getting your affection while I’m here, alive, and far more deserving?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the ridiculous notion, but the sight of you snuggling the plushie like it was the most precious thing in the world made his face heat up.

“This is absurd,” he muttered under his breath, but his resolve only grew stronger.

Quietly, carefully, he crept closer to the bed, his eyes fixed on the plushie. His plan was simple: extract the bunny and take its place. Surely, you’d prefer your boyfriend over a stuffed toy.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the plushie’s soft fabric. Just as he began to tug it free, your eyes fluttered open.

“Riddle?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Riddle froze like a thief caught in the act, his face turning as red as his hair. “You’re awake!”

“I am now,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you noticed the bunny in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I was—” He struggled to find a reasonable explanation, but his traitorous blush gave him away. “You were holding it so tightly, and I thought perhaps you’d be more comfortable with me instead.”

You blinked at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh, soft and warm. “Riddle Rosehearts, are you jealous of my plushie?”

“I most certainly am not!” he spluttered, though the way he avoided your gaze told a different story.

“You are!” you said, sitting up and holding the plushie close. “You’re jealous of Bunny!”

Riddle groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This is mortifying.”

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” you cooed, deliberately making it worse. “Riddle doesn’t understand how much you mean to me.”

“Give me that!” Riddle reached for the plushie again, but you held it just out of reach, giggling as he tried to maintain his dignity while grappling with a stuffed toy.

Finally, you relented, setting the plushie aside and wrapping your arms around him instead. “I’m just teasing. You know you’re my favorite, right?”

He sighed, leaning into your embrace despite his embarrassment. “I don’t know why I let myself get worked up over something so silly.”

“Because you’re adorable,” you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Riddle’s blush deepened, but this time, he didn’t try to hide it. “Just...promise me you won’t replace me with a toy.”

You grinned, cupping his face in your hands. “Never. You’re too cute to replace.”

And with that, you pulled him into a kiss, his earlier jealousy forgotten as he melted into your affection. The plushie sat abandoned at the foot of the bed, no match for the warmth and love you gave so freely to the one who truly deserved it.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona slammed the door to your shared room, the sound of it echoing through the space. His day had been one giant pile of nonsense—from an annoying meeting he didn’t even want to attend to Ruggie disappearing when he needed him to take his place. And let’s not even talk about that one random pigeon that had the audacity to poop on his shoulder during his walk back to the dorm.

All he wanted now was the comfort of your presence and the luxury of using you as his personal pillow while he finally got some peace.

But when he turned to the bed, his sharp emerald eyes caught sight of you curled up against something that was decidedly not him.

You were cuddling a lion plushie, of all things, as you read a book. The toy was tucked snugly in your arms, and every now and then, you absentmindedly stroked its mane while flipping the pages.

Leona froze, his ears twitching in irritation. What in the world is that thing doing in my spot?

You glanced up when you noticed him standing there, his face an unreadable mask of simmering annoyance. “Oh, hey, Leona,” you greeted cheerfully, holding up the plushie. “Look! Isn’t this cute? I found it earlier, and it reminded me of you.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room in a few swift strides, grabbed the plushie from your arms, and unceremoniously hurled it across the room. It landed with a pathetic little plop in the corner.

“Leona!” you exclaimed, half-shocked, half-amused. “What was that for?”

He flopped onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms with a huff. “That stupid toy’s been hogging my place all day,” he grumbled, burying his face in your neck. “I don’t need competition in my own bed.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, threading your fingers through his hair as he tangled himself around you like an oversized, grumpy cat. “Leona, it’s just a plushie. Are you seriously jealous of a stuffed animal?”

“I'm not jealous,” he muttered, tightening his grip around your waist. “I’m the only lion you need.”

“Aw, poor baby,” you teased, tilting his chin up so you could look him in the eyes. “Do you feel neglected? Should I make it up to you?”

Leona raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his lips twitched upward in a smirk. “Damn straight, you should. Start with those kisses you owe me.”

With a laugh, you leaned down and kissed him softly, your hands cradling his face. He hummed in satisfaction, his earlier annoyance melting away as you continued peppering his cheeks and forehead with affection.

“Better now?” you asked, grinning against his skin.

“Hmm,” he replied, sounding almost lazy, though his arms stayed firmly locked around you. “Still annoyed that you thought some stuffed toy was good enough to take my place, but I guess I’ll survive.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head but snuggling closer to him.

“And you’re mine,” he murmured, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Now shut up and get comfortable. You’re my pillow tonight.”

You didn’t mind one bit, letting him rest his head on your chest while you stroked his hair. The plushie in the corner could wait—your favorite lion was right where he belonged.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul walked into your shared room, exhaling a sigh that carried the weight of a long, exhausting day. Between renegotiating contracts with customers, juggling lounge finances, and—most harrowing of all—keeping Floyd and Jade from causing a full-blown diplomatic incident, he was done.

All he wanted now was the comfort of your embrace and the chance to leave the chaos of the Mostro Lounge behind.

But when he stepped into the room, his eyes landed on you sprawled on the bed.

You were curled up with an octopus plushie of all things, the game console in your hands forgotten as you absently squished the toy. It had an oddly familiar round head and floppy tentacles that dangled off the side of the bed.

Azul froze in the doorway, blinking at the scene in front of him. His sharp mind began firing off thoughts at record speed.

Is that... me? No, of course not. But you’re cuddling it. You’re smiling. Does it remind you of me?

He frowned as another realization hit him like a cold wave.

Am I... jealous of a goddamn plushie?

Clearing his throat, he stepped further into the room. “What’s this, my dear?” he asked, voice smooth but laced with suspicion.

You glanced up and beamed at him. “Oh! Welcome back, Azul!” You held up the plushie as if presenting a priceless artifact. “Isn’t this cute? I found it earlier and thought it looked a little like you.”

Azul’s composure faltered for a split second, his cheeks tinging pink. “You think an oversized toy resembles me?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, tilting your head innocently. “It’s an octopus. And it’s adorable.”

Azul adjusted his glasses, hiding his expression. “I see.” He hesitated before clearing his throat again. “It seems you’re quite attached to it.”

You hummed in agreement, giving the plushie another squeeze. “It’s so squishy and comforting to hold while I play.”

Azul’s eyebrow twitched. “Comforting, is it?”

He walked to the bed, sitting down beside you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Darling, might I propose a trade?”

“A trade?” you repeated, trying not to laugh at how serious he looked.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “That plushie for... well, anything you desire. Perhaps a free full course meal at the lounge? Or a favor of your choosing?”

