Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper
Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper
Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.
this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3
As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.
Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.
For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.
But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.
And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.
The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:
First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"
Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."
Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.
By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.
This is getting pathetic.
You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."
Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?
You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.
And then he walks in.
Enter: Jamil Viper.
The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.
For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.
And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.
Too perfectly.
There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.
But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.
And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?
You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.
Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.
This could be fun.
Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.
You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.
"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."
His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.
And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.
This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.
And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.
Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.
This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.
A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.
However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.
You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.
Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.
You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"
The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.
"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"
You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.
The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.
He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.
He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.
This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.
And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.
Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.
You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”
But then Jamil arrives.
Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.
For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.
You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.
Your skin? Clear.
Your inbox? Organized.
Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.
You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.
He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.
Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.
You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.
So, you make a decision.
You will convert him to your side.
It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.
The numbers didn’t make sense.
You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.
Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.
But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.
Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.
“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”
You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”
Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.
You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.
Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.
But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.
And then it hits you.
His hair.
His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.
The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.
Your brain connects the dots.
Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?
Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.
Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.
“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”
Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.
“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.
You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”
He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”
“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”
Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.
Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.
And then there’s you.
You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.
You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.
You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.
Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.
It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”
Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.
Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.
“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”
Jamil chokes on air.
You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”
Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.
The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.
When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.
Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”
You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”
Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.
Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.
But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.
Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.
Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.
Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.
So why does it feel so different this time?
Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.
And then there was you.
You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.
But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.
Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.
He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.
Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”
You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”
“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”
“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”
Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”
“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.
Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.
“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”
Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”
You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”
And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?
He almost believes you.
Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.
They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.
You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.
Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.
But today? Today, you were at your limit.
Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.
Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?
And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.
“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”
Silence.
Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.
You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.
And then, you smiled.
“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”
The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”
“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”
His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”
“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.
“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”
Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.
Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—
Well.
He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.
Or flattering.
Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.
You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.
So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?
Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.
And there he is.
Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.
You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”
He startles like you caught him committing a felony.
Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.
Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.
And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.
You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”
Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.
"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."
And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.
You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.
What just happened.
You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.
And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.
It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.
Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.
You crouch down. Laugh a little.
And then you pull out your phone.
You: thank you <3
Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:
He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.
And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.
The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.
Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.
You’re going to be the death of him.
Jamil does not get sick.
It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.
Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.
And yet.
Here he is.
Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.
His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.
He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.
The phone rings. Once. Twice.
And then—
“Jamil! What’s up?”
Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.
“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”
There is a long, stunned silence.
Then, very, very slowly—
“You’re what?”
Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.
“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.
Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—
“…Oh.”
Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”
He does not hear the rest.
Because he blacks out.
Jamil is sick.
Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.
You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.
You did not expect this.
And worse—he sounded awful.
Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.
You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.
Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.
Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.
There is no response.
You ring again. And again.
Nothing.
A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—
Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.
And Jamil is standing there.
Barely.
He looks terrible.
His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.
You are horrified.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”
Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.
But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.
Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.
“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”
Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.
“…Food?”
That is not an answer.
You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.
How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?
Oh. Right. Him.
Jamil is going to die.
Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.
He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.
He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.
The numbers blink back at you ominously.
“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”
Jamil tries to protest. He does.
But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—
Oh.
Oh, that is nice.
His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.
By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.
So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.
Like a child.
Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.
Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.
But still. This is humiliating.
It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.
Jamil finally falls back asleep.
And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.
You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.
You should not care this much.
And yet.
You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.
You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.
“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”
A pause.
Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”
Behind you, Jamil shifts.
You do not notice.
But he notices you.
Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.
You look worried. For him.
Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.
Oh.
Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.
You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.
The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.
The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.
The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.
But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.
Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.
So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.
And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.
Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”
Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.
Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.
And sure enough, there he was.
You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.
You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.
And then—
He just… stops.
Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?
Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.
Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?
He clicks out of the important files.
Your jaw nearly drops. What.
He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.
Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—
—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—
—ignores all the schematics—
—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”
You almost choke on your popcorn.
Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.
Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.
You sit there, stunned.
Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—
He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.
You blink. Once. Twice.
And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.
Oh. Oh, this is delightful.
You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.
Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.
For you.
How flattering.
You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.
Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.
You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.
Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Oh, interesting.
Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.
So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”
Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.
Because Jamil blocked your path.
You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.
He looked wrecked.
Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.
You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.
“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”
You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”
Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.
“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”
You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”
Jamil broke.
Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.
His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.
And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.
For a moment, you simply blinked.
Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.
“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”
“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”
Jamil freezes.
You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.
And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.
His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.
Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.
He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.
And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.
“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”
You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.
Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.
The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.
Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”
You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”
And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—
"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.
Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.
Masterlist
More Posts from Sweetspicecake and Others
Idk if you accept requests but I just read your "accidentally proposing" fic with Octavinelle, Savanaclaw and Diasomnia and had an idea!! (I have Savanaclaw in mind specifically but it might work with others?)
So what if to beast/mer/etc men, biting/marking your lover is basically like a wedding ring. A symbol to others that you're claimed (and that both parties felt safe enough to be marked that way). So imagine if the boys are already kinda crushing on Yuu/reader only for them to take their jacket off or something and reveal like a big ole bite mark on their shoulder (or wherever) and they get all mopey thinking their already claimed but in reality they just got bit by something back from their world and the scar stuck
(Inspired partially by my dad, who has a big bite mark on his arm that everyone thinks is a tattoo. it's not. Just an old dog bite)
(damn your dad sounds cool)
Savanaclaw
Setting: The Savanaclaw boys have been pining for you, and today, you're just casually stripping your jacket off after PE class, revealing a decent-sized bite scar on your shoulder.
They freeze.
Leona Kingscholar
Leona’s eyes lock onto the mark and he goes deathly quiet. His tail flicks. His ears flatten just a bit. Internally?
"Of course. Figures. I finally meet someone who doesn’t annoy me and they’re already spoken for."
He sulks hard. You notice him going distant, brushing you off when you try to chat later. It’s not until days later—when he mutters, "Your mate let you walk around unguarded like that?"—that you blink and go,
"Mate? Oh, no, a dog bit me when I was ten. Real jerk. Still got the scar."
Leona’s head snaps up. His ears twitch.
"Wait… that’s not a claiming mark?"
Cue one (1) very smug Leona by the next morning, mysteriously returning to sitting too close again.
Jack Howl
Jack actually drops the water bottle he was holding when he sees the scar. His eyes widen and then avert—immediately. He turns pink at the tips of his ears.
"Oh. I—I didn’t know you were already marked. Sorry."
He becomes very formal, very stiff. Starts calling you “prefect” again instead of your name. You finally confront him, a bit heartbroken at the sudden coldness.
"You’ve been weird since PE, what gives?"
"...I just didn’t want to overstep. That kind of scar usually means you belong to someone."
When you tell him it’s an old wound from a totally mundane dog bite, he short circuits. Like, tail-wagging-involuntarily level of flustered.
"I—I see! That makes sense! You—you should be more careful, it looked real... um, real meaningful."
Now he can't stop glancing at your shoulder and getting flustered.
Ruggie Bucchi
“Tch. Lucky bastard, whoever bagged ya.”
He’s a mix of bitter and resigned—still flirty, but with a new sad little edge. Keeps joking like,
“Too bad you’re taken. Coulda had fun.”
When you finally ask what the hell he means, he gestures at the scar like, duh.
“That’s a mark. You don’t just give or get one of those unless you’re real serious.”
You: “That was a chihuahua. It bit me because I stole its hotdog.”
He stares.
“...A chihuahua did that?” “Yeah.” “And here I was mourning a relationship that never even existed. You owe me emotional compensation, y’know!”
Back to flirting. With vengeance.
OCTAVIANS:
Setting: You’re helping out in the Lounge. The uniform jacket’s getting hot, so you slip it off behind the bar… and your shirt collar slips just enough for a very visible, very real-looking bite scar to be seen by two (2) nosy eels and one (1) devastated octomer.
Azul Ashengrotto
Azul freezes mid-shaker pour. You don’t notice—it’s just a quick glimpse—but Azul does. And his brain short circuits.
"A mark that deep... that shape... it’s deliberate. Ritualistic. They’re already bound?"
He’s devastated—but covers it up with grace. Or tries to. He gets very formal, colder. You catch him staring at your shoulder more than once with that complicated emotion you can’t name.
He’s too polite to ask directly—until the heartbreak gets to him.
“You’re in a binding, aren’t you?”
You: “Huh?”
“The bite mark on your shoulder. Among merfolk, that symbolizes an eternal commitment.”
You: “Oh! Nah. That’s just from a dog that chomped me when I was a kid. I kicked him in the face.”
Azul.exe has stopped working.
“...You what—?”
Goes beet red and storms into his office to scream into a pillow. You later find your drink on the house, labeled ‘thanks for the heart attack’.
Jade Leech
Jade smiles when he sees the scar. But his eyes go half-lidded, calculating. He suddenly speaks softer. Steps farther back. Less teasing, more… respectful distance.
“My, I wasn’t aware you were already bound. Forgive me if my prior behavior overstepped.”
You: “Bound to what now??”
He gestures subtly to your shoulder, like it’s obvious.
“A bite mark like that, well… among certain species, it’s not given lightly. It would be considered rude to compete for the affection of one already ‘marked.’”
Cue your laugh.
“Oh that? I was eleven. Some mutt thought my lunch was his.”
Jade pauses… then grins, slow and sharp.
“Is that so? How very fortunate. In that case… I wonder how your skin scars. Hypothetically, of course.”
You're not sure if that’s a flirt or a threat. Probably both.
Floyd Leech
“...Huh?”
He just blinks at the mark when he sees it. Then squints real hard. Then stops talking to you.
Like, full Floyd shutdown mode. No nicknames. No glomps. Just grumpy silence. You ask him what’s wrong, and he shrugs you off like:
“Nothin’. Don’t talk to taken people. It’s boring.”
You practically have to wrestle the truth out of him. When he finally gestures at the mark, you laugh so hard you snort.
“That? Nah, that’s from a dog bite. We were playing tug-of-war and he missed the toy and got my shoulder instead. It’s just a scar.”
“Whaaat?? That’s it??”
Floyd immediately perks up. Grabs your shoulders and spins you around like:
“So you’re not somebody’s shrimp? Heh. Good. I hate leftovers.”
Later bites you (playfully) and says he wants to "make it official."
DIASOMNIA
Malleus Draconia
Malleus was just enjoying your presence—he always is. You pull off your hoodie to reveal a bite mark on your upper arm and— He stares.
The air around him tightens. He doesn’t speak at first. Just… quietly steps back. His green eyes dim.
“...You are claimed.”
He says it like a funeral eulogy.
You blink. “Claimed?? What are you talking about?”
“That mark. You accepted a fae bond.”
You laugh. “Wait, this?” You twist your arm to show him properly. “That’s from a feral raccoon. He got me through a screen door.”
...
Malleus goes silent. Then he laughs—one of those rare, rich, real ones.
“You truly are fascinating, Child of Man. A sacred mark... from a trash beast.”
And now he won’t stop teasing you about it.
“Shall I give you a proper one, to replace the raccoon’s?”
Lilia Vanrouge
Lilia recognizes the bite mark instantly—and what it would mean if it were real. His smile drops for a moment. A beat of quiet heartbreak.
“Oh… you’ve already given yourself to another?”
He masks it fast—reverts to his cheerful, mischievous self. But the sharpness in his tone dulls.
“You should’ve told us! We’d have sent you a proper gift, you know. A token for the bound.”
You: “Lilia, I got this bite scar from a goose. I was five. It hated my jacket.”
“...A goose?” “An evil goose.”
A beat. Then he laughs so hard he nearly levitates.
“You poor thing! Bitten by a beast of chaos!” “You mean the goose?” “No. The jacket.”
He’s overjoyed, suddenly affectionate again, now plotting how to actually mark you with fae tradition. You may have unleashed something.
Sebek Zigvolt
Sebek screams internally the moment he sees it. He immediately turns away, face twisted.
“I see. You have already pledged loyalty elsewhere.”
Goes full formal mode. Loud. Respectful. Heartbroken.
“I WAS A FOOL TO BELIEVE—TO HOPE—THAT YOU WERE UNBOUND!”
You’re like: “Dude. What?”
He dramatically points at the scar.
“That! You wear it openly!”
You: “Oh, you mean my shoulder scar? A horse bit me.”
Sebek.exe blue screens.
“A… horse?” “He didn’t like carrots. I was five.”
...
He gets so red. Immediately bows in apology. Starts yelling at the horse retroactively. Gives you his coat. Declares he’ll train to bite harder than any equine.
Silver
Silver notices the scar. He gets very quiet. Thoughtful.
Later that day, he gently asks:
“Did it hurt when you were claimed?”
You pause. “What do you mean?”
“The mark. It’s permanent. You must’ve trusted them deeply.”
You laugh. “No, no—Silver, I got that from a neighbor’s dog. He panicked during fireworks.”
Silver: “Oh.”
...Then he stares at the sky like it personally betrayed him.
“I thought I missed the moment you gave your heart away...”
You pat his shoulder, and he very gently, very subtly leans into it—maybe hoping he could be the one to earn that mark someday.
Dropping by to say that I absolutely live for your Phainon/Mydei X reader stories!! IDk if youll be interested in this idea but hear me out.. Since reader is so oblivious, what do you think would be our reaction to Mydei trying to flirt with reader in a Kreamnoan way? Sparring, Gifting weapons, ect. And would Phainon pass out from laughing at his attempts or actually try to be a wingman in this situation?
I love this idea, phainon would enjoy this. He would definitely tease Mydei, but he would help him, too.
Mydei x (fem)reader
The sun hung high over the training grounds, its golden light reflecting off the polished steel of the weapons scattered around. The air was thick with the scent of metal and sand, the rhythmic clash of blades ringing through the open space as Mydei and Y/N sparred.
Mydei’s golden eyes were sharp, focused entirely on Y/N as she lunged toward him, her form precise but still just a little off-balance. He deflected her strike with ease, the weight of their swords meeting with a satisfying clang.
“That all you got?” he teased, stepping back smoothly, effortlessly avoiding her next swing.
Y/N huffed, rolling her shoulders before gripping her sword tighter. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of Mydei’s lips. Good. He liked a challenge. More importantly, he liked watching her fight—it showed her determination, her will. And in Kremnoan tradition, strength was everything.
Any other Kremnoan would have immediately understood the significance of his actions But Y/N?
She just thought he was a good friend.
So now he had to resort to a different method.
His grip tightened on his own blade as he surged forward, his movements deliberate—not aiming to overpower her, but to guide her into a rhythm, a dance of steel and instinct. Y/N met him head-on, eyes bright with determination, and for a moment, Mydei nearly forgot his original goal.
Then she grinned, dodging one of his strikes with surprising agility.
“You almost got me there,” she teased.
Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, willing down the warmth creeping up his neck. Focus.
He moved fast, catching her sword with his own and stepping in closer, their faces mere inches apart. “You fight well,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “But you still have much to learn.”
Y/N blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard. But before she could register anything, he took a step back, lowering his sword slightly.
“You should learn from me,” Mydei continued, his tone calm, almost… inviting. “I can teach you properly.”
Y/N brightened, nodding eagerly. “Really? You’d do that?”
Mydei barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yes. Obviously. That’s the whole point. Instead, he simply nodded, expression unreadable.
On the sidelines, Phainon leaned lazily against a wooden post, watching the scene unfold with an amused glint in his blue eyes. He took a slow sip of his drink, barely holding in his laughter.
Y/N had no idea what was happening.
And Mydei was suffering.
Their blades clashed again, the force of the impact sending a small vibration up Y/N’s arm. She was getting better, Mydei noted—not as easy to push back, more sure-footed with each step.
But she was still a step behind him.
He decided to test something. Instead of countering her next strike, he let her sword glance off his, shifting his weight so she overextended just a little—just enough for him to use her momentum against her.
In a swift, precise motion, he hooked his foot behind her ankle, pivoted, and swept her legs out from under her.
Y/N let out a startled oof as she hit the ground, blinking up at him in shock.
Before she could move, Mydei was already on her, one knee pressing lightly against her thigh, one arm braced against the dirt beside her head. His other hand grasped her wrist, pinning it to the ground in a firm but careful hold. His golden eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.
For a beat, there was only silence between them, the weight of his presence pressing down like an unspoken challenge.
Then, Y/N grinned.
“That was awesome!” she exclaimed.
Mydei’s eye twitched.
She wriggled her wrist slightly. “Okay, so how do I get out of this position?”
By Nikador, give me strength.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, tightening his grip just slightly as he leaned in closer. “That depends,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. “Do you want to get out of it?”
Y/N tilted her head, considering his words. “Well, yeah? I mean, what if someone else does this in a fight? I need to know how to counter it, right?”
There was a very long pause.