You raised an eyebrow, setting down your console. “Are you trying to make a deal with me over a stuffed toy?”

Azul’s cheeks darkened. “Of course not. I simply thought you might prefer a more... meaningful source of comfort.”

It clicked, and a mischievous grin spread across your face. “Oh. Oh, I see what this is.”

“What are you implying?” he asked, straightening his tie even though it wasn’t out of place.

“You’re jealous of the plushie,” you said, leaning toward him with a teasing glint in your eyes.

Azul sputtered, adjusting his glasses again. “Jealous? Don’t be absurd. Why would I—”

“Aw, Azul,” you cooed, cutting him off as you set the plushie aside and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You should’ve just said you wanted to be my cuddle buddy. You’re my favorite octo-mer, after all.”

His ears flushed deeper as he tried to maintain his dignity. “Well, of course I am. There’s no need for comparison.”

“Good,” you said, pulling him down onto the bed and into the position the plushie had been occupying moments ago. You rested your head against his chest, a satisfied smile on your face. “Because this is way better than some squishy toy.”

Azul relaxed, his arms wrapping around you as a content sigh escaped his lips. “Naturally,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

From the corner of the room, the plushie sat forgotten. Azul glanced at it once and smirked. You’ll never take my place again.

Jamil Viper

Jamil shuffled down the dorm hallway, exhaustion radiating off him in waves. The day had been a whirlwind of chaos—cooking for Kalim’s impromptu banquet, mediating arguments between students, and narrowly avoiding another wild scheme involving magic carpets.

All he wanted was to collapse on the bed he shared with you. That you’d be there was just the cherry on top.

He pushed the door open, ready to greet you—only to stop dead in his tracks.

You were curled up on the bed, scrolling through your phone with a peaceful smile. But it wasn’t just you. No, you were wrapped snugly around a snake plushie.

Its long, noodle-like body coiled over your lap as you absently hugged it closer, your cheek pressing against its soft fabric.

Jamil’s eye twitched.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and stared at the scene with growing annoyance.

You look so happy... with a plushie.

“Hey, Jamil!” you greeted cheerfully, glancing up from your phone. “Welcome back. Long day?”

“Mm,” he hummed, walking toward the bed with a carefully neutral expression. He sat down stiffly at the edge, his back to you.

“Everything okay?” you asked, noticing his unusually curt demeanor.

“Fine,” he replied, voice clipped.

You frowned, putting your phone down. Wrapping your arms around his back, you rested your chin on his shoulder. “You sure? You seem… off.”

“I’m fine,” he said again, though his tone didn’t convince either of you.

You squinted at his turned profile, the faintest flush dusting his ears. He wasn’t looking at you—or, more specifically, at the snake plushie you still held loosely.

Then it clicked.

You smirked, leaning closer. “Wait a second. Are you… jealous of the plushie?”

His shoulders tensed, and he immediately scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh my gosh, you are jealous!” you teased, letting go of the plushie entirely to wrap yourself fully around him. “You hate my noodle friend, don’t you?”

Jamil turned slightly, just enough to glare half-heartedly at you. “It’s not— I don’t— It’s a toy,” he huffed, the flush on his face deepening.

“A very cute toy,” you said with a grin, nuzzling your cheek against his. “But not as cute as my boyfriend.”

Jamil stiffened as you started peppering kisses along his jawline. “Stop,” he mumbled weakly, his resolve clearly crumbling.

“Why?” you asked innocently, kissing the corner of his lips before moving to his neck. “You’re so much better than any plushie. You’re warm and handsome and smell nice…”

He finally cracked, turning to face you fully with an exasperated sigh. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mm, but you love me anyway,” you said with a laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jamil gave you a tired but affectionate look, letting himself melt into your embrace. “Maybe.”

You smiled, pulling him down onto the bed with you. As he settled into your arms, the plushie forgotten on the floor, you whispered, “You’ll always be my favorite noodle.”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder to hide his embarrassed grin. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never,” you said, pressing a kiss to his temple.

And Jamil, despite his protests, felt a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced all day.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil returned to his dorm room with a sigh of relief, the stress of the day clinging to him like stage makeup. The auditions, the photoshoots, and Epel’s ongoing refusal to use skincare—it had been a lot.

What he wanted now was simple: your company, your warmth, and the soothing routine of winding down together before bed.

However, when he stepped inside, his poised demeanor wavered.

You were curled up on the bed, a content smile on your face, snuggled tightly against a plushie—a soft, bunny-shaped one at that.

Vil froze, one hand still on the door handle.

It’s just a plushie, he told himself. A mere inanimate object.

But as he watched you absentmindedly rub your cheek against the bunny’s floppy ear, he felt… something.

Annoyance? At the plushie? Himself? You? He couldn’t even tell.

Brushing off the irrational jealousy bubbling in his chest, Vil set his things down and began his evening routine. He didn’t mention the plushie or the way it seemed to taunt him with its undeserved place in your arms.

You looked up with a warm smile. “Hey, Vil. How was your day?”

“Busy,” he replied smoothly, glancing your way briefly before focusing on his vanity.

“You want me to pin up your hair?” you offered, already starting to sit up, plushie still clutched in one hand.

“No need,” he said quickly, voice tighter than usual.

You blinked. That was unusual—Vil always let you (only you) help with his hair. But you shrugged it off, assuming he was just tired.

As Vil carefully applied his cleanser, the plushie caught his eye again in the mirror. It was still nestled against you, smugly enjoying the attention that should’ve been his.

Halfway through his routine, he finally snapped.

With a dramatic sigh, Vil spun around, crossed the room in three graceful strides, and plucked the bunny from your lap.

“Uh—?” you started, confused, but before you could say more, Vil replaced the plushie with himself, settling across your lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Vil?” you asked, biting back a laugh as his weight pressed you into the mattress.

“Not. A. Word,” he warned, narrowing his eyes at your amused expression. His cheeks were faintly pink, but he composed himself quickly, picking up where he left off with his skincare routine as though nothing had happened.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Vil’s hands faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. “I don’t need your commentary.”

“You’re totally jealous of the bunny,” you teased, leaning up to kiss his shoulder.

He clicked his tongue but didn’t deny it. Instead, he muttered, “Why would I feel jealous over a plushie?”

“Because you’re pouting,” you said, laughing softly.

Vil sighed, tilting his head slightly to look at you out of the corner of his eye. “I do not pout. And don’t think I’ll let you win this one.”

“Oh, I’ve already won,” you said, tightening your hold on him.

Vil shook his head, muttering something about your insufferable sense of humor, but his posture relaxed as he continued his routine.

By the time he finished, the plushie had been completely forgotten, replaced entirely by the warm, smug human wrapped around his waist.

Idia Shroud

Idia shuffled back to his room after the dorm leaders' meeting, grumbling under his breath about its sheer redundancy.

"Like they really needed me there. My tablet could've handled it. Heck, I could’ve sent Ortho in my place! It’s not like I’m ever the one making decisions… What’s the point of—"

His mumbling came to an abrupt halt as he stepped into his room and saw you on the bed.

You were curled up against a giant teddy bear, console still in hand, the screen long since dimmed. Soft snores escaped you as you nestled deeper into the plushie's arms, utterly at peace.

Idia froze, his face instantly heating up. "Wha—?! W-why is this so—?!" His hair sparked pink as he clutched his hoodie, feeling like he was going to short-circuit.

The sight was almost too much. You, looking so cute and peaceful, holding a teddy bear like it was some kind of rival stealing his spot.

He fumbled for his phone, hands shaking slightly as he snapped several photos. “For, uh, research. Totally normal behavior. Definitely not for my… secret stash.” His whisper echoed a bit too loudly in the silent room.

But now he was faced with a dilemma.

On one hand, you looked so cozy, and the last thing he wanted to do was disturb you. On the other hand… he wanted to be that teddy bear.

Idia stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to decide what to do. He wrung his hands together, muttering to himself like a character weighing dialogue options.

"Option A: Let them sleep. Pros—cute and peaceful. Cons—no interaction.

Option B: Wake them up. Pros—I get attention. Cons—they might get mad."

Before he could settle on an answer, you stirred, stretching with a groggy yawn. Your eyes fluttered open, and you blinked at him standing there, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Idia?" you mumbled, setting the console aside. You gave the teddy bear one final pat before tossing it away and reaching out to him. "C’mere.”

His heart skipped a beat. “M-me?!”

“Obviously you,” you teased with a sleepy smile, pulling him into a hug as soon as he got close enough.

Idia practically melted into your arms, his hair shifting to a bright pink. His smugness quickly returned, though, as he realized the teddy bear had been successfully ousted. "H-heh. +1 affection point for me," he muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of pride and shyness.

You raised an eyebrow, laughing softly. “Affection point? Idia, you already maxed out your affection gauge ages ago.”

His brain short-circuited again, and he buried his face in your shoulder, muffling a squeaky, “D-don’t say stuff like that!”

“Why not?” you teased, leaning back to look at his glowing face. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

Idia groaned dramatically, his hair flaring brighter as he tried to hide behind his bangs. But despite his embarrassment, he managed to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“Fine, whatever. Just… don’t let go, okay?” he muttered, his voice soft.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Not a chance.”

From the corner of the room, the discarded teddy bear sat forgotten, a silent casualty in Idia’s victorious conquest for your affection.

Malleus Draconia

It had been a peaceful evening—stars twinkling, a cool breeze wafting through the window, and the promise of a lovely stroll under the moonlight. Malleus had been particularly pleased with the weather and decided to invite you for an evening walk.

He entered the room, his usual serene expression softening when his eyes fell upon you. But then, he froze.

There you were, curled up in bed, holding a plush dragon in your arms like it was the most comforting thing in the world.

A deep rumble echoed in the distance.

You blinked, sitting up slightly. “Was that… thunder?”

Before you could ponder further, a crack of lightning lit up the sky outside, followed by the booming roar of thunder that seemed to shake the walls. You stared out the window in disbelief.

“But it was perfectly clear two minutes ago!” you exclaimed.

Turning back to Malleus, you found him standing as still as a statue, his eyes narrowed and locked onto the offending plushie in your arms. The air around him practically crackled with energy.

“Uh… Malleus?” you ventured carefully, glancing between him and the plush.

His voice was low and serious, tinged with a hint of betrayal. “Is that what brings you comfort in my absence?”

You stared at him for a moment, then at the plushie, before the realization dawned. Suppressing a laugh, you decided to play along.

“Oh no, this?” you said, holding up the plush with exaggerated disdain. “This means nothing to me.”

Malleus arched a brow, clearly unconvinced, though his eyes remained laser-focused on the dragon-shaped invader.

To really drive the point home, you dramatically tossed the plush into the corner of the room. “See? It’s nothing compared to you, my most handsome, powerful dragon.”

You spread your arms and wrapped yourself around Malleus, resting your cheek against his shoulder. His stiff posture eased almost immediately, and the thunderstorm brewing outside dissipated as if it had never existed.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his voice quieter now but still holding a touch of haughtiness. “I suppose it’s only natural. I am your favorite dragon, after all.”

“You’re my only dragon,” you said with a chuckle, leaning back to look at him.

Malleus gazed down at you, his expression softening into something tender. “Good,” he murmured, placing a hand under your chin to tilt your face up. “I would hate to compete with a mere stuffed toy for your affection.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, you know that?”

He blinked, visibly startled by the compliment, his ears tinging slightly red. “Cute? I… I do not believe ‘cute’ is the word one typically uses to describe the future king of Briar Valley.”

“Well, I do,” you said, smiling mischievously as you planted another kiss on his lips.

Malleus let out a deep sigh, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “You are… quite the peculiar human, my love.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” you teased.

Malleus chuckled softly, pulling you closer. Outside, the weather had returned to the calm, moonlit serenity it was before—a perfect night for a walk. Though judging by the way Malleus held you now, neither of you seemed in any rush to leave.

Rollo Flamme

After a long day of dealing with incompetent council members, insufferable students, and the lingering stench of magic in the air, Rollo Flamme was finally free. As he walked into your shared room, his shoulders relaxed slightly at the thought of seeing you. Your presence was always the perfect antidote to his day’s irritations.

But then, he saw it.

There you were, curled up in bed, holding a plush dragon that was far too detailed for his liking. Its smug, embroidered eyes glinted in the soft light, as if mocking him. Worse, it was lounging on his side of the bed.

He froze mid-step, the betrayal hitting him like a thunderbolt.

You looked up, immediately noticing his stricken expression. “Rollo? Are you okay?”

He didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the plushie with such intensity it was a wonder it didn’t burst into flames.

You tilted your head, following his line of sight. “Oh, this?” you said, holding up the dragon plush with a smile. “I won it at the arcade today! Isn’t it cute?”

Glass shattering. Dramatic violins. Betrayal.

“...A dragon,” he said, his voice low and tight.