Somewhere off to the side, Phainon let out a choked sound that was definitely not a cough.
Mydei’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need to look to know Phainon was watching this disaster unfold with way too much amusement.
Still hovering over Y/N, he inhaled slowly, trying to push down his growing frustration. “It’s not just about the fight,” he said carefully, watching her expression for any sign of recognition. “It’s about…” He searched for the right words, ones that she would understand.
Y/N blinked up at him, expectant, curious—completely and utterly unaware of what he was trying to say.
Phainon made another barely contained sound from the sidelines.
Mydei’s eye twitched again.
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow breath before finally pushing himself off her. “Forget it,” he muttered.
Y/N sat up quickly, dusting herself off. “Wait, did I miss something?”
“Yes.”
“…What was it?”
“Nothing.”
Y/N frowned but shrugged it off, already stretching her arms, completely unaware of Mydei’s silent suffering.
Meanwhile, Phainon was practically vibrating with barely suppressed laughter, his blue eyes gleaming with pure schadenfreude.
Mydei shot him a murderous glare.
Phainon smirked.
Oh, this was too good.
Y/N stretched her arms over her head, rolling out her shoulders as she caught her breath. “Man, I really need to work on counters,” she mused. “You keep knocking me on my ass.”
Mydei ran a hand through his hair, barely restraining a sigh. “You’ll improve,” he said, though his tone was a little strained.
Not at this rate, he thought to himself.
Phainon, still perched nearby, was doing his best to smother his smirk behind one hand. He was failing miserably.
“Alright, I’ll clean up,” Y/N said, already moving toward the weapon rack.
“No need.” Mydei stepped in front of her, reaching down to pick up her sword instead. He turned it over in his hands, the blade catching the light.
Y/N tilted her head. “What?”
He exhaled slowly. Fine. If words don’t work, maybe actions will.
“This isn’t good enough for you,” he said, inspecting the sword with mild disdain before looking back at her. “It’s too light. Not balanced properly. You need something better.”
Y/N blinked. “I mean, I like it—”
“It’s not good enough.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. “Come with me.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the armory.
Y/N hesitated for only a second before following.
Behind them, Phainon slow-blinked before standing as well. “Oh, I have to see this.”
The moment they stepped inside, Y/N’s eyes lit up. The rows of polished weapons, the gleaming suits of armor, the scent of oiled leather and sharpened steel—it was beautiful.
Mydei didn’t waste time. He led her straight to a display of swords, scanning them with a critical eye.
“This one.” He reached for a blade and held it out to her.
Y/N took it carefully, her fingers curling around the hilt. It was heavier than her old one, the craftsmanship finer. The weight felt solid in her grip. “Whoa… This is nice.”
Mydei nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll suit you better.”
She grinned. “Thanks! I’ll make sure to train hard with it.”
Mydei’s expression remained unreadable as he stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “It’s not just about training.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”
Mydei exhaled slowly, as if willing her to understand. “Weapons are important in Kremnos. They’re an extension of yourself. You don’t just use them—you rely on them, trust them.” He paused, his gold eyes steady on hers. “Giving someone a weapon is a sign of trust. Of something deeper.”
For a moment, the air between them shifted.
Then—
“Ohhh, this is fantastic,” Phainon’s voice cut in, absolutely thrilled.
Mydei tensed visibly as Y/N turned to look at him.
Phainon leaned against a nearby rack, arms crossed, grinning like he had just found his new favorite thing in the world.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to do this,” Phainon continued. “And yet—” he gestured vaguely at Y/N, who was still just smiling in appreciation, utterly unaware “—she still doesn’t get it.”
Y/N frowned. “Get what?”
Mydei gritted his teeth.
Phainon snickered. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all.”
Y/N huffed and turned back to Mydei, giving the sword a few practice swings. “Anyway, this really is amazing. I love it. Thank you, Mydei.”
For a fraction of a second, Mydei felt his composure slip. Her words—simple as they were—settled deep in his chest.
“…Good,” he muttered, looking away.
Phainon grinned wider. Oh, this was never going to get old.
The streets of Okhema bustled with life, filled with merchants calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air. Y/N strolled ahead, glancing at the different stalls with interest, occasionally stopping to admire something or chat with a vendor.
Phainon and Mydei trailed behind her, the latter watching her carefully, as if contemplating his next move.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Phainon asked, smirking.
Mydei barely spared him a glance. “Thinking about what?”
“Your next attempt.” Phainon stretched his arms behind his head. “It’s honestly fascinating watching you try.”
Mydei ignored him. This time, he had a new approach. If direct gifts and sparring didn’t work, perhaps a more… personal experience would.
Ahead of them, Y/N had stopped at a fruit stall, eyes lighting up at the sight of some unfamiliar fruit. “Oh, these look amazing.”
The vendor grinned. “A rare specialty! Grown only in the far southern regions.”
Y/N hummed in thought. “I wonder what they taste like.”
Before she could reach for one, Mydei had already stepped forward. With a single sharp glance, he picked out the best-looking fruit, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and turned to her.
“Here.” He held it out, his expression unreadable.
Y/N blinked. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Mydei!” She accepted it without hesitation and took a bite. “Ohhh, this is so good.”
Mydei watched her reaction carefully, the smallest bit of satisfaction creeping in. Finally, progress.
Then—
“So, this is your next strategy?” Phainon’s voice practically purred from beside him.
Mydei’s eye twitched.
Y/N, still savoring the fruit, turned to them. “Strategy? What are you talking about?”
Phainon casually leaned against a nearby stall, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring Mydei’s… tactics.”
Mydei clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to throw Phainon into the nearest crate of cabbages.
Y/N, still blissfully unaware, happily chewed. “You should try one too, Mydei! Here.”
Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist and pressed the fruit to his lips.
For half a second, Mydei froze. His gold eyes locked onto hers, and the world tilted just slightly.
She had no idea. None at all.
And then, as if to torture him further, Phainon let out the most obnoxiously loud snort of laughter Mydei had ever heard.
“You—” Mydei turned his head just slightly, glaring.
Phainon held up both hands, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, please continue. This is beautiful.”
Meanwhile, Y/N was still waiting. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything.
Slowly, Mydei leaned forward, taking a small bite from the fruit she still held up for him. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue, but the warmth of her fingers against his was far more distracting.
“Good,” he murmured.
Y/N beamed. “Right?! We should buy more!”
She turned back to the vendor, already discussing how many she wanted, completely missing the way Mydei exhaled sharply, reining himself back in.
Beside him, Phainon wiped a tear from his eye. “You are so down bad, it’s actually painful.”
Mydei didn’t even respond. He simply took another slow breath, clenched his fists, and prepared for his next attempt.
Because he would succeed. Eventually.
Maybe.
The evening air in Okhema had cooled, the market’s liveliness gradually settling into a more relaxed hum. People wandered at a slower pace, street lamps flickering to life, casting a warm glow over the cobbled paths.
Mydei sat alone on a bench near the marketplace, arms crossed, his golden eyes narrowed in deep thought. The interaction from earlier still lingered in his mind—the way she had unknowingly flustered him, the way Phainon had nearly died laughing at his expense.
This isn’t working.
He had given her a sword. He had sparred with her, tested her strength, tried to offer her food—all of which were clear, meaningful signs of courting in Kremnos. And yet, she remained completely, utterly oblivious.
He exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained.
Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.
Phainon.
Mydei didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.
“Sulking already?” Phainon drawled, dropping down onto the bench beside him, stretching his arms behind his head. “Didn’t think I’d see the great Mydei looking so defeated.”
Mydei scowled. “I’m not defeated.”
“Oh?” Phainon smirked, turning his blue eyes toward him. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like it.”
Mydei exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He hated this. Not the challenge—he lived for challenges—but the sheer absurdity of this one.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he muttered, more to himself than to Phainon. “She doesn’t understand what any of it means.”
Phainon’s smirk widened. “Well, yeah. That’s the best part.”
Mydei turned to glare at him, and Phainon held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Look,” Phainon continued, clearly enjoying himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then maybe it’s time you try something… else.”
“…Else?”
Phainon nodded, shifting to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been treating this like a battle—strategizing, making moves, all that. But Y/N’s not Kremnoan, Mydei. She doesn’t think like one.”
Mydei frowned, considering this.
“So.” Phainon grinned. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a very brilliant idea.”
Mydei arched a brow. “You?”
Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll ignore that. Because this idea? Foolproof.”
Mydei sighed. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Phainon’s grin widened.
“We make her fall for you,” he said smoothly. “The way she’d understand.”
Mydei narrowed his eyes. “And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?”
Phainon leaned in slightly. “Simple. We play by her rules.”
Mydei remained skeptical, but Phainon only laughed.
“Oh, trust me,” Phainon said, clapping a hand on Mydei’s shoulder. “This is going to be fun.”
Phainon’s grin had only grown wider as he observed the skepticism on Mydei’s face. The Kremnoan warrior looked utterly unconvinced, his golden eyes scrutinizing him as if trying to gauge whether this was another one of his ridiculous ideas.
Spoiler: It was.
But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.
“Alright,” Mydei said at last, arms still crossed. “I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”
Phainon leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well, first of all, let’s establish something—you’ve been trying to court Y/N your way, right? Sparring, weapons, food, all that.”
“Yes.”
“And she has no idea what’s happening.”
“…Yes.”
Phainon clapped his hands together. “Which means it’s time for a new approach. One that makes sense to her.”
Mydei gave him a flat stare. “You keep saying that. What does it mean?”
Phainon grinned. “It means we’re going to romance her the way she understands.”
Silence.
Mydei stared at him as if he’d just suggested storming a fortress alone and unarmed.
“…What?”
“Oh, you heard me,” Phainon said, far too pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then we do it her way. Flirting, compliments, maybe even gasp—” he feigned a dramatic pause “—a date.”
Mydei visibly stiffened. “That’s—”
“Not your style? Obviously,” Phainon cut in, waving a hand. “But that’s the point. You need to do something different.”
Mydei looked like he was regretting every choice that had led him to this conversation. “…A date.”
“A casual one,” Phainon said, nodding sagely. “Something low pressure. You don’t have to call it a date if that makes you want to run into battle instead.”
Mydei still didn’t look convinced.
Phainon sighed. “Listen, Mydei. Do you want her to see you as more than a sparring partner, or do you want to keep swinging swords at each other forever?”
Silence again.
Then, Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, golden eyes dark with reluctant acceptance.
“…Fine.”
Phainon smirked. “Great. Step one: You’re going to ask her to spend time with you—outside of training.”
Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Like…?”
Phainon shrugged. “A walk. A festival. Even something as simple as grabbing food together.” He smirked. “You do eat, don’t you?”
Mydei rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
“Good,” Phainon said. “Now for step two—compliments.”
Mydei looked even more reluctant at that.
Phainon grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic pose. “Y/N, your strength in battle is admirable, but it’s your presence that truly sets the battlefield ablaze—”
Mydei promptly shoved him off the bench.
Phainon howled with laughter as he hit the ground.
“You deserved that,” Mydei muttered.
“I absolutely did,” Phainon wheezed, sitting up. “But you get my point.”
Mydei exhaled, rubbing his temple. “…Fine. I’ll try.”
Phainon beamed. “That’s the spirit.”
Now, he just had to see how Mydei would pull this off.
It took Mydei two full days to actually work up the nerve to put Phainon’s ridiculous plan into action.
It wasn’t that he was scared—he was a warrior, after all. He had faced countless battles, endured rigorous training, and held his own against some of the strongest fighters in Okhema.
But this?
This was an entirely different kind of battlefield.
Phainon, of course, was enjoying every moment of it. He was leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed, watching Mydei with way too much amusement as he approached Y/N.
Mydei shot him a warning glare before he turned his focus on her.
She was standing in the courtyard, stretching her arms after finishing some light training. The late afternoon sun caught in her hair, making her look…
…Tch. He wasn’t going to let himself get distracted.
“Y/N.” His voice came out sharper than intended.
She blinked and looked over at him, smiling. “Oh, hey, Mydei. What’s up?”
Mydei cleared his throat. Okay. Casual. Just ask her to spend time with you.
“…Would you like to join me?”
Y/N tilted her head. “For what?”
Damn it, Mydei, specify.
He clenched his jaw. “To—” He barely stopped himself from saying train. “…For food.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Sure! I’m starving.”
Phainon, from the sidelines, gave Mydei a double thumbs-up.
Mydei ignored him.
It wasn’t a date.
At least, Mydei wasn’t calling it that.
But sitting across from Y/N at the bustling market eatery, watching her happily pick at the food, he couldn’t ignore the… different feeling settling in his chest.
This wasn’t sparring. There were no weapons, no battle strategies.
Just… her.
“This place has really good food,” Y/N said between bites. “I’m surprised you suggested it.”
“…Why?” Mydei asked.
She shrugged. “I dunno, I figured if we were hanging out outside of training, it’d be something warrior-like.” She grinned. “Like arm wrestling or hunting a beast or something.”
Mydei’s grip on his drink tightened. “I can do things other than fight.”
“I know, I just—” She laughed. “It’s just funny seeing you in a setting like this.”
“…Is it?”
“A little.” She smiled. “But I like it.”
Mydei’s brain shut down for a second.
Phainon, who was conveniently sitting at a table nearby (acting as the world’s worst ‘subtle observer’), nearly choked on his drink.
To Y/N, it was just a casual statement.
To Mydei?
It felt like a damn victory.
…Tch. Focus.
“Your form has improved,” he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.
Y/N blinked. “Huh?”
Mydei set his cup down. “Your footwork. I noticed it earlier. More controlled.”
Y/N perked up. “Oh! Thanks! I’ve been working on it.”
Encouraged by the way her face lit up, Mydei pushed forward.
“Your speed, too. Faster than before.”
She grinned. “You are paying attention.”
“Of course I am.”
Y/N laughed. “Wow, Mydei. That was almost a compliment.”
“…It was a compliment.”
She giggled. “I know, I know, I just like teasing you.”
From across the room, Phainon wiped a fake tear from his eye. He’s learning.
After their not-a-date, Mydei realized something.
Compliments actually worked.
And so, he tried again.
The next day, they were walking through the city streets when he noticed Y/N adjusting her outfit, fixing the loose fabric.
It was a simple gesture. Nothing unusual.
But Mydei—remembering Phainon’s words about flirting in a way she understands—decided to speak.
“That suits you.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”
“The color,” he said, a little gruffly. “It looks good on you.”
Y/N looked down at herself, then back up at him with a surprised smile.
“Oh… thanks!”
She was happy.
Which meant he was satisfied.
But just as he was about to move on, Phainon—who had been lurking (again)—whistled.
Mydei turned sharply to see him leaning against a stall, watching with barely contained laughter.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Phainon said, waving a hand. “I’m just so proud.”
Mydei clenched his jaw. Ignore him. Ignore him.
But Phainon wasn’t done.
“You’re really improving, Mydei. Soon you’ll be a natural at this!”
Mydei grabbed the nearest fruit off a vendor’s stall and chucked it at him.
Phainon dodged (barely) and ran off, laughing his ass off.
Y/N, completely oblivious to all of it, just smiled at Mydei again.
“…You’re being really nice today.”
I am always nice, Mydei wanted to say, but that would be a blatant lie.
Instead, he muttered, “Tch. Don’t get used to it.”
And somehow, that made her laugh.
Mydei had never taken Phainon’s advice before.
Mostly because Phainon was an idiot.
But after their last conversation—where Phainon insisted that “small, casual touches” were an effective way to fluster someone—Mydei found himself considering it.
Ridiculous, he had thought at first. Pointless.
And yet…
Here he was.
They were walking back through the marketplace again. The setting sun cast warm orange hues across the stone streets, and the air buzzed with the chatter of vendors closing up for the day.
Y/N walked beside him, talking animatedly about something—he wasn’t even sure what. He was distracted.
Because a strand of her hair had come loose, falling in front of her face.
This is it, Mydei thought.
Phainon’s voice echoed in his head: Just brush her hair back. It’s a smooth move. Works every time.
Dumb.
But effective?
There was only one way to find out.
So he did it.
Mid-conversation, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Simple. Quick. Just as Phainon suggested.
But the reaction?
He hadn’t expected that.
Y/N froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence.
Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened slightly.
For once, she was flustered.
She blinked up at him, a little stunned, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something—but nothing came out.
Mydei stared back at her, and for a brief moment, he felt a rush of satisfaction.
Then it hit him.
Oh.
Oh no.
What if she realizes? What if she figures it out?
He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
So, naturally, he did what he always did in unfamiliar situations—he defaulted to stoicism.
“…Your hair was in your face,” he said gruffly, looking away as if it was nothing.