“Yeah,” you said, hugging it closer without realizing the depth of the offense. “It’s so soft, and look at its little wings! They’re kind of shiny—”

“Does it need wings?” he cut in sharply, glaring at the plush like it had personally insulted him.

You blinked. “Rollo, are you... mad at the plushie?”

He straightened immediately, huffing indignantly. “Mad? At a stuffed toy? Don’t be absurd.”

But the way his eyes flicked back to the plush betrayed him, the subtle narrowing of his gaze screaming volumes.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Oh my gosh, you are mad! Is it because it’s a dragon? Does it remind you of Malleus?”

His jaw tightened. “I do not dignify such comparisons with a response.”

You grinned, setting the plush aside. “Well, if it bothers you so much, I can just put it away.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he lied, though his shoulders eased a fraction when you stood and picked up the plushie.

“I’ll banish it to the closet,” you teased, waving the dragon plush dramatically before stuffing it into the closet. “There, see? Gone.”

Rollo exhaled quietly, his usual stoic demeanor returning. “Good. It’s for the best.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder “You know you’re the only one I’d ever actually want to cuddle, right?”

His ears turned red, and he cleared his throat, but his arms instinctively came up to hold you close. “I would hope so,” he muttered, though his tone softened as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

As you snuggled against him, he allowed himself a moment of peace, though his mind wandered. He would have to get you something far superior—something elegant and tasteful. Perhaps a plush raven or something equally refined. Certainly nothing with wings or scales.

You smiled against his chest, feeling the tension leave his body. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

“No,” he said quickly. “But I’ll be... keeping an eye on your choice of arcade prizes in the future.”

You laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Whatever you say, Rollo.”

Deep down, he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d won or lost this battle, but with your arms around him, he decided it didn’t really matter.

Masterlist

The Prefect Was Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

Reckless Road Trips

𝖆/𝖓: since I did first years, why not write something with second and third years [coming soon] too? no romance once more btw

𝖙𝖜: none, usual nrc chaos

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: second years x reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1144

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

The van swayed gently down the sun-soaked highway, packed with eight eccentric second-years and you crammed somewhere in the backseat between Jade and Floyd. It was meant to be a "relaxing getaway," something Azul had insisted would be good for your health and interpersonal development. You weren’t sure if being in a vehicle with this much raw chaos counted as relaxing.

Floyd’s legs were draped across both yours and Jade’s laps, a foot tapping idly to a playlist Kalim had made—an energetic mix of party music, pop, and oddly enough, frog sounds. Riddle had already protested twice. "We are not listening to amphibian mating calls!"

“Are we theeeeere yet~?” Floyd groaned dramatically.

“That’s the fifth time,” you muttered.

“Sixth,” Jade corrected pleasantly.

“Stop keeping track!” Azul called from the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. “If anyone else asks that question, I’m cancelling the shaved ice.”

A beat.

“Are we there yet?” Kalim asked cheerfully.

Azul visibly died inside.

When you finally reached the beach, it was like a switch flipped. Everyone exploded out of the van, hauling towels and umbrellas like it was a timed race. Ruggie took off toward the water, yelling, “Last one in buys lunch!” before leaping straight into the waves.

You hung back a moment, stretching out sore limbs before grabbing a beach ball from the trunk.

“Hey Floyd,” you called, tossing it toward him. “Game?”

“Ooh~ Shrimpy wants to play?” Floyd’s grin spread wide. “Let’s see how long you last!”

The game started off easy. Light volleys, lots of laughter. You had just gotten into a nice rhythm when Floyd’s competitive instincts took over. His next spike sent the ball screaming across the sand.

“NO—!” you shouted.

Too late.

It slammed right into the back of Riddle’s head.

His ice cream went flying.

There was a moment of dead silence.

Floyd whistled innocently. “Oops~”

Riddle turned around, the picture of quiet rage. “FLOYD LEECH.”

Even the seagulls went quiet.

You doubled over laughing. Ruggie cackled from the shore. Kalim gasped, “Oh no! Riddle, I’ll buy you another!” while Jade said calmly, “You had to know that was going to happen.”

Later, you knelt near the tide line, carefully constructing a sandcastle with Kalim’s help. Jade occasionally offered eerie suggestions—“Add a trench for dramatic flair. Perhaps some bones?”—while you shaped towers with seashell windows. It was kind of nice, getting lost in the simple rhythm of sculpting.

But you had built it too close to the shore.

You realized it the second the wave came barreling in.

“No no no no—!”

Your castle crumbled in one powerful surge of water, reduced to a slurry of wet sand and disappointment.

“Nature is a harsh mistress,” Jamil said from a beach chair, sipping coconut water.

You glared. “I worked hard on that!”

He raised an eyebrow. “So does the tide.”

Azul walked over, shielding his eyes. “Everyone ready to head to the cabin?”

“Already?” you asked.

He gestured to a very grumpy Riddle, now coated in sand and scowling. “I think we’ve reached the ‘cut our losses’ part of the day.”

You expected a log cabin. Maybe something rustic with questionable plumbing.

What you got instead was luxury.

The glamping site Azul had booked looked like a forest resort—glass windows, warm wood paneling, a fire pit outside, and a kitchen that looked straight out of a magazine.

“...You rented this?” Riddle asked skeptically.

Azul adjusted his glasses. “I negotiated. Extensively.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruggie said, flopping onto one of the beanbags. “Bet it still cost more than all my groceries for a month.”

There was one small hiccup.

Only six bedrooms.

Which meant one room had to be shared.

“We’ll take it,” Jade offered calmly. “We already share a dorm room. The bunk bed arrangement won’t be awkward.”

Floyd threw an arm around his brother. “Jade snores like a kelpie! It’s like sleeping next to a drowning walrus.”

Jade smiled serenely. “At least I don’t talk in my sleep. ‘Mmm shrimp, don’t leave~’.”

You ended up paired with Kalim, who had somehow brought his own disco ball. He plugged it into the ceiling lamp, turned on music, and invited everyone to an impromptu dance party.

Jamil’s soul visibly left his body.

By the time the sun dipped below the trees, you were roasting marshmallows at the fire pit, wrapped in a borrowed hoodie, and nursing a cup of hot chocolate. Silver was already asleep beside you, Floyd was trying to toss popcorn into Riddle’s mouth (he missed, a lot), and Azul was casually checking stock charts on his tablet.

“This was... nice,” you said softly.

Azul didn’t look up. “I plan thoroughly.”

Ruggie raised a skewer. “To glamping!”

“To glamping!” the group echoed.

You thought that would be the end of it. But the next morning, Azul announced one final detour.

“There’s a secluded hot springs inn nearby. I already booked us a night.”

You blinked at him. “When did you do that?”

“Before the beach. I anticipated fatigue.”

“You mean this was the cooldown for the cooldown?” Riddle muttered.

Still, no one objected. The moment you arrived, any hesitation melted into the mountain mist. The inn was traditional and beautiful—wooden beams, soft lanterns, and the scent of mineral water drifting through the cool air.

“Only one spring?” Kalim asked.

“It’s mixed,” said the innkeeper with a smile. “It’s fully private tonight, so you have it all to yourselves.”

You shuffled toward the changing rooms with a towel clutched to your chest, cheeks already warm.

The outdoor bath was surreal. Steam rose into the night sky, stars twinkling above as warm water lapped gently at the stone edges. You slipped in with a sigh, letting your body melt.

“This is heaven,” you mumbled.

Until Floyd cannonballed in.

Water exploded over the edges.

Riddle screamed. Azul’s glasses fogged up. You got a face full of wave.

“FLOYD!”

“Hot soup time~!” Floyd sang, splashing around. “Mmm, shrimp stew!”

“Stop calling it that,” Jade muttered.

You sank lower in the water, shoulders shaking with laughter. Silver drifted in, practically asleep, and Kalim floated on his back, humming happily.

Ruggie was balancing rocks on your head.

Jamil was too tired to fight it.

You and Azul ended up side by side, staring up at the stars. He exhaled slowly, tension fading from his shoulders.

“You really went all out,” you said.

“I wanted something we’d remember.”

You bumped your knee lightly against his. “Mission accomplished.”

That night, after a second soak and way too many snacks, you curled up on a futon between Silver’s gentle snores and Kalim’s soft singing. Floyd had fallen asleep halfway through a horror story, and Riddle was still arguing with Jade about the proper way to wear a yukata.

You smiled.

Yeah. You could definitely get used to this.

credit to @enchanthings-a for divider

---

Kon'nichiwa, I Guess?

Part 2 of Sayonara, I guess?

In which Male!Reader returns to Twisted Wonderland after a year, and reunites with their boyfriend, the Housewardens/Jamil.

Hurt/Comfort. Male (AMAB and FtM-friendly)! Reader. Second chance(?). Requested by @wokasiv and @rosey-84-su.

Riddle Rosehearts

Leona Kingscholar

Azul Ashengrotto

Kalim Al-Asim

Jamil Viper

Vil Schoenheit

Idia Shroud

Malleus Draconia

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

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

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

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

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

Blot!reader Ending -> Under Aegis, Under Love

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

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

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

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

This is the moment. Now is the moment.

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

And yet...

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

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

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

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

You're leaving. He knows it.

And yet... he still reaches.

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

Stay. Stay with me. Stay here. Please.

Then—your name. Soft, trembling, real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riddle

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

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

An anomaly. A threat. A danger.

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

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

And you reached back.

That moment never quite left him.

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

It became his proudest accomplishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he never lets go of your hand.

Cater

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he never stopped working behind the scenes.

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

He made your story real. Something worth fighting for.

And somehow... It worked.

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

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

Bouquet in hand. Grin just a little too wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe when he recorded them, he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then nodded, before your brain could catch up.

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

Still grinning. Still buzzing.

And still holding your hand.

He never let go.

Ace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Years passed.

Seven of them, to be exact.

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

He always left a reason to come back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His teasing would fade, expression softening.

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

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

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

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

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

You squinted. "Yet?"

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

It made absolutely no sense.

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

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

Deuce

Deuce found out through Ace.

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

That was when he knew something was seriously wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to be your hero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did it.

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

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

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

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

And still, Deuce didn't stray far.

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

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

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

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

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

She knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I—uh—bathroom. Sorry—hold on—!"

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

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

Leona

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

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

But then he saw your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you hadn't answered right away.

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

And when sleep did come, it was cruel.

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

Those had jolted him awake in a cold sweat.

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

Leona had never moved faster in his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leona pulled strings afterwards.

Royal ones. Powerful ones.

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

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

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

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

And then you learned why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruggie

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

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

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

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

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

Then he went to work.

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

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

So he pivoted.

He focused on what he could control: the future.

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

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

Of course.

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

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

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

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

You reached for him first.

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

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

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

He forged documents.

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

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

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

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

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

So he did.

Years passed.

Careers were chosen. Dreams followed.

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

He became a teacher.

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

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

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

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

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

Ruggie leans back in his chair, eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azul

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

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

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

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

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

This was beyond him.

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

He refused to imagine it.

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

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

The thought hollowed him out.

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

And yet... you stayed.

Why?

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

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

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

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

Like an octopus, he thought grimly. How fitting.

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

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

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

But Azul was already working. Quietly, obsessively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But between the lines?

He missed you.

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

The next bottle came the following foggy morning.

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

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

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

Jade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he never forgets you.

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

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

Usually during storms, you've noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Floyd

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

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

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

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

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

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

Underneath it all, he was terrified that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The description was simple: "The Way Home"

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

Right back home.

Kalim

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

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

And that was the worst part.

Kalim understood. But he also didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

And still, you stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And even thinking that made him feel stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he left. One day. Without a word.

He finally got permission, and he took it.

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

No lingering scent of coffee and his shampoo or cologne.

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

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

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

Until midnight came.

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

The loneliness he had fought for now felt hollow.

Jamil didn't sleep that night.

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

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

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

It was care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look you thought you might never see from him.

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

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

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

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

Vil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His home was always open to you. Always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a single photo of yourself?

Really now, that wouldn't do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're perfect.

Rook

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

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

You forgot about it. Days passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because even in his absence, he was present.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, one day, he returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dangerous question. But not for Rook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epel

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was cocky. It was so Epel.

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

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

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

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

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

He helped by being normal.

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

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

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

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

Seven years passed like a slow-drifting breeze.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes he succeeded.

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

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

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

Then came the blueprints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun was setting behind him. The orchard glowed.

Home never looked so real.

Idia

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

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

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

For weeks, he did nothing. Just spiraled.

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

He gritted his teeth and contacted STYX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he was there.

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

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

Or so he thought.

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

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

Not now. Please. Not now—

And then—impact.

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

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

You.

His mind blanked.

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

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

You were here. Right now. Right now.

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

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

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

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

Suspicious.

And two days later,t he truth surfaced.

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

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

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

You tilted your head, raised an eyebrow.

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

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

Silence.

Your deadpan stare could've knocked down a wall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He made you make sense.

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

Idia rewrote the rules for you.