Y/N blinked again. “Oh. Uh—right. Thanks.”
She laughed, a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.
Mission success?
Mydei wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing—
Phainon, who had been watching from a nearby rooftop (because of course he was), was howling with laughter.
Mydei shot him a glare so deadly it could’ve killed a god.
Phainon just wiped a tear from his eye and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.
Later that evening, when Y/N had gone off on her own, Mydei found himself regretting everything.
Because Phainon was never going to let this go.
“Oh Mydei,” Phainon sang, throwing an arm around his shoulder as they walked. “You absolute natural. Did you see her face? She froze. I almost fell off the roof trying not to scream.”
“Shut up.”
Phainon ignored him. “The hair move was perfect. Subtle. Smooth. I’m so proud.”
Mydei exhaled sharply, shrugging him off. “It was nothing.”
“It was everything,” Phainon countered. “You’re actually getting somewhere! Now you just need to—”
“I don’t need your advice.”
“Sure you do,” Phainon grinned. “Because I know you’re going to try again.”
Mydei said nothing.
Because, damn it, he wasn’t wrong.
After Phainon had finally stopped laughing, Mydei swore to himself that he wouldn’t take his advice again. Ever.
And yet, here he was.
Again.
Y/N walked beside him, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. The sun had set, and lanterns flickered along the streets, casting a soft glow over the marketplace. She hummed quietly as she admired some trinkets on display, utterly at ease.
Meanwhile, Mydei was not at ease.
Phainon’s words still echoed in his head: You need to build tension, Mydei. Do something that’ll make her think about you when you’re not around.
Mydei had no idea what the hell that even meant. But after the small success earlier, he figured a slightly bolder approach wouldn’t hurt.
Probably.
As they walked, Y/N turned to say something—he barely even heard what. He just saw an opportunity.
So he reached out and—without thinking—lightly brushed his knuckles under her chin, tilting her face up to his for just a second.
The second their eyes met, he let go.
And kept walking like nothing happened.
Y/N stood frozen in place. Again.
Mouth slightly open. Completely, utterly stunned.
Then—
Did her face just turn red?
For a brief, glorious moment, Mydei almost smirked.
And then—
A very, very loud choking sound came from behind them.
Phainon.
Mydei didn’t have to turn around to know his so-called friend was probably on the ground from laughing too hard.
Y/N, still dazed, finally snapped out of it. “Uh—what was—”
“Nothing,” Mydei said quickly.
Y/N frowned, confused, but didn’t push it. “Right. Okay…”
And just like that, she kept walking, muttering something under her breath.
Mydei exhaled slowly.
Was it perfect? No.
Did he get some kind of reaction? Yes.
And that? That was a victory.
Phainon finally caught up to him, barely holding himself together. “I—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”
Mydei shot him a sharp look. “Say another word and I will throw you off this bridge.”
Phainon wiped away a tear, gasping between laughs. “Worth it.”
Mydei sighed. He’d deal with Phainon later.
For now…
He just glanced at Y/N ahead of him—still slightly pink in the face.
Maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting somewhere.
YOUR MYDEI TRYING TO COURT US FIC WAS SOSOSO CUTE IT HAD ME GIGGLING LIKE A MANIAC.
Would our amazing author pretty please consider making a part 2 when they have time 🙏 mayb they get together and mydei asks y/n out on an actual date but still is getting use to flirting in their way. No pressure though, love every morsel of mydei content from u 😭😭😭
I got multiple requests for a second part, so it's time to feed you guys♡
Mydei x (fem)reader
Mydei courting reader Part2
Part 1
The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, comforting scent of butter and spice. Y/N sat on the edge of the counter, legs swinging idly as she watched Mydei work. His movements were precise, methodical—hands dusted with flour as he kneaded the dough with ease, rolling it out before folding it again. His expression was unreadable, but there was a certain focus in the way he handled the ingredients.
“You’re really good at this,” Y/N noted, resting her chin on her hand.
Mydei didn’t look up, but the corner of his lips almost twitched. “I’ve had practice.”
“I didn’t know you baked.”
“Hm.” He paused, carefully pressing the dough into shape. “It’s just… preparing food. Like anything else. Following the right steps, controlling the heat.”
Y/N hummed. “You make it sound so simple, but I’m pretty sure I’d mess it up in three seconds.”
Mydei glanced at her, golden eyes briefly flicking over her face before he returned to his task. “You’d just need to learn.”
She pouted. “Are you offering to teach me?”
Another pause. Then: “Maybe.”
Before she could tease him about it, another voice chimed in.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Y/N turned just in time to see Phainon leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with unmistakable amusement. His blue eyes flickered to the baking ingredients, then to Mydei, and his grin widened.
“Mydei,” he said slowly, stepping into the kitchen, “are you baking?”
Mydei’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t stop what he was doing. “…Yes.”
Phainon looked delighted. “You mean to tell me that all this time, you’ve had the ability to make delicious pastries, and I’m only now finding out?”
Y/N snickered. “I know, right? He’s been holding out on us.”
Mydei ignored them both.
Unbothered, Phainon walked over and leaned on the counter beside Y/N. “So, what are we making?”
“We aren’t making anything,” Mydei corrected.
Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that.” He glanced at the dough, inspecting it with mild curiosity. “Looks fancy. What is it?”
Y/N answered before Mydei could. “He said it’s a spiced honey pastry. Apparently, it’s something Kremnoans eat after big feasts.”
Phainon raised a brow. “Huh. Never imagined you as the type to make sweets.”
“I don’t make them often.”
“So, what, is this a special occasion?”
Mydei didn’t answer.
Phainon smirked. “Interesting.”
Y/N, completely missing the implication, just nodded along. “Yeah, I was wondering the same thing! He said he felt like making something, but he won’t say why.”
Phainon shot Mydei a look that screamed, You’re so obvious, it hurts.
Mydei, sensing it, leveled him with a sharp glare.
Y/N, still blissfully unaware, just tilted her head. “So, what’s next?”
“…Shaping the dough,” Mydei muttered, shifting his focus back to the counter.
Phainon grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
And with that, the three of them continued—Y/N genuinely interested in learning, Phainon occasionally throwing in unhelpful commentary, and Mydei just barely tolerating them. (Barely tolerating phainon)
If nothing else, at least the pastries would turn out well.
The sweet, warm scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air as Mydei pulled the tray from the oven. Golden and crisp on the outside, soft and honeyed within—perfect.
Y/N leaned forward, eyes bright with admiration. “Wow, Mydei, these look amazing.”
He huffed softly, carefully plating a few. “Taste it.”
She didn’t hesitate, breaking one open and taking a bite. The moment the flavors melted on her tongue, her eyes widened, and she let out a delighted hum. “Oh my, Mydei—this is so good.”
Mydei allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk.
Meanwhile, Phainon, who had been eyeing the pastries the entire time, reached for one. “Alright, my turn—”
Without even looking, Mydei smoothly pulled the plate just out of his reach.
Phainon blinked. “Wait. Did you just—”
Silence.
Mydei focused solely on Y/N as she savored the pastry, blissfully unaware of Phainon’s suffering.
“Are you seriously not giving me one?” Phainon asked, incredulous.
No response.
Y/N, completely oblivious, just kept talking between bites. “This is honestly unfair. You can fight, you can cook, you can bake—” She ticked off each point on her fingers. “You’re great with kids, strong, good-looking—”
There was a pause.
Mydei stilled.
Phainon, who had been mid-complaint, went silent.
Y/N, not noticing, casually continued.
“You really are husband material.”
The room went dead quiet.
Mydei, who had just taken a bite of his own pastry, suddenly choked. He coughed violently, setting his plate down as he tried—and failed—to recover. His golden eyes widened slightly, his usual composure cracking for the first time.
Phainon, meanwhile, looked like he was about to explode.
His entire body trembled as he bit down on his knuckles, his blue eyes darting between Y/N—who was still completely unaware—and Mydei, who was struggling between coughing and processing what just happened.
“H-Husband—” Mydei stammered, voice unusually strained. He quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain control. “What?”
Y/N glanced up, chewing. “Hmm?”
“You just—” Mydei exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at her like she had just knocked the wind out of him. “Did you just call me—”
Phainon made a choked noise.
Y/N blinked. “Oh. Yeah.” She shrugged, finishing the last of her pastry. “I mean, you kinda are. You’ve got all the qualities.”
Phainon slapped the table so hard the dishes rattled, wheezing.
Mydei shot him a sharp glare, but it did nothing to stop him from completely losing it.
Y/N, still unaware of the absolute chaos she had just caused, tilted her head. “What’s so funny?”
Phainon, gasping for air, barely managed to choke out, “N-nothing—nothing at all—please, keep talking—”
Meanwhile, Mydei looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. His face, usually unreadable, was visibly strained—his golden eyes flickering between frustration and something else. His ears burned just slightly, but he refused to acknowledge it.
“Anyway,” Y/N continued, utterly unfazed, “this was amazing. You should bake more often, Mydei.”
Mydei, still recovering, only managed a short nod, unable to look at her.
Phainon wiped a tear from his eye, still trembling from silent laughter.
Y/N stretched. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Thanks for the food!”
As soon as the door shut behind her, Phainon collapsed.
His laughter erupted into the open, uncontrollable, as he leaned back against the chair. “Oh—oh, Mydei—” He gasped between wheezes. “Did you see your face?!”
Mydei scowled, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Shut up.”
But the pink dusting his ears did not go unnoticed.
Phainon was still laughing.
It had been a full minute since Y/N left, and he was not letting it go.
“Husband material,” he wheezed, barely holding himself upright. “You really are husband material, Mydei!” He clutched his stomach, shaking his head. “Oh, this is too good—”
Mydei, sitting rigidly across from him, looked like he was this close to throwing him out the window.
“Are you done?” Mydei said, voice tight.
Phainon wiped at his eyes, trying to calm himself, but every time he looked at Mydei—his arms crossed, his jaw clenched, his golden eyes glaring anywhere except where Y/N had been sitting—he started up again.
“I mean—” Phainon exhaled, catching his breath. “I just—wow. Of all the things she could’ve said.” He grinned. “And you choked.”
Mydei did not dignify that with a response.
Instead, he grabbed another pastry off the plate, taking an aggressive bite, as if the food could somehow make him forget all of it.
But it didn’t.
Because Phainon was still watching him.
And worse—Mydei was still thinking about it.
Husband material.
The words repeated in his mind, unbidden, making something coil uncomfortably in his chest. Not because he disliked the idea, but because of the way she had said it—so casually, so unaware of the effect it had on him.
She really didn’t get it, did she?
Didn’t realize what it meant for someone like him to hear something like that?
He scowled, setting his plate down with a little too much force.
Phainon, of course, caught onto everything.
He smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Still thinking about it?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Shut up.”
Phainon chuckled, tilting his head. “So. What’s your next move, husband?”
Mydei shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel.
Phainon just grinned wider.
The streets of Okhema were alive with movement—merchants calling out their wares, travelers bargaining for supplies, the distant clang of a blacksmith hammering steel. But Mydei barely noticed any of it.
He walked with his hands tucked behind his back, his golden eyes narrowed in thought.
The previous day’s events played in his head on repeat.
Y/N had called him husband material—out loud, in front of Phainon, without a second thought. Did she mean it? Would he really be a good Husband? But when he’d tried to gauge her reaction, to see if she had finally understood what he’d been trying to do, she just kept eating her pastries, completely unaware of the effect she had on him.
The memory alone was enough to make him grit his teeth.
He had tried everything. Gifts. Training. Spending time with her. He had been obvious—at least, by Kremnoan standards. Back home, anyone would have understood his intentions immediately.
But Y/N?
She was clueless.
He exhaled sharply, adjusting the gauntlets on his wrists.
Phainon had said he needed to be more direct. That was easier said than done. It wasn’t in his nature to be… soft. Kremnos didn’t have words for love. They had words for strength, for battle, for survival. Their affections were shown through actions, not flowery phrases or pointless compliments.
And yet, despite everything, he was losing this battle.
His next attempt had to be unmistakable.
But how—
A familiar sound stopped him in his tracks.
Laughter.
And not just anyone’s laughter—hers.
Mydei’s head snapped up, his sharp gaze scanning the marketplace.
And then he saw her.
Y/N stood in an open space near a merchant stall, surrounded by children. She was crouched down, talking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke. The kids around her giggled, some clapping their hands, others tugging at her sleeves excitedly.
Then, without warning, she bolted.
The children shrieked in delight and ran after her, their laughter ringing through the street as they chased her through the crowd.
Mydei stared.
What in the world was she doing?
His feet moved on instinct, his curiosity outweighing his frustration as he stepped closer, watching the scene unfold.
She was playing with them.
She twisted around a cart, narrowly dodging one of the kids who lunged for her. “Too slow!” she teased, sticking out her tongue before dashing away again.
The children shouted in protest, determination burning in their eyes as they picked up speed.
Mydei couldn’t help but huff a quiet breath of amusement.
She was ridiculous.
But then—
“MYDEI!”
Her voice cut through the noise, bright and full of excitement.
His muscles tensed.
Slowly, cautiously, he met her gaze.
A grin spread across her face, her eyes practically glowing.
One of the kids tugged at her sleeve. “Oh! It’s the warrior prince!”
Another turned toward him, eyes wide. “He’s really big…”
A third tilted their head. “Do you think he knows how to play?”
Mydei’s brow twitched.
Y/N clapped her hands together. “Perfect timing! We’re playing tag, but the teams are uneven.”
She pointed at him.
“You should join us!”
The kids immediately erupted in cheers.
“YES!”
“Play with us!”
“You’ll be really fast, right? You’re a warrior!”
A beat of silence passed.
Mydei stared at Y/N, then at the eager faces of the children.
Play? Him?
He was a Kremnoan warrior. He had never played tag in his life.
This was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
But then Y/N tilted her head, her smile softening just slightly, and—
…Damn it.
His fate was sealed.
One second, Mydei was standing tall, arms crossed as he observed the game unfold—the next, a child had launched themselves at him.
The impact barely made him stumble, but the little hands clinging to him and the triumphant laughter left no room for doubt.
He was it.
Mydei blinked, processing what had just happened as the other children burst into cheers.
“YOU’RE IT NOW!”
“CATCH SOMEONE!”
He let out a slow exhale, golden eyes scanning the gathered group. The kids stared at him in wide-eyed excitement, giggling behind their hands. Some were already shifting nervously, ready to sprint for their lives if his attention landed on them.
But Mydei wasn’t looking at them.
His gaze snapped to Y/N.
She was just standing there—until their eyes met.
A slow grin spread across his face, sharp as a predator about to pounce.
Y/N’s own smile faltered.
“Oh, shit.”
Then she bolted.
Laughter bubbled up in her chest as she sprinted through the streets of Okhema, dodging past merchants and startled pedestrians.
Behind her, the children cheered and whooped.
“GET HER, MYDEI!”
“RUN, Y/N, RUN!”
“I’M BETTING FIVE COINS ON MYDEI!”
“You don’t have five coins!”
“I’M STILL BETTING THEM!”
Y/N glanced over her shoulder—
And immediately regretted it.
Mydei was already closing the distance, long strides eating up the ground far faster than they should have. He was fast—too fast.
Her heart pounded.
If she wanted to win this, she had to think fast.
She darted toward the marketplace, weaving between food stalls and carts, leaping over crates with practiced ease.
But he didn’t slow down.
She could hear the heavy thud of his boots behind her, smooth and relentless.
She turned a corner sharply, hoping to throw him off. But then—
A strong arm shot out, just barely missing her.
A laugh rumbled from him.
“Oh, you’re dead now,” he called.
Y/N’s stomach flipped.
She needed height.
Spotting a stack of barrels, she vaulted onto them, then used the momentum to grab onto a wooden beam, swinging herself up onto a rooftop.
The kids gasped.
"WHOA! SHE'S LIKE A NINJA!"
"MYDEI, CAN YOU DO THAT?!"
Y/N grinned smugly, peeking over the edge. No way he's following me now.
Then she heard a heavy thud.
Her grin vanished.
Not even a second later—
Mydei had scaled the wall with brute force, gripping the ledge and pulling himself up in one swift motion.
The kids screamed in excitement.
"HE DID IT!"
“HE’S LIKE A HERO FROM A STORY!”
Y/N groaned. Of course he did.
She turned and ran again.
Now, they were tearing across the rooftops of Okhema.
Y/N moved like the wind, ducking under laundry lines, leaping between buildings, twisting midair to grab onto beams and pull herself up with effortless grace.
But Mydei—
He was a force of nature.
Where she dodged, he barreled through. Where she leaped, he jumped higher.
She landed on a narrow ledge, catching her breath for half a second
Then she felt a presence behind her.