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

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

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

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

And he won.

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

You can still remember the induction day vividly.

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

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

Instead, you saw him.

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

You worried he'd changed.

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

The silence that followed felt seismic.

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

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

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

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

Do I look cool?

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

"...Still breathing? Cool."

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

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

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

[ACCESS REVOKED. GUESS PERMISSIONS INVALID.]

Strange. You had clearance yesterday.

You didn't even have time to message Idia.

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

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

A chime sounded.

[ACCESS RESTORED.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room didn't explode. No shouting followed.

But it did go quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you found a doodle.

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

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

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

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

They hated that.

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

Idia always found time for you.

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

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

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

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

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

For you.

That night, you returned the favor.

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

At nearly midnight, your tablet buzzed.

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

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

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

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

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

STYX is sterile. Cold. Precise. Unforgiving.

But Idia isn't. Not with you.

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

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

Just him.

Still here? Still real?

You tap back.

Still me.

And that's all you need.

Malleus

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

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

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

It was the love.

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

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

He nearly missed your sendoff.

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

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

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

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

And Malleus meant it.

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

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

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

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

But Malleus knew time was cruel.

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

So he made your time here radiant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At its base, a plaque bore your name.

Beneath it, in Malleus' own hand, read:

"Preserved beyond time. Indelible."

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

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

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

Malleus never hesitated.

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

A sacred offering. A silent confession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eternity.

Silver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was close. So painfully close.

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

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

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

But you didn't let go.

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

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

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

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

He made you feel safe. He became your constant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice grew quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sebek

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

It was in the silence that followed.

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

And yet—Sebek had also been your loudest support.

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

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

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

You blinked. My ward?

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

It became something of a pattern after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is your guardian in every way but name.

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

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

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

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

But now, he says it.

And you don't need to say anything back.

Because, for once, Sebek has finally said enough.

Blot

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

How foolish of me. How impossibly naïve.

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

And still... You chose him.

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

I will not.

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

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

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

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

Do you remember the wind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, your smile.

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

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

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

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

Would it have stopped him?

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

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

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

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

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

Mine. Always mine.

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

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

It will be in his hand. Forged by mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always.

[ENDING -> Reach For Him]

Play again?

Sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

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

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

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

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

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

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

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to intervene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

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

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azul nods gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

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Twst those you got overblot what should the reaction be if they hurt y/n pretty badly

Like example ( malleus but then to sleep for a very long time not wanted them to leave or like that Leon accidentally made so they lost an arm in his overblot?)

Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle had always believed in control. He lived by rules, by discipline, by order. But during his overblot, there had been nothing but rage,wild, unrestrained, and merciless.

And you had been caught in it.

The moment he woke up, his breath was uneven, his chest tight. The weight of his own magic’s backlash was suffocating, but none of it compared to the way his heart stopped when he turned his head.

And saw you.

Your body lay still, surrounded by students tending to you, but his eyes could only focus on one thing.

Your arm.

Or rather, the empty space where your arm should have been.

His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

This couldn’t be real. This had to be some kind of nightmare, a cruel illusion brought on by his exhaustion.

But the blood staining the ground was real. The pain in your eyes was real. And the devastating loss was very, very real.

Something inside Riddle shattered.

Tears welled up instantly, spilling down his face before he could even think to stop them. His breaths came in short, broken gasps as he scrambled forward on shaky limbs, his hands reaching out before stopping abruptly.

He had no right to touch you.

His magic,his own hands,had done this to you.

"Y/N—" His voice cracked, his throat tightening as the words became stuck. "I—I didn’t—"

Your eyes fluttered open at his voice, and even in agony, you managed to give him a tired smile. "Riddle…"

But that only made it worse.

You should be furious. You should hate him. You should scream at him, tell him to stay away, curse him for what he had taken from you.

Instead, you still looked at him like he was the same Riddle you had always known.

The same Riddle who had just ruined your future in a fit of unhinged wrath.

A raw, gut-wrenching sob tore from his throat as he collapsed beside you, his body trembling violently. His tears fell freely now, staining his uniform as he gripped his head, gasping between hiccupped cries.

"I’m sorry,I’m so sorry," he choked out. "I—how could I—? You—your arm—I—!"

The words wouldn't form. Nothing could possibly express the horror, the unbearable weight of what he had done.

"I didn’t mean to—I never wanted—!" He sobbed like a child, gasping for air, voice breaking over and over. "Please—please forgive me—!"

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling, but there was no stopping it. His magic had never failed him before, but now, it had cost you something irreplaceable.

And all he could do was weep.

Even after you were taken away for treatment, Riddle remained on the ground, curled in on himself as the tears continued to fall, his body wracked with uncontrollable grief.

For days, he could barely function. He would bring you everything you needed, yet he never had the courage to truly face you. He couldn’t look at the place where your arm had once been without feeling like the air was being sucked out of his lungs.

Even as you reassured him, even as you smiled and told him that you would find a way to move forward, Riddle couldn’t forgive himself.

And he never would.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona had never been one to sugarcoat things. Life was unfair, people were weak, and the strong took what they wanted. That was how the world worked.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

He could still remember the sheer force of his magic, the way the sandstorm had swallowed everything, the deafening roar of destruction.

And you

You had been caught in it.

He hadn’t seen it happen. He didn’t remember the exact moment when his magic had reached you. But the scent of blood in the air was unmistakable.

And the moment he opened his eyes, his world stopped.

You were on the ground, injured, battered and missing an arm.

Your dominant arm, the one you always used to pull him along when he was too lazy to move, the one that had rested so casually on his shoulder as you teased him, the one that had traced gentle patterns into his skin during quiet moments together.

Gone.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers dug into his palms, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. His body trembled not from exhaustion, not from magic drain, but from the sheer force of the emotions crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

This couldn’t be real.

There was no way.

But the scent of blood told him otherwise.

And then, you opened your eyes.

“…Leona?”

Your voice was weak, but still there, still reaching for him like you always did.

His breath hitched. His hands clenched tighter, his nails drawing blood from his own skin.

You should be yelling at him. You should be cursing him, demanding to know why he let this happen, why he wasn’t strong enough to protect you from himself.

But instead, you were looking at him with tired eyes, like you were more worried about him than yourself.

That broke something inside him.

His knees hit the ground beside you, his tail low, ears flattened. His hands hovered over you, but he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t deserve to.

“…Dammit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying,failing to keep his emotions in check.

He had never cared about rules or expectations. But this? This was something that should never have happened.

He had hurt you.

He had taken something from you.

And there was no way to fix it.