She turned her head—
And nearly screamed.
Mydei was right there.
His golden eyes gleamed, his smirk wider than ever.
“Caught you.”
Before she could react, he lunged.
Y/N barely had a second to react before Mydei lunged.
With one smooth motion, he caught her wrist and pulled—sending them tumbling together onto the rooftop. She let out a startled gasp as she landed on her back, Mydei’s weight hovering just above her, pinning her down with ease.
She blinked, trying to catch her breath.
His golden eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.
There was no cocky remark this time. Just silence.
His grip on her wrist was firm but not tight, his other hand braced beside her head. His body was warm, muscles taut from the chase, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
Y/N’s heart pounded.
Not just from running.
Her lips parted slightly, trying to find words, but her mind had gone completely blank.
Why… why was he looking at her like that?
Like she was something to be hunted.
Something claimed.
She swallowed hard, face growing warm under his gaze.
And Mydei noticed.
The corner of his lips curled up slightly, and—
“WHOOOAAAAA!!!”
Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin at the explosion of cheering from below.
The kids had caught up.
And they were going wild.
“HE CAUGHT HER!”
“THAT WAS SO COOL!!”
“MYDEI IS A WARRIOR KING! DID YOU SEE THAT LEAP?!”
“Y/N, YOU LOST!”
The spell was shattered.
Y/N immediately turned her head, face burning. Mydei, however, just huffed a quiet laugh, clearly enjoying the situation way too much.
Still holding her wrist, he leaned down a fraction—just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
“Looks like you’re mine now.”
Her brain short-circuited.
But before she could even process a response, Mydei finally released her and pushed himself up with a smirk.
She stared at him, flustered beyond belief.
What… what just happened?!
Still trying to steady her racing heart, Y/N sat up as Mydei extended a hand to her. She hesitated for a second before grasping it, letting him pull her to her feet with ease.
His smirk hadn’t faded.
Before she could say anything, the children’s excited chattering reminded her that they weren’t alone.
"THAT WAS SO AWESOME!"
"You guys were so fast!"
"Did you see when Mydei jumped from the cart to the roof?! That was just like a hero in the old war stories!"
"Y/N almost got away! But then BOOM! Caught in one swoop!"
Y/N cleared her throat, desperately trying to compose herself. “Alright, alright, settle down,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “So what now? We’re all sweaty and covered in dust.”
One of the kids, a boy with wild curls, suddenly gasped as if he had the greatest idea in history.
"WAIT!" He turned to the others, his face glowing with mischief. “Since Mydei won, he needs a reward!”
A chorus of agreement followed.
Y/N felt a sense of dread creeping in.
"Yeah! He totally deserves something!"
"Like a feast fit for a warrior!"
"Or a cool new weapon!"
Then, before she could stop it—
"A kiss from the loser!"
…Silence.
Y/N felt all the air leave her lungs.
Her brain shut down.
Her soul left her body.
Did—Did that little gremlin just say—?!
The group of kids immediately exploded into laughter and cheers, clapping and nodding as if it was the most brilliant idea ever conceived.
“Yeah! A KISS!”
“A real warrior’s reward!”
“That’s what happens in the old stories! The victorious warrior gets a kiss from the fair maiden!”
Y/N’s face was on fire.
The cheering hadn’t stopped.
The kids were still bouncing around, giggling, and chanting for Y/N to give Mydei his “victory reward.”
Meanwhile, she was still frozen.
She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her face burning as she kept her gaze trained anywhere but on Mydei.
But then—
She dared a glance at him.
And what she saw stopped her brain completely.
He wasn’t looking at her.
Or at the kids.
Or anywhere really.
Instead, Mydei was staring off into the distance, arms crossed, posture stiff—trying so hard to look unaffected.
But.
His ears.
They were red.
Y/N blinked.
Then blinked again.
He was flustered.
The realization hit her like a boulder.
Mydei, the warrior who faced armies without blinking, who never seemed bothered by anything, who was always composed—
Was actually flustered.
Something about that made her heart flip.
And before she could stop herself—
She acted.
She reached out, tapped his shoulder.
He turned, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Wha—”
Y/N grabbed the collar and pulled him down slightly—
And pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The world went silent.
For a long second, Mydei did not move.
His golden eyes went wide, his entire body going rigid.
And then—
His face turned completely red.
It started at his ears, then spread down his neck, creeping across his cheeks.
His lips parted slightly, as if trying to form a sentence.
But no words came out.
Instead, what left his mouth was—
“…I— You— Wha—”
He couldn’t even speak.
And that—
Was absolutely amazing.
Before he could even recover, the kids exploded into cheers.
“WHOOOOAAAAA!!”
“THAT WAS SO COOL!!”
“I KNEW SHE’D DO IT!”
“Mydei lost his brain—look at him!!”
“I think he DIED!”
Y/N, cheeks still burning, looked up at Mydei—who still hadn’t moved.
His mouth was slightly open, his hand twitching like he wanted to touch his cheek but refused to do it in front of everyone.
Finally—
He turned away sharply, crossing his arms.
“…Tch.”
Y/N grinned.
But unbeknownst to both of them—
A little distance away, hiding behind a pillar, Phainon was grinning ear to ear.
And in his hands?
A perfectly timed picture of the exact moment Y/N kissed Mydei’s cheek.
The blue-eyed warrior chuckled to himself, tucking his phone away.
“Oh, this is going to be useful.”
Prompt: "It's a Zing not a Fling" :: The moment they realize you're the one. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw (Here) | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: No bullets this time. Excuse my wheezing. I hope that I finally leveled up - Also I'm doing these out of order baybeee. Mixing it up hohoho.
Durable. Thick yet durable leather. It's part of Leona's skin at this point. His palms hide - feeling naked and alone - without the supple caress of leather. Gloves that he's adorned for as long as he can remember.
When was it, that his father gifted him a pair of gloves? Not too long after his unique magic was revealed, he knows that much. The exact day is lost to a time before he could recall such things. Before he had a reason to think twice about touching the world with his bare hands.
Now, all Leona knows is supple leather. Letting himself go bare alone in his bedroom is a risk. One he hadn't allowed himself until the ripened age of rebellion. In a country that worships the sun. Washes in the rain. A prince that turns the lush world to sand is a poison. No matter what assurance or empty reach for his potential - that damned word, it's never enough. He is never enough - a prince like him is no prince to the people.
In a world of firsts, he would forever lack.
Could he?
Your gaze, so tender. Focused solely on him. Welcoming. Urging but without words. His senses somehow dulled and heightened all at once. Nothing's distinguishable aside from the pounding in his chest, fangs digging inside his cheek to not let it show -
Soft to the touch. Smooth like polished marble. Warm like the sun kissing his skin through the drapes, on the cusp of dozing yet urging himself to linger, walk the in-between. His callused finger pads barely graze the surface of your thigh, lingering in the air with whatever restraint holding him from pressing his naked palms.
Your skin cracks.
All he did was graze. All Leona wanted was to feel. Even if you never let him again. The way flesh splits startles him - spreading outwards faster than he can comprehend- as if his wants deserved greater punishment. He reaches for you, teeth biting through his gums at your tenderness gone. Your gaze shackled with fear as the flesh between his fingers turns to sand -
"STOP!"
A guttural roar rips through Leona's throat - rasped, taken with labored breath - it could shatter windows if his room only had them.
A lion's mourning.
Leona fisted the sheets, tangled from his nightmares, his heart hammering as his senses all but thrusted themselves from dream to reality. Everything was clear. He could smell the raging waterfalls outside, taste iron on his tongue where gums had split, hear the night bugs sing their song, feel the knotted fabric under his palms.
Your picture, still safely nestled behind his standing chessboard. The frame solid. Whole.
Leona reached past into his desk drawer, and pulled out his gloves.
"I don't know how to swim"
"....wait, you're actually serious. There no lakes where you come from or somethin'?"
Leona drifted on the outer bank of the main falls in Savanaclaw. His legs kicked lazily, keeping him right where he needed to be against sand-rock and out of the splash zone. Without the loud yammering his dormmates would put him through whenever out in the lounge - it was almost a bearable swim.
"Comin' out here this late was your bright idea, herbivore. Now you're not even going to get in?" he taunted, eyes squinting through dark at your legs just inches from the ledge. The thought pops up to pull you in but he resists, although not hiding his temptation
You notice and step back, "I didn't realize it was this deep!"
"And what'd you think it was? A kiddie pool?"
"I thought it was safe!" you huff, cheeks puffing out like a bunny's. Not helping the thoughts in his head at all, "who puts an actual waterfall in a dormitory? What if someone drowns?"
"Then they drown," Leona shrugs, yawning wide as he turns on his back with his arms spread out across the rough ledge.
He cranes his neck back, smirking upwards at your skittish stance. The moonlight did wonders on your visage, swimsuit offering him more to see than he normally gets.
"Nice view," he grunts, snickering as you stiffen and try to cover yourself. Red dusting your cheeks, trailing down to spots normally hidden from him by a poorly done bowtie.
Smooth like polished marble. Split to crumbling ash.
Leona's fingers twitch, disappearing under the cool water as he pushes off the ledge into the water. Far enough for you to have space, but not to leave.
Your attention follows him carefully, instinctively stepping closer as he pulls away. He should get out, take you back upstairs to dry off. Make you comb through his hair as compensation for whatever this is but -
"You'll be fine," he says nonchalant, but his eyes zero-in as you teeter on the edge, "it's not that deep. I'm right here. Nothing will happen to you."
"...promise?"
Leona tries not to let that trust shake him. Weakness isn't meant to be shared between someone like him and someone like you. The balance of vulnerability was already thin.
"Promise."
You jump into the pool - and Leona finds himself wading closer once your head dips deep under the water. The ledge is there for you, he reminds himself. His palms feel naked but bandaged enough by the crisp water that he can ignore it.
Your shadow ripples under still water, flailing like a newborn calf and he's just about to dive under when you come up close - too close, his mind screams - and breech the surface.
Waves cascade as you take in air, eyes opening from their tight scrunch underwater and shimmer just a push away from him.
"Cold! Coooold! Oh my god, it's so COLD!"
Leona kicks his legs to hold against the ripple as you whip towards him, pushing your wet hair back and pulling water from your face. He knows that look - the one that has your lips splitting at the edges from excitement. Laughter pulling from nerves that you're still riding the tail end of.
"I knew this was a good idea!" your sniffly laugh muffles to him, Leona's body trying to register when you went from the ledge to wrapped around him like a koala. Legs wrapped around his waist, floating on nothing under the waves. Arms thrust around his shoulders tight, chest pressed against his to here he feels how fast your little heart thrums -
His hands, the split moment instinctive, around your waist. Bare, naked palms, pressed fully against flesh smooth like porcaline.
Zing.
"You idiot!" He yells, fingers tightening as he leans back to look over your body head to toe. Anxiety dripping from him like the falls themselves.
"Don't just grab someone in the water! Why're you always so reckless?!"
Don't grab me so easily!
You did it so easy, with that flushed candor that had him questioning everything - did the thing he'd been fighting for so long.
"I thought you said I'd be fine! Don't change your tune now!" you yell back, laughing.
It's not the water you should be scared of -
"You almost made us both drown," Leona huffed, rolling his eyes. He gave your waist a tentative squeeze, needed confirmation that this wasn't something he'd wake from wrestling his sheets.
"Then we drown," you lean forward, that impish glint softening as your nose brushes against his, "right?"
As his palms - naked and bandaged under wet moonlight - work their path to pull you in closer, he feels your legs wrap tighter. The way you allow his arms to circle and support you, unafraid. "Right."
Rice. Oats. Bananas. Tomatoes. Beef -
No. Scratch that. Ruggie wasn't in the mood to barter through the main market tonight. He'd go in the morning, clutching the marks brough back from school, slip in when it's just as packed, but his mind will be clearer then. He'll stop by one of his old spots on the way, check in on the kids and make sure they weren't doing anything too bad while their parents worked their tails off.
Right now he'll take the backroads towards home - Gran was waiting for him anyways. Probably sitting on the same chair she always did on the front porch, watching the street with one eye open and the other stuck on their 'houseguest' - as if they were fit to 'host' anyone - until he came back with the week's groceries.
He didn't want to bring you back with him to the slums - but where else could you go? No one. Not a single person or beast, was supposed to ever cross his path outside of Night Raven. Not if it didn't fill his pockets.
As he crosses the threshold pass what could barely be considered a kids' playground, his mind can't fathom what would make you even the slightest interested to come to this run-down village. There were surely other offers to fill your summer break. Your little beastly buddy - or money leech - was shacking up with those first years in the Rose Kingdom. You could've gone with them, and he wouldn't have thought on it twice.
Offering you a place was more of an obligation, something to wipe his conscience clean. Not because he was your 'boyfriend' - did he really count as one? Nothing good lasts forever - but for his piece of mind.
Since bringing you to this place was like cutting a ticking timer in half. Ruggie couldn't admit it to himself, but he knew. He needed you to come here. He needed you to see what you were walking into with that blindsided ignorance that trailed off the bare scraps Crowley had given you at NRC.
'Cause if Ramshackle was considered a shack? Then his home surely looked like a dumpster on the side of a highway. This is what you were signing up for once that four-year drift at NRC was done.
You, who he sat down just that morning to ream in the dangers. Not to go out without him as a no-name in a community where everyone's either known or dead. You, who kept your coin purse - even if the damn thing was near empty - in a side bag with easy access to snatch. You, who stood shellshocked when faced with his Gran's appraisal. Introduced yourself as his without a shred of hesitation. As if he had the means to keep you.
You, who carefully set your bag down in the tiny five by five he called a bedroom and said it smelled like him. Gran passed him the shopping list shortly after, and Ruggie left you there to face her alone. His steps quick towards the market, but not in a hurry since it was only a matter of time.
When he turns down his nook of a street - just as predicted, Gran's out on her chair waiting for him to come back. He's ready for an earful. Ready to pull the return bus-ticket out of his wallet and say goodbye. "Rugs, come an' see what this one can do with the corn husks. Nearly split my ribs!" Gran calls just as his foot pivots off the gravel road. And at her side - you're aiming one of his old slingshots at him like a cheeky thug. Cornhusks rolled up tight to make mini pellets - strong enough to bruise he's sure.
"Ruggie! Your grandma's gonna teach me how to shoot!"
A shiver runs down his spine.
"Aye - kid. Gotta have someone making sure my boy stays sharp at that fancy school."
Zing?
"I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed."
"It's not kickin' if I'm offering it."
"Ruggie - the floor is cold. Literally. It's stone."
"Actually it's clay - and do you even hear yourself? Gran'll kick my ass three cities if I let ya sleep on the floor -"
The two's poorly-hidden fight was cut short by an even more stubborn shout.
"LIGHTS OUT NOW! OR IM KICKING BOTH YER ASSES!"
The house grew cold quick - Savannah nights being unforgiving. If there was one thing Gran made sure they had growing up, it was blankets and firewood since central heat wasn't in the budget.
Ruggie wanted reality to bite you in the butt, not for it to hurt. He'd slept on wet mud once, the floor wasn't the worst option. His bed was old and small - a twin where on the left side there was a poking spring he'd learned to avoid in his sleep. He expected you to take it without second thought. But you were stubborn. Annoying with it, and he knew better than to fight one stubborn mule when another was one room over with thin walls daring to push him out on the streets. He crawled into bed with you, kept one of the many blankets and tucked his tail down, tried to make himself small. Pressed up against the wall on the left side. Hoped you'd keep to the right so he could smolder this feeling in his stomach. You hadn't. Ruggie woke up to sunshine and his face pressed in fabric that moved with even breaths. His back no longer against the wall, no crick in his side, his body pulled over another.
Up and down. In and out.
He looked up, chin careful not to press painfully into your stomach (a better pillow than his flattened one for certain) and saw closed eyes. Warm arms encircled him - ensnared him - and he stole one moment to revel in their protective cradle. His head lolling back down to nuzzle in this soft pillow.
You slept warm through the night, as had he.
Zing.
"Ruggie?" your steps trail his heels, hand locked tight in his own down the market road. Whatever change was left over from the errand sat in his wallet, strapped tight to his hip under his shirt. His free arm clutched a tight meat parcel - the beef he'd missed the night before. It was like a calling card for theft. Not too bad, he knew to keep one eye alert.
At least without you there, twisting over your shoulder as he tugged forward. Your furrowed brow drawn to the pack of hollering beastmen, all hostile for a good bargain to feed their hungry families. Some with sticky fingers and other means.