“Stupid…” His voice wavered. His throat felt tight, dry. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “Why’d you get in the way, huh? What were you thinkin’?”

You let out a tired chuckle. “Didn’t really… have time to think.”

His ears twitched at your response, but there was no amusement in his expression. His hands curled into fists. His chest ached in a way he couldn’t describe.

He had always been a realist. The world was cruel, life was unfair.

But for the first time, he wanted to deny reality.

To pretend that none of this had happened.

To believe that when he woke up tomorrow, you’d still have both arms, that this was all just some horrible nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

And he knew that no matter what he did from this point forward, he would never,never,be able to undo this mistake.

Even after you were taken for treatment, he didn’t leave your side. He didn’t sleep, barely ate. He just sat there, staring at your unconscious form, ears low, tail still, expression unreadable.He did even participated to to the spelldrive tournament.

But deep down, he knew.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how much you forgave him.

Leona Kingscholar would never forgive himself.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had spent years perfecting his image,charming, intelligent, always in control. No one could touch him, no one could hurt him, and most importantly, no one could ever see him as weak again.

But now?

Now, he was staring at you, his beloved, as you lay unconscious in the infirmary.

And he had never felt weaker in his entire life.

His hands trembled, gripping his arms so tightly his nails nearly broke skin. His breath came in uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling far too quickly, like he was on the verge of drowning all over again.

Because you were hurt.

Because of him.

He had lost control during his overblot. The memories of it were a blur of suffocating ink, the crushing weight of his own insecurities manifesting in monstrous form. He had wanted power,more power, enough to make sure no one could ever trample him underfoot again.

And in that desperate grasp for control, he had lost the most precious thing in his life.

Your leg was gone.

You had saved him. He didn’t know how,didn’t know when you had gotten close enough to reach him, to try and pull him back from the brink.

But his ink had swallowed you whole.

And when the storm cleared, when his world came crashing back into sharp, unbearable clarity, he had seen you unconscious and bleeding.

Less than whole.

A choked, bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it never made it past his lips.

This was what he had always feared, wasn’t it? Losing control, being seen as the monster he truly was.

And now you knew.

Now, there was no illusion left to protect him.

He reached for you hesitantly, his fingers barely brushing against your arm before he pulled back. He had no right to touch you.

“…You should hate me.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

He expected you to wake up and recoil from him. To push him away, to yell, to curse him for what he had taken from you.

And you would be right to do so.

But when your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you did

Was smile at him.

“…Hey, Azul.” Your voice was hoarse, weak. “You look terrible.”

His breath hitched.

You should be screaming at him, demanding to know why, demanding answers he couldn’t give.

Instead, you were worried about him.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palm as his head bowed.

“…You’re a fool.” His voice wavered. “An absolute fool. Why did you—”

You lifted a trembling hand and placed it over his.

Azul flinched, his entire body tensing. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve your warmth, your touch, your kindness.

But you still gave it to him anyway.

“Because you needed someone,” you murmured, your fingers weak against his. “And I… I needed you too.”

He bit his lip hard, swallowing down the overwhelming emotions threatening to spill over.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but words would never be enough.

He wanted to promise he’d fix this, but no matter how powerful he was, no contract in the world could return what was lost.

So instead, all he could do was hold your hand, press his forehead against it, and try not to let the tears slip past his lashes.

And when you squeezed his fingers ever so gently, offering him comfort when it should be the other way around.

He broke.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had spent his entire life perfecting the art of control.

Control over his emotions. Control over his actions. Control over every single aspect of himself so that no one,not Kalim, not his family, not the world could ever dictate his fate.

But now?

Now, he was staring at the consequence of his failure.

And it was unbearable.

You lay on the infirmary bed, unconscious, your breathing shallow. Bandages wrapped tightly around your leg, but no amount of magic could change the fact that below the knee—

There was nothing left.

His grip tightened around the chair he sat on, fingers trembling.

How had it come to this?

He knew exactly how.

The moment he had lost himself to his overblot, the moment years of frustration and anger had finally erupted into something monstrous,he had wanted power. No, he had craved it, needed it more than anything.

And in his desperate grasp for freedom, he had taken yours away.

He could still remember it. The image was burned into his mind like a cursed brand.

He hadn’t even realized what had happened until the rage left his body, until the darkness cleared, and he saw you lying there.

He thought he had known pain.

But nothing, nothing in his life had ever hurt like this.

Jamil clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to remain still as he sat beside you, watching your every breath, as if afraid you would disappear entirely if he looked away.

What could he even say to you when you woke up?

“Sorry” wasn’t enough.

Nothing would ever be enough.

A deep, suffocating silence filled the air, broken only by the faint rustling of the sheets as you stirred.

His breath caught.

Your eyelashes fluttered, your face scrunching slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

The moment your gaze met his, something in him nearly shattered.

“…Jamil?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard.

He should leave.

He should stand up and walk out of this room before you had the chance to say anything,before he saw the realization dawn in your eyes, before you understood exactly what he had done to you.

But he couldn’t move.

“…You should hate me.” The words felt heavy, choked, forced through gritted teeth.

You blinked at him, still groggy from exhaustion.

Then, your gaze shifted downward, toward your foot.Well towards your bandaged ankle, since you technically no longer had a left foot.

Jamil felt himself go rigid, every muscle in his body locking up as he watched the understanding dawn in your expression.

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven.

And then, you laughed.

It was small, weak, almost bitter, but it wasn’t the reaction he had expected.

“…You always did run me ragged,” you murmured, voice tinged with dry amusement.

Jamil stiffened. “Don’t joke about this.”

You turned your head to look at him fully, your expression soft despite the exhaustion weighing down your body. “Are you going to keep blaming yourself forever?”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait until you forgive yourself.”

His breath hitched.

How could you say that? How could you be so calm, so accepting, after what he had done?

He dropped his head into his hands, his body shaking.

“I don’t deserve that,” he muttered.

He felt a weak, warm touch brush against his wrist.

“…Then earn it,” you whispered.

Jamil inhaled sharply, eyes stinging, throat burning.

Earn it.

Even after everything, you still believed in him.

His fingers curled around your hand, gripping it tightly.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend every day proving that he did.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always prided himself on his control. His grace. His ability to shape perfection with his own hands.

And yet

This was something he could never fix.

He sat frozen beside your hospital bed, the soft glow of the infirmary lights casting eerie shadows across your bandaged face.

The damage had been irreversible.

The overblot had been blinding,literally. In his descent into madness, in his obsession with beauty, in his desperate need to correct every single flaw,his magic had surged. The explosion had shattered mirrors, the shards cutting through everything in their path.

Including you.

When he had finally awakened from the nightmare, the first thing he saw was you, lying motionless on the debris of the stage of the SDC surrounded by some NRC students.Bblood streaking down your face.

And when you opened your eyes, one of them was..

Gone.

A horrible, cruel irony.

He, who had always been so fixated on appearances, had taken something irreplaceable from the person he loved most.

His hands trembled where they rested on his lap, clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

Vil Schoenheit did not cry.

He did not break.

But now, with you lying there,his hands tainted with something that could never be undone.

He felt as if he had shattered completely.

The sound of shifting sheets made him tense.

Slowly, hesitantly, your good eye fluttered open.

Vil held his breath.

“…Vil?”

It was soft, weak, but unmistakably you.

He exhaled shakily, willing himself to keep his composure.

“You’re awake.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, and for a brief moment, he could see the confusion in your face as you adjusted to the dim light.

Then, your expression changed.

Your fingers ghosted over the bandages on your face.

A pause.

“…I can’t see,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Vil’s chest tightened, the weight of his guilt pressing down so heavily he could barely breathe.

“I know.”

Silence.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t cry, didn’t scream like he had expected. Instead, you simply let out a breath,a tired, resigned thing and turned your head slightly toward him.

“Are you okay?”

His lips parted, eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

“…Am I—” His voice caught in his throat, emotions threatening to spill over. “You’re the one lying in a hospital bed, unable to see, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

You gave a small, weary smile. “Yeah.”

Something in him cracked.

For the first time in years, Vil let himself break.

His hands reached for yours, gripping them tightly, as if trying to ground himself,to prove to himself that you were still here. That despite everything, you hadn’t disappeared from his life completely.

“…I am not okay.” His voice was hoarse, raw, filled with something too deep to name. “I will never be okay.”

Not after this.

Not after knowing that he was the one who did this to you.

You squeezed his hand, and his breath hitched.

“…Then we’ll work on it together,” you said softly.

Vil lowered his head, pressing his forehead against your fingers.

There were no words that could ever make this right.

But if you were willing to stay,if you were willing to give him even the smallest chance.

He would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted it.

Idia Shroud

Idia always thought of himself as a coward.

He avoided conflict. He hid behind screens and firewalls, behind the cold comfort of technology where nothing could touch him.

But in the end, he had still managed to hurt you.

No,he had ruined you.

The reality of it didn’t set in until he saw your hand.

Your dominant hand.

Four fingers,gone.

He stood in the medical ward of Styx, his stomach churning violently as he stared at the bandages wrapped tightly around what remained of your hand.

It was his fault.

His overblot had been a nightmare of control, desperation, and raw, unchecked power.And in the chaos,when you had reached out for him, trying to pull him back one of the .

One of his spells had unfortunately touched you

A single, merciless strike.

It had been fast. Too fast.

The worst part?

He hadn’t even realized it happened until after he woke up.

Until he saw the blood.

Idia wanted to run.

He wanted to log out of reality and bury himself in the deepest depths of cyberspace, where he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he,he had caused this.

But he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a game.

He had no save points. No reset button. No way to undo what he had done.

So instead, he stood there, his hands shaking, his throat dry, and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

“…You don’t have to stay,” your voice was quiet, strained. It was the first thing you had said to him since you woke up. “If it’s too much.”

Idia flinched as if burned.

Too much?

Was this your way of letting him off the hook? Giving him an easy way out?

He felt sick.

How could you even think that he would leave you after this?

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, closing the distance between you in seconds. He dropped to his knees beside your bed, his blue hair shadowing his face as he reached out,hesitated then finally, gently, took your injured hand in his.

His fingers barely ghosted over the bandages, as if afraid he would hurt you even more.

“…I don’t want to go.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I can’t go.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, slowly, you turned your palm upward, allowing his trembling hands to hold yours completely.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured.

He let out a weak, breathy laugh, his throat tightening.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “I’m freaking terrified.”

Terrified that you’d hate him.

Terrified that you’d never forgive him.

Terrified that he had taken something from you that could never, ever be replaced.

“…It’s going to be okay, Idia.”

How could you say that?

How could you still be so calm? So steady?

Tears welled up in his yellow eyes, slipping down his pale cheeks as he gripped your hand tighter.

“I don’t deserve that,” he whispered brokenly.

You smiled faintly. “Too bad.”

Idia let out a soft, shaky laugh, his head lowering as he pressed his forehead to your hand.

No.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted keeping him by your side.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus had never meant to hurt you.

His overblot had consumed him,his fear of being left alone, his desperation to keep you by his side. And in his moment of madness, his magic had surged beyond his control.

A sleeping curse.

A slumber so deep that no force in the world could break it, except time itself.

At first, he had raged against it, pouring through ancient texts, consulting the wisest fae and scholars. But the truth was cruel,this was his own magic, raw and instinctual, fueled by his deepest desires. There was no counterspell.

Only patience.

And so, Malleus waited.

Centuries passed.

But he never left you.

In a quiet, secluded castle untouched by time, he watched over you, speaking to you as if you would wake any moment. He never let dust settle upon your resting place, never let the warmth of his love fade.

And then, one day

Your fingers twitched.

It was so small, so fragile, but Malleus had been watching for so long that he noticed it immediately.

His breath hitched.

Then,your eyelashes fluttered.

And finally,

Your eyes opened.

The world was blurry, but the first thing you saw was him, hovering over you, golden eyes wide with something indescribable.

“…Malleus?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

His hands trembled as he reached out, almost afraid to touch you, as if you would disappear like a dream.

“Beloved…” His voice broke. “You are awake.”

You blinked, disoriented, trying to understand why his expression was so pained, why he looked as if he had been crying for years.

And then it came back to you

The storm. The darkness. The raw magic that had swept you away.

Realization dawned, and Malleus flinched at the way your lips parted in shock.

“…How long?” You asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be kind.

Malleus closed his eyes, exhaling a breath as if it carried centuries of grief.

“Too long,” he whispered. “But I am here. I have always been here.”

Your heart ached not just for yourself, but for him. For the time he had lost, for the weight he had carried.

Slowly, you reached out, placing your hand over his. He stiffened at the warmth,real and present, not a memory or a wish.

“…Then let’s not waste another moment,” you murmured.

Malleus let out a shaky laugh, something between relief and disbelief, before pulling you into his embrace.

For the first time in centuries, his world felt whole again.

And this time, he would never let you go.

English is not my first language !