He was one of them just minutes ago. You, stuck tight to his side and wary under the scorn of locals. An outsider, with only Bucchi presence keeping those teeth sheathed. At least he meant something around these parts - or his Gran did. "Don't look back. Any mercy and they'll eat you alive," he said low into your ear, "there might not be anything in your wallet - but that doesn't stop the desperate ones. You've got clothes. Possible connections. Organs."
What should have been a joke, wasn't. His firm glance said as much.
Ruggie doesn't miss how your fingers clutch his tighter. "I told ya to stay back with Gran. Better yet - stay home the whole break," your jaw ticks, even he feels bad asking the necessary, "look - I'll phone Leona. Might have to go out for better reception but -"
"No," you cut him off, keeping your voice down but his ears could catch anything, "No. I want to be here. I - this is where you're from. I don't want to hide inside all summer, but please don't send me away."
Ruggie clamps his mouth shut, frown set in a thin line until you both pass yet another beggar. Their eyes hateful and distrusting to someone unknown, even when desperate.
He turns to shield you from it - insist. Except you tug him along, pulling him closer. You nod towards the beggar, acknowledging them but not stopping.
Zing
"It's got ya good, huh?" Gran said, hovering in the doorframe with the house laundry basket on her hip. Summer was nearly ending. You'd gone off to nap in his room - the heat did harsh things this time of year. He was just grateful it wasn't a stroke and you'd be fine in a night or so. Gran said as much, and there weren't any doctors in the area. He didn't have to ask what she was talking about. Rule number one in life: don't look out for anyone but your own.
And they way he was hounding you like a mad hyena earlier? The way your clammy skin felt under his palms, the panic in his voice when Gran ran to get water and fruits to get your sugar back up. He freaked out. He shouldn't have but he did.
"Yeah. If you're gonna lecture me about bearing my heart and that sentimental stuff - could you save it? Just...just this once?" he rarely stood up to her but this felt more like a plea.
She, of course, sat in her chair. Even pulled the thing up to where he sulked.
"The only thing I'm going to lecture you for is fighting. Sabotage is something ya do to other folks, not yourself."
"I'm clearly not doing a good job if...y'know," he sighed, flicking his ears back. Maybe then the world would shut up for once.
"Yeah...I know kiddo" Gran paused, looking him up and down like he was some sort of stranger she hadn't crossed before. She set her hand between his ears, giving his hair a good tussle, "but you're a good man. I raised ya into one, so I'd know -- you're not your father, Ruggie. I thought that fancy school might've softened you. I was right, you're definitely not the kid I sent off itching to make up for years lost 'ere. You're better, and that one in there's good for you. So maybe be grateful the world cut ya a break for once, and be happy."
Maybe she was right. Maybe he could stop ignoring that feeling. Maybe, he could do what he does best, and take you. Keep you. Since you were so hell bent on being had.
Zing.
In. Out. One. Two. In. Out. One. Two.
Jack's steps are even and uniform. His form perfect, unwavering even at the strongest gust of wind aimed to topple him. There was no force in the entire world that would set him off the track - his training too important if he ever wanted to get a scholarship in his fourth year.
Winter. Rain. Snow. Sun. Jack ends his day with a run. His lungs thank him for it as does his mind. The exertion is just enough to ensure a peaceful night of sleep feeling accomplished. His chest chills with cold air as the final lap for the night draws closed, and he slows to his cool down. A time meant for his mind to relax as he walks the circuit in it's full, listening to the trees and whatever delinquent is out trying to sneak past the campus security for a night of fun.
He won't rat them out. Not his circus, not his monkeys. Lady justice will come to draw her own conclusions - and by lady justice, he means the Heartslabyul House-warden that strikes fear into students from all dorms looking to cheat the system.
Jack himself was the slightest fearful of Riddle.
"Heya hiya hey -"
On predictable cue there's a filled water-jug in his face. Lukewarm, the ice he'd received the first time you offered it upset his stomach and you never gave it again. He takes the bottle with nothing more than a nod of gratitude, slumping on the lowest bleacher to finish his wind down. A moment later and a clean towel drapes over his shoulder. He nods again, and you return to your musings like nothing happened.
Jack can't remember when you started coming around - or why, for that matter.
Nestled into one of the low corners in the bleachers, legs curled under a blanket with your thermos in hand. One he loaned and never asked back - it's not like he was using it. Seeing you warmed on cold nights gave it a higher purpose than his gritty protein shakes.
Your focused mind lingered in the corner of his peripheral vision at all times - like an eye floater that never goes away. Haunting the same spot every night with your homework scattered about, busying yourself with whatever's there until he pulls up to unwind from his training.
When did he grow used to it? To where he can grunt and you'll know exactly what it means - be it a thanks, a question, or if he's needing silence to end the night.
Jack can't recall.
He's encouraged others to adopt a routine like his, but never pushed. Even then it was never like this. With the intent to weave his regimen together with another's.
So what's Jack to do with someone who's willingly engrained themselves into his life?
What's he to do, when the comfort of solitude has stretched beyond him?
"Hungry?" your voice flit to his ear one night, he utterance a break through dusk and his even breathing.
"I don't eat after six," Jack answered blunt, hoping it was enough and not thinking. Your lips purse to a pensive frown and his attention turns to the box in your lap. Its green his favorite - not that you'd know. The color of ripe cacti.
"Uh.." he catches his own tongue before words come out. He didn't mean to cause that expression. Letting the lip of his water bottle down, Jack decides to press a bit more.
"Nice box - I mean, what's in the box?" he asked, trying and failing to make his tone softer than the evening's bite. His cheeks warming.
What hesitance he held disappeared when you smiled, uncurving around the box to open the lid.
"I made some finger sandwiches," you tut, struggling with one of the latches before he reaches out. The instinct to assist beats his shyness.
You hand the box over.
"Sorry if they're a bit rough - I asked Deuce about what's good for people building muscle. He said protein so...egg salad?"
Jack has to resist the urge to laugh - of course Deuce would suggest egg salad. He raves about their protein benefit at least once a track meet.
They're a bit rough - the tight packaging ruined their presentation from singular little bites to one solid brick.
Nonetheless, Jack felt something stir in his stomach.
"Actually," he starts, whacking the box's bottom to pull the now-brick out, "I think I could eat. You want to split?"
For reasons he couldn't place at the time - or ones he didn't want to - Jack couldn't bring himself to hand back the cacti-green box without emptying it. Your hard work worth sacrificing one day's regimen.
When he held out the sandwich amalgamation, you reached out in kind to take the opposite side. With a little pressure, it gave and split in two.
In that moment, so did Jack.
Jack's palms slid under your legs with ease - almost like they belonged there. With the underside of your thighs in each hand, your body draped over his back like a pillow-weight, he realized how easy it could be to hurt you. All he needs to do is squeeze too hard, stumble over a rock and tumble the wrong way. His weight could crush you or the concrete could scrape your skin.
Maybe that would toughen you up a bit - no student at NRC shouldn't be able to take a it. He's sure you could - if there's one thing he learned from Epel, it's that those you assume can't are the ones who can take the most.
"You don't have to carry me like a sack of potatoes, y'know that. Right?" your voice tickles his ear, one flicking back just as your chin comes to settle between his neck and shoulder.
"It's good training," he argued, tone anything but argument-worthy, "and I want to."
Maybe adding that second part was too much. Why did he?
He'd beat himself with his own tail if it could move that way.
"It's a good thing I'm actually very lazy then. Since the track's no short distance from Ramshackle. You Savanaclaw guys really do monopolize the sports here, don't ya?"
His grunt's a suitable reply - one you're used to. As Jack crosses the mirror chamber from Savanaclaw to main campus, he jostles you up just to make sure you're still there once the magic fizzles out.
Your breath on his shoulder, weight holding down to earth - would he fly if you took it away? After all these days.
"Wouldn't it be easier to just study at home? The track ain't a suitable library"
And I'm not suitable company.
Not someone you have to trouble yourself to watch over.
"True," your hum drawls in his ear, exhausted he's sure. Your plate isn't necessarily empty, "but you're there. What, scared I'll leave you lonely?"
Yes.
"No. I just think you're exerting yourself too much." he says, scrunching his nose when your fingers ghost the apex of his collar.
"A bit of exertion is good. You're the known preacher for it," Jack feels your smile in his skin. It almost brings his own to life, "and if we're being honest? This is the best part of my day. I love spending time with you, even if I end up being your makeshift barbell."
Your laugh trailed the ends of that sentence, sweeter than the pears picked back home, which were always ripest this time of year when he thought on it.
Zing.
The rest of his 'prefect-delivery-service' as you laughed on and on about into him, was finished in silence. Comfortable silence.
And when he came to your dorm, he needn't ask if you wanted to be put down. Jack opened the door without a word and settled you upstairs in your bed. Grim didn't stir. The ghosts hadn't blocked his path. You let him be the end of your day, and he hadn't felt the need to explain himself even as he crossed back into Savanaclaw territory.
You Being Super Oblivious Of Them Flirting With You
( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/light romance - no prns .
- [𝐜𝐡.] 3rd years
- [𝐩:𝐬] slow burn . one-sided pinning (resolved) . light comedy . mild suggestiveness . teasing/banter . slight jealousy
Note: I sat down to write cute flirty headcanons and instead accidentally wrote all of these guys having a romantic breakdown in about their crush being so oblivious about the flirting. 💀 Then I thought they where good and just decided to go with that as the prompt!
Trey Clover
It had been going on for weeks.
Subtle, harmless gestures at first—sharing his homemade treats, seeking you out in the hallways between classes, and always making sure there was a spare seat beside him at Heartslabyul’s long, rose-lined table. You always took it. Smiling up at him, laughing at his jokes, even leaning against his shoulder sometimes when the evenings stretched long and drowsy under the golden canopy of dusk.
And yet.
You were completely, utterly oblivious.
“You’re really good at baking, Trey,” you complimented one day as he handed you a small, ribbon-tied box of matcha-flavored sweets, his personal recipe he never shared. You bit into one, eyes lighting up in delight. “I don’t know how someone like you is still single.”
Trey blinked.
“...Someone like me?”
“Yeah! Tall, dependable, cute smile—you’re like...dad boyfriend material.”
If he had been drinking tea, he might’ve choked.
Dad boyfriend material?!
Despite the polite, affable smile he wore, a faint twitch of disbelief rippled across his temple. Trey had dropped so many hints—letting you taste frosting off his finger in the kitchen, gently brushing your hair out of your eyes when you leaned too close to the oven, even calling you “sweetheart” under his breath when you dozed off during a study session.
And yet, here you were. Thinking he was some domestic teddy bear.
The final straw came during a Heartslabyul tea party, when you reached over to wipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, completely unaware of how red his ears turned.
“You’re always such a mess after eating cake,” you scolded gently.
“You do realize,” he said slowly, looking into your eyes with a rare, unreadable intensity, “that I only ever bring you the first slice.”
“Huh? I just thought I was lucky!” you grinned.
That did it.
He leaned in, lowering his voice as he caged you between the chair and the hedge behind. His gloved hand gently tipped your chin up. “I’ve been flirting with you for months,” he murmured. “How much more obvious do I have to be, shortcake?”
Your mouth dropped open. “Wha—wait, what?!”
Trey laughed softly, finally letting his forehead rest against yours, the tension melting into something warm, golden, and soft. “I swear, you’re sweeter than my tarts and twice as dense.”
Cater Diamond
“Okay, I give up,” Cater announced dramatically, collapsing face-down on the common room couch. “I’ve tried everything, and they still don’t get it.”
From behind his phone screen, he peeked at you sitting nearby, nose buried in a magazine, completely unaware of his suffering.
It had started as a game at first—light teasing, exaggerated winks, the occasional compliment laced with glittering charm.
“Looking good today, babe~” he’d say, snapping a selfie of the two of you while slinging an arm around your shoulders.
“Thanks, Cater! You look amazing too, as always!”
But you always said it like a friend. With zero hesitation, zero fluster, zero realization. You treated his affection like background noise—a quirk of his personality.
Even when he’d rested his head in your lap after a long day and looked up at you with dreamy, sleepy eyes and whispered, “You’d make a perfect boyfriend, y'know... if you’d let me,” you just chuckled and patted his hair.
“Aw, Cater, that’s sweet. You’d be a great boyfriend for someone, definitely.”
Someone.
SOMEONE.
He practically screamed into his pillow when he got back to his dorm that night.
Every day since then had been a desperate escalation. He started bringing you your favorite snacks, styling your hair for fun, sending you good morning texts with pet names like “sunshine” or “my star.” You responded with gifs. Gifs.
Finally, in a move of last-ditch desperation, he planned the boldest romantic gesture he could think of.
Cater rented out the photo booth in town, the one with the glitter backgrounds and soft lighting. He dragged you inside under the pretense of wanting “a bestie shoot,” and waited for the moment the countdown began.
Three…
Two…
One—
He turned, cupped your face, and kissed your cheek.
Click. Flash.
You blinked at him.
“Cater?? What was that for?”
He stared.
“No, seriously. Are you okay? Did you think I was sad or something? You can talk to me, y’know.”
Cater threw his hands up and groaned.
“You’re the one I like!! You! Not as a friend, not as a selfie buddy, not as a human pillow—I like you, you dense little cinnamon bun!”
Your eyes widened. “Wait. Are you flirting with me?”
He looked like he aged five years in five seconds.
“Yes. YES, BABE. That’s what the last four months were. Flirting. Full-throttle, heart-eyes, rom-com level flirting!”
“…Oh.”
A pause. Then, sheepishly:
“So… wanna take another photo? This time, maybe I kiss you on the lips?”
Cater blinked at your soft smile and the way your hand found his.
And just like that, every ounce of frustration melted into sparkly euphoria. “Oh my Seven,” he whispered with a grin. “Finally.”
Leona Kingscholar
Leona was not a man known for patience. In fact, most of the time, he prided himself on getting what he wanted with the least amount of effort. He was sharp, cunning, and confident enough to know that most people would bend over backward just to get a sliver of his attention. So when he set his sights on you—you, with your soft laugh, bright eyes, and completely clueless smile—he assumed it would be easy.
It wasn’t.
It started small. He’d lounge in the botanical gardens where he knew you always came to study. He made sure to growl off anyone else who might sit nearby, leaving the two of you in your own little secluded corner. He'd toss you the occasional compliment, his voice lazy and low.
“Tch. That look suits you, herbivore. Finally got some style.”
You’d blink at him with that warm, clueless grin. “Oh? Thanks, Leona. My friend helped me pick this outfit.”
He resisted the urge to growl. Again.
Then he escalated. He’d sit closer—closer than anyone would consider “just friends.” He'd drop hints laced with suggestion, his amber eyes narrowing when you remained oblivious. He once even played with your hair, idly running his fingers through it while you yawned and continued taking notes on magical herbology.
It got to the point where Ruggie cornered you in the hallway, shaking his head in disbelief. “You seriously don’t get it? He’s basically marking his territory every time you’re near!”
“Huh? Leona? Nah, he’s just... touchy sometimes.”
Leona nearly tore his textbooks in half when he heard that.
The final straw came one warm afternoon when you plopped down beside him under the shade of a sprawling tree. You smiled and passed him a snack you'd made, and Leona, in a bold move of desperation and hunger for your attention, leaned down and bit into it directly from your hand, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
You just blinked and said, “You must’ve been really hungry!”
Leona threw himself backward into the grass with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm.
“Seven hells, you’re dense,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
He sat up again, eyes narrowed, voice husky. “Do I need to spell it out for you, herbivore? I’m not just hanging around you ‘cause I’m bored. I’m trying to get you to notice me.”
You tilted your head, confused. “But I do notice you…”
“No,” he growled, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly, tugging you closer. “Notice me. As in, I want you. You. Me. Together. You seriously didn’t get that?”
You froze. And then it hit you like a freight train. The closeness, the compliments, the touches, the possessiveness—
“Oh... OH.”
Leona smirked, fangs glinting in the sun. “Took you long enough.”
Vil Schoenheit
Vil was always graceful, always poised, always in control. He calculated every step, every glance, every smile. So naturally, when he decided to pursue you, he did it with the same precision he applied to a stage performance or a red-carpet event. Subtle glances, gentle compliments, a brush of his fingers across your shoulder. It was a slow-burning courtship that he expected would sweep you off your feet.
But instead?
Nothing.
Nothing but your charming smile and occasional, completely unbothered “Thank you, Vil!” or “You’re so sweet!” before skipping off to your next class.
He chalked it up to modesty at first. Maybe you were shy. Maybe you wanted to play hard to get. But by week three, when he sent you a handpicked bouquet of enchanted roses and you gave them to Professor Trein’s cat because “it matched her fur,” Vil nearly fainted on the spot.
So, he got bolder.
One afternoon, he strode into your dorm’s common room while you were curled up on a couch with a book. Wordlessly, he slipped beside you and sat right in your lap, settling as gracefully as ever, legs crossed, arm lazily draped around your shoulders.
You blinked. “Are you tired? You can sit here as long as you need.”
Vil’s eye twitched.
“Tired? No, darling, I wanted to sit somewhere comfortable and charming. Surely you understand the appeal.” He leaned in, his breath tickling your ear. “Or is my lap too forward for your delicate sensibilities?”
You laughed lightly. “Nope! You’re light. I didn’t even notice the weight. Kinda like a cat. A really fashionable one.”
Fashionable cat?!
Vil nearly stood up right then and there, scandalized. But no—he took a deep breath. Composure. Poise.
Until you reached up and started patting his head.
“You’re so pretty, Vil. I hope I can be as pretty as you one day.”
“…I’m not trying to be ‘pretty like you,’ I’m trying to be yours,” he hissed in exasperation, face dangerously close to yours.
You blinked again. “Wait… what?”
Vil’s patience finally snapped like a taut ribbon.
“For the love of all that is radiant—I have been flirting with you for months. I’ve complimented you, made time for you, bought you gifts, and now I am literally sitting on your lap! What more must I do? Wear a sign that says ‘I want to be yours’?”
You gaped at him.
“…I thought you were just naturally dramatic.”
Vil groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You’ll be the death of me.”
You awkwardly wrapped your arms around him, finally catching on. “Wait, so… you like me?”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression softening ever so slightly. “I more than like you. But you, sweet potato, are so hopelessly dense.”
You laughed nervously, cheeks burning. “I’m really sorry… but, um… I like you too. I just didn’t think you’d like someone like me.”
Vil huffed, but a genuine smile curled on his lips. “Well, you’re mine now. And you’ll never be oblivious again, because I won’t give you the chance to miss it.”
Rook Hunt
To Rook, this was a challenge—a delicious, exquisite one.
He was well aware of how utterly unaware you were. The first time he realized, it was during archery club. He complimented the way your arms flexed as you pulled the bowstring, his tone sultry, his gaze locked on you like you were his prey.
You grinned and said, “Haha, thanks! I’ve been working out my shoulders. Good for posture!”
He tilted his head, lips curled in amusement. “Ah, ma colombe, you are truly a creature of mystery~”
But instead of giving up, Rook only doubled down. He started leaving flowers at your desk with poetic notes—sometimes with metaphors so thick they practically screamed “I am in love with you!”
You just thought it was a Rook thing.
“You’re so sweet! You write such beautiful stuff. Have you thought of joining the poetry club?”
Poetry club…?! Mon dieu, I am baring my soul!
He even tried the "accidental touch" method—fingers brushing yours when passing a book, hands lingering too long during sparring practice. Yet you never reacted with more than a casual smile and a “You okay?”
And Rook? He found it thrilling.
“This unawareness… this resistance… c’est magnifique!” he whispered one day, watching you from the balcony like a Shakespearean ghost. “You are like a doe in the forest, unaware of the eyes that follow you in reverent adoration…”
The final straw was when he kissed the back of your hand under the moonlight after walking you to your dorm. With an air of mystery and drama, he looked into your eyes and murmured, “Bonsoir, ma lumière…”
You giggled. “Wow, you really should join the drama club. That delivery was incredible.”
Rook clutched his chest like he’d been shot, but he was laughing too. Of course. Of course you didn’t get it.
But that just made him want you more.
“I shall make it my mission to pierce through the veil of innocence that blinds you, mon trésor,” he declared to the stars. “You will see me—not as a friend, not as a fellow student—but as the man who has adored you all this time.”
Idia Shroud
It was exhausting trying to flirt with someone who didn’t even realize you were the final boss in their dating sim.
Idia never considered himself bold—not IRL, anyway. Most of his romantic experience came from watching his OTPs go through slow-burn arcs in visual novels or tragic anime love stories. But when it came to you, he was trying. Like, genuinely. In his own glitchy, socially awkward way.
He’d wait outside your classroom “totally coincidentally” with his tablet in hand, acting like he wasn’t tracking your class schedule to the minute. He even upgraded Ortho’s AI recognition software just to find excuses to walk past you more often. He quoted romantic lines from his favorite games to you, hoping you’d get it—but every single time?
You’d just blink. Smile. Nod like he was being cute.
“Oh, that line was so poetic! Is that from a movie or something?”
“B-bro that’s from Stellar Lust IV! The confession scene where the star-crossed lovers reunite under a dying moon! Are you seriously not…? Nvm.”
One afternoon, he got bold. He invited you to his room. That alone should’ve been a confession—no one entered his sacred gaming lair unless they had maximum trust level.
He cleared off a place on the bed, installed RGB mood lighting, even had anime OSTs playing softly in the background. He hyped himself up for weeks for this. He was going to drop a flirt so obvious, even a level 1 NPC could read it.
“So, u-uh, you ever wonder what it’d be like to… y’know… date a genius tech prince who could hack into the city grid just to turn all the traffic lights green for you?”
You tilted your head. “That sounds dangerous… but also kind of cool? Is this part of your new game concept?”
He.exe stopped working.
The blue flames of his hair turned pink for half a second before sizzling back.
He mumbled something incoherent and turned back to his computer, pulling his hoodie so far over his head he looked like a turtle. “N-no, yeah, that was just… haha… worldbuilding...”
He’d keep trying though. One day, he’d craft a cutscene so perfect, even you couldn’t ignore the affection coded into every line.
Malleus Draconia
Malleus was not used to being ignored. Or overlooked. Or, heaven forbid—misunderstood. He was the Crown Prince of Briar Valley, the most feared and powerful student on campus. And yet, here he was, casting ancient spells to conjure glowing roses and coaxing fireflies into hearts over your tea cup—only for you to respond with:
“Wow, Malleus! You always make things so aesthetic!”
He blinked. "Aesthetic?"
“Yeah! Super vibey. You should be a party planner.”
He nearly short-circuited.
This had been happening for weeks. He’d memorized your schedule, just so he could “coincidentally” be where you were. He’d offer to walk you home under the stars, hoping for soft-spoken confessions—but you only asked him if he thought raccoons had hierarchies in their little trash kingdoms.
...You were enchanting. But you were driving him mad.
One day, after finding yet another love poem he’d slipped into your book returned with grammar corrections (you thought he was practicing his prose), he decided on something bold. Direct. Unmistakable.
“Child of man,” Malleus said one twilight evening as you both sat beneath a tree, “if I were to tell you that my heart beats differently in your presence, that the night air tastes sweeter when you laugh—what would you say?”
You tilted your head, thinking. “I’d say you have a really poetic way of saying you like hanging out.”
“I do not merely like hanging out,” he said slowly, brow twitching. “I wish to court you.”
You stared. “Like… on trial?”
“…Romantically.”
“Ohhhh.”
Silence.
“Wait, me?!”
Malleus closed his eyes and inhaled. Patience. He could wait a thousand years more. But hopefully not.
Lilia Vanrouge
Lilia Vanrouge had seen centuries of war, peace, love, loss—and yet nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the sheer unshakable obliviousness that was you.
It started innocently enough.
He’d toss a wink your way whenever he passed by in the hallway. He brought you little trinkets from the village during his off-campus ventures—flowers woven into chains, sweets with hearts drawn on the wrappers, one time even a hairpin shaped like a bat. You had smiled and thanked him with the kind of radiant purity that could blind a mortal man. And then you tucked the bat hairpin in your pencil case.
Your pencil case. Like he was a math worksheet and not a 700+ year old fae trying to court you.
Still, he found it endearing. You were cute in a way that made his ageless heart ache, and he loved a challenge. So he tried harder.
“You know,” he drawled one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder with a voice like velvet, “in my youth, a suitor might serenade their beloved beneath the moonlight.”
“That’s sweet,” you said, eyes on your textbook. “Did they ever get noise complaints?”
He blinked. “...Noise complaints?”
“Well, if it was late and they were singing outside someone’s window… I bet a lot of people weren’t exactly swooning.”
For a moment, Lilia just stared at you. And then he burst out laughing, so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye.
“You are either brilliantly teasing me,” he chuckled, “or heartbreakingly naive.”
You smiled at him, not understanding in the slightest.
The final straw came when he invited you for a midnight flight—romantic, intimate, just the two of you soaring above the moon-drenched trees. You screamed with laughter and clung to him the entire way, yelling about how cool it was and how friends like him were the best.
“Friends,” Lilia repeated afterward, voice soft and low as you happily ate the little picnic he’d prepared.
You looked up. “Yeah. I’m lucky to have you.”
He sighed with a small, defeated smile, but his eyes were warm. “The luck,” he murmured, “is all mine, dear.”
I loved the calling them hun thing you wrote!!! I was wondering if you could do the same but with the Leech twins? Anyway, keep up the great work! 🩷
:0 omg ty! And ye, let’s get this request goin’!!!
Calling Them ‘Hun’ (pt. 2)
Genre: Platonic/Romantic, Fluff
Characters: Floyd and Jade Leech
Part 1, Part 2(you’re here!),
~~~~~~
Floyd
This is either the most disastrous outcome, or your most ingenious idea yet.
Floyd will NOT leave your side now. He may as well have fused with your hip.
Prepare to be squeezed until you’re almost sure you heard something pop.
Several students ask if you need help escaping when they find a rare moment where you’re alone.
On the flip side of this cuddly coin, no one is allowed to call you anything. Ever.
A classmate tries to flirt with you, ignoring your gentle dismissals of his attempts to court you.
The classmate is suddenly gone with a lesson learned, but now you need to deal with a moody eel that towers over you. Good luck.
Jade
Jade is nothing if not observant, and far more sly than most others first expect.
But when you called him hun, he found his mind had gone blank for a few moments.
The gears began to turn again, and at that moment you dreaded the grin on his face.
What have you gotten yourself into?
He keeps his giddiness subtle, but it's obvious he's incredibly pleased by this outcome with the way he's constantly touching or holding your arm when together
It's surprising though, how all of that subtlety and humbleness fades when you two are alone. You can't help but feel warm at how excited he looks.
Okay okay, my ideas:
Bestfolk claims 'ownership' by biting. So if you bite a beastperson you're close to, it's considered a proposal. Now imagine one day, let's say Ruggie steals your food, and tries to run away. You chase him, you two start fighting, and you bite him. He freezes because Are you serious?! He has to tell his grandma right away, her little boy found someone! Or maybe Leona annoyed you because he skipped something again and you got in trouble for. In petty retaliation, you bite his ear. The dorm falls silent, and Leona is shook because how bold can you be?! Doing that in front of everyone?! You know he won't be king, right? And you still want to... Okay.
For Riddle, I can imagine there's a rule for it. It's pretty complicated, but somehow you managed to hit it to a T. Riddle is flustered, because you wouldn't do these things just for the sake of it, right?! Not in the correct order, not in this perfect way. You must know the rule, and this is a proposal, right?! Just.. give him a bit. You're both still so young, but rest assured he feels the same way.
Scarabia I can imagine their country has an old timey way of proposing. Because it's based on Aladdin, I can imagine it involves Jasmine flowers and a phrasing of fulfilling all wishes. Like making a flower crown out of jasmines, placing it on your beloved's head and telling them if they have any wishes, you'd be happy to fulfill them. Jamil is just frozen in shock. He's a servant, he was always told he comes second, he always had to give everything up to Kalim. Yet here you are, proposing to him. He can't believe his luck, and he'll make sure to be the best, so you won't ever think of leaving. Kalim on the other hand is just extatic, hugging you tightly and telling you of course and how much he loves you. You're confused, but okay. You did just promise to fulfill every wish he might have, he probably means he'll wish for you to come to every party. That'd be something Kalim would do. Until you visit Scarabia the next time, and everyone is preparing some big event. And Jamil is miffed at you because didn't warn him, and Kalim sprung this engagement party just on him. Do you not know the stuff he had to prepare?!
Pomefiore is different. Harveston probably has an old tradition of proposing too. But it's so old, no one really does it anymore. It's meant to show you can provide for your partner. Cooking and being able to carry them over the doorstep. So one evening, Epel comes to visit to escape Vil for a bit and vent. You listen, and offer him some of the food you made. By coincidence, it happens to be his favorite. You two banter, and somehow the topic comes to strength, and Epel confidentaly says he could carry you. You decide to test it, and he manages! For a few seconds, at least. Then, it's your turn, you pick him up, carry him a few steps. From the kitchen to the living room. Over a doorstep. Only on his way back to Pomefiore does Epel realize all this. You can't have known, right? Then again, you were in Harveston with him. Maybe his grandma told you? Vil's is easier. You know he wants to embody the Fairest Queen, but what you don't know is, that people sometimes used a mirror to propose for that. They'd hold it to their beloved's face and spill their heart out, as if they are the enchanted mirror from the tale. One day, you walk in on Rook trying to compliment Vil with a mirror. You take it from Rook, and give Vil compliments beyond his looks. Complimenting his passion, his determination, how his eyes look when he does something he loves, etc. Vil is flustered, because do you know what you're doing? Well, one way or another, he now knows who he wants to bring to the altar one day.
OMG WAIT THIS IS SOOOO CUTE I LOVE IT
all these scenarios are adorable and I would 100% accidentally do them ;-;
I bite out of affection so woops maybe I'm accidentally marrying Leona-
Being Clever with the Fae (Malleus x Reader, Lilia x Reader, Sebek x Reader)
Pre-established relationship implied. You tell the Diasomnia boys that your world planned for ways to outsmart faes. You pull your trick but you're not sure who won.
Warning: Pepaw Bat's gets a little spicy so be careful.
I'm taking liberties with Sebek's part because he's a neutral for me and I don't know that much about him.
You and Malleus had talked about fae folklore more than once. He was delighted to know fae had something of a presence in your world but was wildly horrified at the misinformation. Out of everything you told him, only a handful were correct:
Don't give your name unless you trust that fae because names have power
Iron will hurt some fae but not all. Iron is more harmful to nocturnal fae than day fae.
Being rude to fae may be the end of you altogether
Partaking in fae food means you open yourself up for a wager
Yes, fae like to play tricks. Expect them and be wary.
Stepping into a fairy circle will summon the fairy who made it.
Just about everything else was wrong. That's why he and Lilia were teaching you what not to do if you came upon the various fae in Twisted Wonderland. Thus far you'd only managed to memorize what herbs kept smaller creatures at bay and how to curry the favor of the various faeries that helped out at NRC. Your current assignment from Lilia was filling out a map of different fae territories and classifying them as 'safe' for humans or 'unsafe'. Each territory had a tree they would love to craft from or loathed to be near and you were expected to know that, too.
Strange stuff but apparently it was important.
They liked to break up the bigger chunks of information with smaller, digestible things like etiquette so it felt more manageable. Malleus was currently instructing you on how to part from a fae in a formal setting as to not incur their wrath.
"Again, Child of Man," he's bowed down until eye level with you, one hand holding yours.
"Light shake, eye contact, nod, slide foot back, squeeze the hand, turn." he's parroting your motions until you turn away. He, instead, draws himself to his full height and observes as you pretend to walk away.
"Excellent," he nods. "But ensure you don't slouch while leaving. It will make some feel as if you don't hold them in high regard."
"That's so--" you roll your eyes. He simply lifts his brow as if to question your mild frustration. You puff your cheeks out and he laughs.
"We can be a bit particular." he agrees.
"To a fault." you smirk.
"Oh?" he's intrigued, eyes twinkling.
"Yeah," you smile. "In my world the fae were known for being literal with their word so you always had to keep something clever in reserve."
"Do tell," Malleus' grin goes from practiced and polite to genuine. A hint of fang shows.
"It's kind of specific though. Depends on that old joke about fae wanting to come for the first born."
"That's not really a joke," Malleus crossed his arms. You can't tell if he's offended or not. "We like the younglings. We're always looking to bring more around to the fae ways. In fact, fae make fantastic guardians because--"
He had a lot to say and you felt the beginnings of a lecture creep up. In some way you felt like you were in trouble. To save yourself, you said, "Just pretend. Then I can show you what we do."
Malleus pretended to make a deal with you. It looked a bit intimidating and official with the magic pulsing in the rickety floorboards of Ramshackle. They were groaning. Shadows danced along his face as pieces of his signature thorned briar wove around your joined hands. "In exchange for the repairs around Ramshackle, you will give your firstborn to me."
You pull him in, his green eyes searching curiously for any hint of what's to come. "Sure! How soon do you want to start working on that? Or do you want to wait a little while?"
All at once the floorboards fell quite. The hum of magic died with a rattle that broke the briar into tiny pieces. A few fell at your feet, the others shooting off into various directions.
Oh. Did he not understand? You thought it was clever! Maybe he was too sheltered to--
His laugh is kind of a snort at first but then you hear it honest and lilting. The hand holding yours slides up your arm and snakes around your waist. You're lifted until your hands find purchase on his shoulders and your legs wrap around whatever they reach. Your heart goes from your chest to your throat when his gloved hands slide down to your thighs as he walks you to your sad couch.
"Now is fine," he's careful to hold his weight above you, silky hair spilling around you and tickling your cheeks. His eyes are bright and boyish, a deadly compliment to his kissable lips.
Well, that technically backfired but if this were a real situation you'd make out just fine because he'd chosen to make out with you instead of curse you.
------ ----- ----- ----
Lilia wanted to focus on physical protection as much as written knowledge when it came to handling fae. You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea of him being a general but he had old photos, a weird mask, and a massive magearm to prove it. You'd picked up quite a few self-defense moves and practiced them regularly. He wanted them to be second nature to you. So here you are, in a designated training room within Diasomnia.
"You just want to cuddle me," you teased, in the familiar position of him being behind you with an arm around your neck. One elbow was planted in your shoulder, the other clasping it at the forearm to make a little prison for you. He gave a reprimanding squeeze, ever mindful of the pressure since you were fully human. Lilia gave a huffy laugh, trying to relax his smile into something more stern as he wove his fingers into your hair. You flinched at the tug and slapped his arm lightly.
"Focus," he couldn't deny himself the simple pleasure of whispering into your ear. If you asked him, it was to throw you off balance and distract you. "What could you do now?"
You thought about just leaning back into him, pressing against him, but you knew that wasn't what he meant. Capitalizing on this moment of closeness, the stillness, to huck him over your shoulder and into the floor crossed your mind but then you'd have to give him a back rub later.
Not that you minded that, either.
"We could make a deal," you leaned back to whisper in his ear even though it hurt your neck a little. You could tell by the way his bangs fluttered that he'd jerked in surprise. Was that a little pink on his cheeks? Before you could nip his pointed ear, Lilia leaned you forward and took his elbow off your shoulder, opting to hold you in a bearhug instead.
"Acceptable in this situation," he managed, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little. "Although this exercise is supposed to be combat related."
"So make the terms. I can't negotiate a deal that doesn't exist." you try to break his hold, shimmying your shoulders and sliding your feet to see if you could slip away. He lifts you off the ground with an ease that doesn't seem possible with his short, lithe body. You hang there against him as he thinks.
"Your life for that of your firstborn."
A bit dark, wasn't it? Kind of rude, really, you thought. But, your train of thought continued to ramble, he did find Silver somewhere so it didn't seem too unusual that he'd want a kid. Either that, or he was messing with you because you told him that whisking away kids was something fae were known for in your world.
"You can't have a firstborn with your clothes on." you joke.
"That's not true because I found Silver with my--" Lilia drops you when he realizes what you've said. You weren't expecting him to drop you and didn't catch yourself, hissing as you land on your knees. Before you can start complaining or poke fun at him for being an old man he's locked the door. You're bowled over as he rushes over to you, pinning you on your back as he peppers kisses along your throat and collarbone.
He's several bites in and you’re halfway undressed when you think you hear a knock at the door. Lilia begrudgingly peels himself off of you, licking blood from the corner of his lips.
"Father? Are we not going to train today?"
"M'fraid not, my boy," Lilia turns his attention back to you, opening your legs to slip between them. "But you'll be getting a new sparring partner in about nine months."
His red eyes are glowing. They're absolutely beguiling.
"Do they come with therapy?” he hears Silver mumble as you look up at him through your lashes.
He pounces on you again. It was a brilliant, filthy tactic. He's not exactly mad about it. You've earned favor with one fae, at least, and he will protect you from the others.
----- ----- --- ---
Sebek is a hard worker. He's a product of his environment; he has Baur's straightforwardness, Lilia's dedicated regimens, and his mother's impressive teeth and jaw strength. Lilia thought the best way for you to learn some of the self-defense tactics was to fight someone your size.
Sort of. Sebek seemed to be the better choice since Silver was too sleepy to be a constant threat. And, in Lilia's mind, you should have an easier time fighting a half-fae versus a full fae.
You never noticed how muscular Sebek was until you were under him. He's got corded arms and you can see the muscles of his shoulders flexing under the Diasomnia shirt he chose for the exercise.
You've never seen him in casual clothes! He actually looks very nice. Not as buff as Jack but sturdy in his own way; his chest is broader than you imagined. A solid man.
More than capable of being Malleus' body guard.
You groan as he knocks the air out of you a little. He's on top of you, pressed into your back. He's got one foot braced against the floor, leaning his weight into you. Your arms are pinned at your side courtesy of the one he's snaked underneath you.
When did he flip you over? Asshole, you scrunch your nose in frustration as your cheeks begin to burn. He's an asshole that means well and won't go easy on you, though. He makes sure you learn. You try to inch out from beneath him but he angles his shoulder down and grabs his own wrist, dragging you back to him.
"You're supposed to do something in this situation!" he grumps, "You know how to break this hold!"
You do, but he's heavy and it probably wouldn't work. And he's had a literal lifetime of training versus your handful of months. You've tangled your legs together and used his half-lean to put him on his back. Your kicking like a tipped-over bug and almost free when you remember that his fae half is crocodilian and you might have triggered his death roll tendency.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Sebek's pupils change, the dark of his eye slitting and boring into you. His throat strains like he's growling but you don't hear anything. It trembles against the back of your neck and you're reminded in that moment of just how much bigger he is than you.
How he folds around you and encompasses you.
He opens his mouth, teeth glinting and sharp. "You've bested me," you admit, swallowing thickly as his teeth hover near your shoulder. "Make your deal."
You somehow turn yourself around in his unrelenting squeeze.
Sebek huffs as if he's insulted and you swear you see his teeth dull. His pupils begin to fill out. He's usually loathe to acknowledge his human side, as he'd much rather be full fae, but it serves him in this instance. "I'm not a true fae. Such a thing wouldn't work on me!"
"You have to pretend! Lilia's teaching me how to deal with the fae! You just won't hurt me as much. Maybe." you dare to flash that teasing grin at him and Sebek nearly tears into his own lip because he doesn't know what to do with that wiggly feeling you give him.
Him? Hurt you? Not on purpose. It would go against the core values his grandfather AND Lilia taught him! Any fae caught abusing their spouse would be drawn and quartered, made a public display of. Any human man who chose to do so was no man at all!
Sebek's face feels almost painfully warm. He can feel the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. "In an act of benevolence inspired by the great Prince Malleus, I shall spare your delicate human self in exchange for a child. Is that the cliche rubbish you desire?"
Some of his once slicked-back hair has fallen down on his forehead, between his eyes, as if it's disappointed in you too.
"You think our child would be cliche rubbish? Cliche Rubbish Zigvolt? That does NOT sound good! I'm naming the firstborn, you're just helping make it."
"Wha--but I--that's not!" Sebek doesn't know what to say and he hasn't been trained for this. He's careful not to shove you away but untangles himself like a thrown ragdoll. He rolls over sharply, totally fine with hiding his face in the floor. His green hair is in disarray and his arms are limp, stretched out to either side of him.
You laugh, climbing onto his back and raking your nails down it gently. He makes the noise. You're not sure what it is but you've heard it before. It's deep and somehow soothing. He relaxes underneath you as you continue to scratch his back, throwing in a squeeze to his muscles every now and then.
It's not until you're in what would be the small of his back (if he wasn't build so solid and thick) that he raises his head, folds his arms up, and rests his chin on his hands. "You're safe." he can't bear to turn his head and look at you right now. If he did, you'd see how...how...weak and mushy he looked. Sebek snorts through his nose, arching his back in surprise as your hands slide all the way up until you flop on his back and your arms hang off his shoulders.
"Thank you, o' kind Zigvolt!" you hug his neck. "This delicate human appreciates it!"
"And I...appreciate...you." he mumbled slowly, the words a little foreign to him. More scary than foreign, honestly. That heartwarming shyness evaporated in an instant when he pinned you and began a stern lecture about how you should NOT offer to conceive a child with ANY OTHER FAE and what YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE INSTEAD.
You weren't surprised by this. Sebek lectured Silver all the time and Lilia said he was a very informed pupil. You, too, would be informed as it didn't seem like he was letting you go anytime soon.
"I Love You"
When the words "I love you" spill from the prefect's lips, how do the Housewardens react?
Part 1
TW: Kissing in Malleus' part, forehead kisses, mentions of insecurities (Fluff)
Part 2 (Separate): Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia
ᥫ᭡. Kalim Al-Asim ᥫ᭡.
Like the scorching sun in the Scalding Sands, Kalim's feelings for you burned deep within his heart. Why is it that he wants to spend time with you, but the moment he does, his heart seems to stop? Why is it that the word 'friend' bugs him when associated with you? Why is it that he wants to be selfish, to hog you for himself? His mind become's mush whenever you're near and his throat feels dry, he just feels so shy.
Kalim is everything but shy.
Expensive gifts, prized heirlooms, rare gemstones, and any luxury you could name- he'll give it all to you, so why do you reject? Anyone else would accept his gifts with open arms, encouraging him to give more. Wait, you aren't anyone, you're you. You don't take, you give. Despite the little you have in this new world, you who harbors no magic, gives him joy. You spend time with him, you care for him, and you don't take from him- he really wishes you would.
Take his riches and look back at him just one more time, he swears he'll hand you all the gold he can acquire. So please, please just look at him more.
You're caring, so much so that he could just melt in your arms. How lucky he feels when you look at him, but why? Jamil looks at him too, he doesn't feel as if mice are tickling him then. No, when you're around, all he can see is you. You who shines brighter than any gemstone his wealth could buy. You are not a prize to be won, he knows, but he wishes that the glitters of gold could woo you, make him your number one.
He feels so lost and it hurts, nights spent sobbing away.
Kalim, the name alone makes you smile. Someone who's kind despite all that he's faced, all the horrible people he's met- he still believes in the good of people. Some call it naivety, you call it 'a heart of gold'. Yes, he's sheltered, there's some things he's slow at, and he has flaws. Despite said flaws, he want to become better and you see him try every single day. You've seen how he makes everyone comfortable, always including anyone and everyone, how he's akin to a drop of sunshine. It's a rarity and you appreciate it greatly. Twisted Wonderland, it's new to you and things are difficult but when Kalim's there, things don't feel that difficult.
He doesn't look down upon you, he doesn't think you're weak despite having no magic, and he certainly never belittles you- others have and that hurt.
He's always up for some fun, but it always feels better when he can share the fun with you. Thus, flying carpet rides have become your nightly routine. There's a soft knock on your window every other night, a hand extended your way; calling you to live, be happy. You can't help but blush when the carpet takes off, his body huddles closer to yours and the moon seems tease you with how bright she is.
It's another night and he's come to pick you up to go see the Scarabia moon. You're sitting next to each other, the desert seemingly glowing underneath. The stars twinkle and you swear the breeze is cool on purpose, just so the both of you have no choice but to lean into each other. Hands intertwine, both of you looking the other way, cheeks red like cherries.
"I..I love you."
You fumble out on mistake, your breath hitching the moment you realize. His head whips towards you, garnet eyes appraising your blushing visage. A soft smile appears on his lips, his sun-kissed skin peachy with a blush of his own.
"I love you too."
He says eagerly, hands wrapping around you as he pulls you in. The moon looks bigger, the stars winking at you, and the scent of sandalwood engulfs you. A soft kiss is planted on your forehead, one that lingers. Like a pair of sea otters, you both hold the other's hand.
ᥫ᭡. Vil Schoenheit ᥫ᭡.
Center of attention, even the room's filled to the brim with pretty faces. Eye's the color of violets and a smile that's so striking, it could cut right through you. Just how a bright star commands everyone's admiration, Vil himself does exactly that. With beauty that's akin to a velvety rose, thorns sharp and drawing blood of the one who dares touch. He's not sure why he's so fond of you, really, it baffles him. Your constant babbling should bother him- your posture isn't perfect, you don't regularly use the products he recommends to you, and your diet could use improving.
He only recently realized the perfection of imperfection. That's what you are, like an abstract piece of art that can draw even the most elegant man's heart. Truly, you can take his breath and keep it, which is a difficult feat to accomplish. Yet, you seem to have done just that.
He doesn't like how drawn he is to you, the you who could improve so much. Nevertheless, he can't deny how his heart flutters when you ramble on and on, the words you spew seem like pearls to him. Undeniably, you've got his heart, and it bothers him.
Vil seems unreachable to you, as if he's a god and you're a follower. You can see him, but you can't touch. Everything about him is captivating- the way he moves, how he walks, how he talks, everything. You feel like a toad in front of him sometimes. Still, the reason your heart continues to flutter is not his beauty but how soft he can be. His words may be harsh, telling you to fix your posture or add a certain product to your skincare, but he means well. It used to irk you, how he pointed out your flaws, but he never touched an insecurity- it was never something you couldn't fix. Many times, he only tells you how to improve and that's in his nature. It started with you muttering curses under your breath, now all you do is give him a dopey smile as he flicks your forehead.
It's hard to love Vil, and you're sure that it's even harder to be loved by him. He's untouchable and you're not sure if he'll even spare you a glance. But, the nights you spend at his dorm, him tending to your skin as you blabber about your day. Or the few rarities when he opens up, speaking of his insecurities. It shows how human he is; how he too, can feel.
It's another night at his dorm, your skin's worsened as of late and Vil's ordered you to give him a visit. You sit at his vanity, the light's so bright that it could blind you, but what truly blinds you is Vil himself in all his glory. His dampened hair, the ends the color of wisteria, and the scent of patchouli just makes you want to melt right then and there. He strides over with a new product in his hand, carefully beginning to massage your face with it.
"I love you."
The words come out instantly, his hands stopping in motion as his violet eyes widen. A sheepish blush coats your face as you realize what you said. Your breath hitches, the fear of rejection drilling into your mind, and your heart drumming against your chest.
"That's quite bold of you, sweet potato.."
He lets out a small chuckle, eyes holding content. He leans closer before flicking you on the forehead gently.
"I love you too."
ᥫ᭡. Idia Shroud ᥫ᭡.
The buzz of video games, the stench on junk food, and an interest for oddities. Idia Shroud was a wallflower, yet you'd managed to befriend him, something he's truly grateful for- your presence. He liked you. You understood him, you never belittled him for what he enjoyed, in fact, you encouraged him to continue. No matter how good or bad you were at a game, you'd play alongside him. It didn't matter whether you enjoyed his rambles, you'd listen no matter what, before babbling on and on about something of your own interest. Nights like this, filled with games, reading manga, watching anime, and spending time with you- he never wanted these to end.
You were brave, so unlike him. You had no magic, still you managed to show courage, to fight against overblots. How he wished he was you, no, how he wished he was yours. The realization hit him like a truck in an isekai, quickly and out of nowhere. When he figured he liked you, he didn't let you anywhere near him for a week- opting to hide in his room and not leave. It took some convincing from Ortho and also the fact that you may dislike him if he ignored you, before he opened his doors for you once again. Nevertheless, he was skittish, averting his gaze from your face, and sitting on the other end of the couch when you visited. That worried you, you were sure you'd messed up big time and he became uneasy around you because of it. Thankfully everything became normal after two weeks, he was sure he wouldn't be able to recover.
The truth was, you liked him too. It was weird and something unforeseen, you both started out as friends- you'd visit his dorm, play games all night, munch on junk together, and then laugh at all the cringe characters in the current anime you both were binging on. Right now, you were experiencing that cheesy crush from a shoujo manga, and the feeling was messing with your brain.
The gloomy boy you pined for was everything but dreamy, somehow, that's what made him so charming to you. Hair an electric blue that flared up like flames, pale skin akin to porcelain, and eyes yellow like daffodils. His physicality was mesmerizing but there was so much more to his character too. He was passionate about what he enjoyed, jabbering on for hours about his interest, something that you didn't mind one bit. He was competitive, striking a triumphant grin whenever he'd win a game against you. He's prideful too, his creations making him an utter genius. At the same time, he held such emotion, a man who would never judge for he himself experienced the badmouthing of others.
There's just something about Idia, something that makes your cheeks flare up. You're not sure if he notices how his presence can make you skittish, how you become timid when he's near, and how divine he seems to you. He never notice how he makes you feel, how ironic that you become just like him when he's near.
Just like the usual, you're cooped up in his dorm alongside him. You've been binging an anime for the past few hours and the way he's so focused on the characters while you're so focused on him, it bothers you. He feels so close yet so far and the fact that you're having such thoughts about the whole situation, makes you feel stupid.
"I love you.."
You immediately pause at your own words, Idia pauses the show too. There's a long silence in the room and before you know it, Idia's moved far away from you. His hair's become an electric pink and his eyes are wide.
"W-w-w-what..!?"
He exclaims the words as if he's animated, the feeling of fluster surging throughout him. Were you playing a joke on him? This wasn't right, it couldn't be. His gaze averts the other way every time you look at him and he won't admit it, but he really hopes you're not joking.
"I love you, Idia."
You say again, softer this time and you yourself look the other way, peachy blush coating your face. You're cursing yourself for speaking up, palms sweaty and clammy. You feel dizzy and your breathing is erratic , the feeling's mutual. The room's silent again, no one says anything and the only sound either of you can hear is the buzz of the computer.
"I...I...I dove, no, love you too.."
He mutters out, fumbling his words while he does. You both look at each other, shy gaze. Your lips form a small smile, making Idia's hair flare an even brighter pink. His face is rosy and he'd rather not look at you but you're just so pretty that he can't help but look.
You're not sure how it things fell in place but he accepted your confession, and now you've somehow managed to cuddle up to him. He's stiff but that's fine, the mere fact that he's holding your hand tightly is enough to reassure you. That, and how smug he looks.
ᥫ᭡. Malleus Draconia ᥫ᭡.
Child of man, you truly are peculiar. Malleus Draconia, the name alone makes millions, if not billions, tremble to the bone. He holds such unrivaled power that the thought alone is fearsome- he is fearsome.
A monster, that's what many would call him, but you don't. No one dares approach him as carelessly as you do, a bumbling smile on your lips as you walk next to him without a care in the world. Do you truly not know what he's capable of? 'Tsunotaro', that's what you've named him- quite bold of you, not that he minds. Please continue to enlighten him about human practices, he's interested in every thing you have to say.
Loneliness is a disease that he's suffered from since his childhood. It's second nature to be alone with his own presence, silence a bandage that covers but doesn't heal his wounds. Yet, the way you come to him, invite him to all your little events, how you choose him. How can he be lonely when he has you?
You, who is so bright like a star coated in gold- is he even allowed to go near you? It feels as if you'll break in his hands, yet you seem so brave, putting yourself in danger with a smile. You've got his heart in your hands and it hurts that you don't realize.
'Friend' was a word he grew to love, knowing the special bond you shared. Nevertheless, it's the same word that has caused Diasomnia to have horrible whether for the past week- you're a friend to many but a lover to none. Be his, child of man, he's the only one worthy enough to call you his.
Since the day of his realization, Malleus follows you as a second shadow would. Now, no one with ill intentions would dare approach what he's already considered his. Truly, how precious you are. Giving him small shiny pebbles you find, trying to tuck daisies into his hair but being unable to reach his head, and the times you try to tease him as a joke, making the silliest of faces. Please tell him that he's the only one who has the honor of seeing you in such various forms. Dragons are hoarders, you know? And he wants nothing but to hoard you all for himself.
Spending time with your Tsunotaro is always fulfilling. His knowledge on gargoyles, the depth in which he speaks of them and how little he knows of human interactions. It all makes your heart flutter, eliciting a smile on your lips. It's not difficult to have feelings for someone such as him, it comes naturally. He seems so intimidating, dangerous even and it's not that he's not- he is, but there's so much more to him. He's curious, always listening to what you have to say. He's sweet, always handing you gifts whether small or unimaginably grand. And the manner in which he speaks, the elegance he holds, he's just as charming as any prince in a book- if not more.
When you began actually having feelings for him, all his words seemed to make your mind all fuzzy. Could he really not tell how his vocabulary affected you? 'My dear', 'my love', and all other forms of endearments had become a usual, so much so, that it felt right.
You went on walks with him, spotting gargoyles and chatting about them. Sometimes you drag him to picnics with and he happily follows, letting you braid his ebony hair. Still, not everything you shared seemed friend-like, and if it was, you didn't want it to be. The way his emerald eyes gazed over you, how his touch lingered so gently, and how his lips brushed agains your ear when he said he'll keep you safe. It couldn't mean nothing, you didn't want it to.
A walk in a meadow at nighttime, how strange, but also the daily for you. You walk alongside Malleus, skittish and timid- this isn't how you usually act. The moon's peeking out from under the clouds and casting a silver sheen on all that it lands on. Fireflies scurry around slowly, the cool night air making you feel at ease- but it's not enough.
Your face is flushed and you won't meet his gaze, he's not sure what he did wrong. His frame towers behind you as you seem to walk quicker, increasing your pace. Hurt, that's what he feels; did you start seeing him as a monster too?
You can't leave, please- he'll beg if he has to, give you all of what he has and can create. Promise you'll stay, and don't ever leave.
Then you pause, turning around as you take deliberate steps towards him. You look up, your smaller frame covered by his daunting shadow.
"I love you, Tsunotaro."
You say with a certain melancholy in your voice, as if you know he'll reject you and your love. How could he ever think of rejecting? He'd rather pierce his own heart and bleed to death than ever think of rejecting any of your words.
His viridescent eyes widen, the glow of them seeming intense. His hands holds you in place gently, he seems to be staring at you, looking you as if you're the most fragile piece of glass. The words don't spill out of his lips and you look more desolate by the second- he seemingly can't speak, he's not sure if this is but a dream.
"I love you too, child of man. So much that you wouldn't believe it."
His hands wrap you in a desperate embrace, almost as desperate as the words he'd just managed to choke out. It was as if you would wither away if he let go, as if he was making sure you were not a dream.
Your own eyes widen, lips parting shock at his words. The night seems magical and his embrace is sincere. He pries away from you only to look at you more, all your expressions- please continue to show such faces to only him. Only he should see you like this, with your face flushed red and eyes widened as you stare at him as though he's the only man in the world. His hands seem shaky, unlike who he usually is.
No, he seems so vulnerable and you seem to be his vulnerability.
Everything seems alright when you're there, he doesn't feel loneliness; far from it, actually. He doesn't feel like a monster when you love him, when your own arms loosely wrap around his neck as you pull him in for a soft kiss- no, monster's don't get such luxuries.
Note: If you enjoyed this, please interact with this post, my blog, and reblog! Any kind gestures are greatly appreciated! Thank you!
Note 2: Please reblog, even if you don't press like on the post. Reblogs help a ton more!
Note 3: I didn't expect the last part to get so much attention, thank you so much everyone. I greatly appreciate everyone's interactions with my posts! As of now, I'll be working on requests and maybe some other ideas! (I really hope this part 2 is good too)
Prompt: "Will You Marry Me?" - Proposal Headcannons Characters: Everyone :) Part(s): Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle (Here!), Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Warning(s): None. I mean, unless you don't want to marry any of them. Just don't read if that's the case. Note: These are all if he is the one proposing btw. I've been thinking about maybe programming a small fan-made mini-otome using these ideas. Just for some practice for school while also being self indulgent hehe
Azul Ashengrotto
Fortune. Azul is one fortunate soul. At least, not he thinks himself to be.
and to think that it's because of sheer luck. He did not work for you. He did not climb or claw or plan for you. He did nothing.
No, you chose him. You saw him at his lowest and decided that he was worth becoming friends with. You actively sought him out...just to spend time at his side. Regularly. You enjoyed Azul's company
and over time, he grew to enjoy yours. Immensely. Like a giddy school-girl, his heart fluttered at the thought of you and all his notebooks were covered in doodle hearts.
This was it for him. Azul is a one and done kind of man. It’s you or it’s no one. Which means that it obviously is going to be you because hello??? Azul is not a quitter.
During your younger years as students….he may have been a bit too ambitious. In other words, Azul has proposed many times
And in turn has been rejected. Many. Times.
It began passively. He’d mention here and there his future plans for after schooling. Try to talk himself up, yeah? He’s going to be a big business man, isn’t that just perfect husband material? He can take care of you easily so there’s no need to stress.
Naturally you pushed off these moments as daydreaming and casual joking. Nothing serious. So he ups his game. It just so happens that he mistakenly got a bridal magazine in the mail…oh, look at these dresses and suits! So fancy. So beautiful…oh, you would look absolutely darling in one.
….oh sweet merciful seven please take the HINT. He is LITERALLY throwing himself at you
He ups his game. Again. A romantic candle lit dinner for two. The works. Jazz music, slow dancing, good company, and the casual proposal y’know just your average date.
You have to be doing it on purpose
In your defense. He did not flat out say “will you marry me,” because he chickened out. Instead he asked if you’d like to live with him after graduation as…roommates.
The world is out to get this poor man. It is. It truly just wants him to crash and burn in embarrassment. The way you laughed and went “I think we’re a bit more than that, don’t you think?” HAUNTS him
He screamed into his pillow that night. For hours. Floyd still gives him shit for it
Life continues this way. For reasons unknown…he just couldn’t bring himself to be direct. Which is so unlike Azul considering he spent years toughening himself up.
Maybe deep down he did fear that things wouldn’t work out. A merman and a human…what if you did not want to lige in the sea? What if his body could not sustain human form for long term? Maybe he wanted you to take initiative and prove him wrong. Eventually he did give up.
At least until you both aged into the “roommates”he dreamed about. There were trials and compromise. He never thought to have two homes, one by the ocean and one literally inside of it. Life was perfect….just without the title. And on one random night, Azul thinks “One more time,”. No elaborate ruse. No trickery to get you to ask him. Just….
“Will you marry me?,” Azul whispered into your shoulder. You both lay together in your shared bedroom with nothing but the sound of crashing waves coming in from the outside. Your steady breathing halts, proving that you heard him. With a sigh, he reaches to massage your scalp, “I do not know if you have realized by now…no, I am sure of it. No one is that dense. I won’t pry for why you have ignored my past attempts…all I ask is that you answer this. Will you marry me, (Y/N)? Having you at my side has truly made me the most fortunate man alive,”
{ A black pearl over a gold band. One of the most ultimate displays of wealth. Azul is well aware that this is not the traditional pathway. He could have easily acquired a ‘genuine’ Pearl, perhaps a diamond - but no. You are a rarity. A true jewel. Only a ring worthy to reflect that is worth buying. You were the most unexpected thing and are now the most cherished. This ring represents that,}
Jade Leech
The want caught him by surprise one day, which is rare. Jade is never thrown off guard. At least, not easily.
Then again, you have always been the most difficult person for him to predict. Something he finds very charming since there is always an upbeat atmosphere wherever you go. If his days were a dimming flame, you would be just the right amount of Co2 to spark some fun - not that he would easily admit to it.
Albeit so, Jade is not blind to his emotions. He hides them well underneath a polite smile - but they are there. He is aware of them.
Which is why he snatched you up early on. A relationship was the last thing he thought to find on the surface (or in general, honestly), but Jade knows what he wants when he sees it.
He merely asks you on a date with confidence. You accept, and the process repeats until an unspoken bond formed between the two of you. Not a soul in the nearby vicinity would dare make a move on you with his lingering presence. Jade was pacified, entertained, and happily content with your circumstance.
A circumstance that Jade gets maybe a bit too comfortable with. Just like surprise, it takes a lot for Jade for feel secure. The only person he has truly felt that with is his brother. This lack of overbearing responsibility, where something is being unspoken. No ulterior motive or underlying tone in your actions that make him have to over-analyze.
In the beginning he thought of your bluntness as an extra entertainment factor. Something that he could count on to make those brief unpredictable situations amusing. Yet, as time passed he notices that it's comforting. When he's with you, Jade turns his brain off. Not entirely, of course. He still needs to throw in witty quips and fluster you at LEAST twice per day.
but it's different. It's a different comfort than what he feels with his sibling or with his friend. It's new, and strangely similar to how he feels when he forages while hiking. Perhaps finding peace in another person...maybe there is merit. Hah. Yet another surprise.
On an evening long past curfew, Jade was tending to his botany collection and miniature greenhouse. You sat on his bed, watching videos on your phone. It was almost like you weren't there with him, yet not since he felt your presence. However, there was no pressure to talk or be attentive. He found himself enjoying your presence alone, and it slipped.
"If this is how our days will be when we live together, then perhaps sharing one life is not as inconceivable as I once thought," he said amidst trimming one of his herb plants. Jade turns curiously when he hears a thump from behind, and sees you gawking at him. You had lost your grip on the cell phone, and it fell to the ground.
He eyes you suspiciously. What's startled you? He doubts that any video could render you speechless.
....he spoke aloud, yes? Not in his head. Now it's Jade's turn to lose his composure.
Another surprise, but this is his own doing. Jade has not had a slip of the tongue since his childhood. Even then it was rare. He's never experienced this kind of mess-up...yet, you don't appear appalled.
Jade places the clippers down, and coughs into his gloved hand, "well, it appears I have gotten a loose tongue. It must be from your influence, no doubt". He stands, and moves to sit next to you on his bed, "I've never spoken out of place before, you know. Do you know what this means? I've become weak...and perhaps it it is time you take responsibility for these newfound emotions. I fully intend for many moments like these to happen, and for you to not leave my side. When it is time to leave this place, I believe you will join me. No, I am certain of it"
{An eye of lapis. A reminder that he is always watching - waiting, to see you again. The gem is not see-through. It’s a tough stone. Yet it is beautiful and is appreciated nonetheless. Enough said}
Floyd leech
At first, you believed him to have an obsession. Many did, actually.
The judgement isn't uncalled for either. Floyd's emotions towards you are very strong. With the way he loves to tease and follow you around - he's got a deep attachment. He's always demanding your attention, pulling you from your duties, starting trouble, and nosy. Floyd is oh so nosy and into everything in your life.
You're a toy. His little Shrimpy. The plaything that he absolutely adores and loves to watch. You're the Friday night sitcom to his late-90s grandma.
That's how you see it because that's how he portrays it. With others in agreeance, it is easy to overlook the small undertones in his actions. Especially since he's a touchy and emotional person normally.
Somehow, Floyd had himself tricked as well. He didn't akin his emotions to obsession, but he did think that you were a toy that he would
eventually out-grow. At the start, it really was just a game for him. He liked your reactions and therefore decided to keep you around.
Yet, he never got bored. Eventually the fun events around you stopped being what he found interesting, and instead he liked you alone. Floyd being Floyd instantly tried to confess this, not wanting to waste another minute. Yet you never believed him.
He brushed it off. You'd come around. Not a day went by without him by your side. To the average onlooker (and you, to Floyd's dismay) this still appeared normal. Weeks past by like nothing.
Only the people closest to Floyd see the small giveaways. Like how he glares holes into the mirror portal every morning, or gets snappy with customers if you take too long to visit the Monstro Lounge at night. There's a booth saved, every evening with no student brave enough to go near it unless they want their head chopped off.
When he gives you a 'squeeze,' he never wraps his arms around your stomach. He instead smothers your head and goes tightly around the shoulders. Your squeezes are special. He loves them.
or the name 'Shrimpy'. How he says it to you in public, but in private he occasionally lets your real name slip out. This normally happens during moments when he feels "bored,"(i.e has nothing to talk about) or lighthearted (the rare moments when you get him to relax). Floyd has never said that name with anything other than a positive emotion, despite his mood swings. Shrimpy is his calling card for you, and only his. Yet your name is different. He feels a tummy-twisting kind of weird when he says it.
but the biggest change is Floyd's attitude towards danger when it comes to you. Before, he thrived on it. He liked to hear your stories and be part of the fun. He took joy from the scary adventures you got wrapped into; heck, he was one of them.
Now he gets morbid. Not like how he was before, with eerie threats and a suspenseful aura. He never actually acted unless told to do so, since the over-blots and delinquent students were your problem, not his.
One afternoon, you didn't show up to have lunch with him. That already made him irritable since you know better than to no-show. Did you want a squeeze? Huh, Shrimpy? He'll give you one later.
Then two students come in, all snickering and acting suspicious. Strike two. Now Floyd is upset AND annoyed. Others in the area can feel the animosity in the air.
"Did you see their face? Psh. That'll teach some snot-nosed no-mag to act all mighty. If they know what's good for them, they'll go back to whatever sh*t-hole they came from alrea-" The no-face couldn't finish his sentence. Not with one of the infamous Leech twins gripping his arm tight enough to snap bone.
Floyd smiled, "oh~ So you're the reason my little shrimp isn't eating lunch with me, aren't ya? So. What'd ya do? C'mon guys, I want to know what 'lesson' ya taught, " as Floyd spoke, his grip gradually tightened and he stared straight into the other student's eyes. Each word came out harsher than the last.
They broke quick, as he suspected. With a rough shove Floyd pushed them aside to find you. He had their faces memorized. Let them live in fear for a bit until he collects due payment. For now?
Floyd finds you at your home. He doesn't bother to knock and bursts through the front door, only to see you nursing a black eye on the couch with some ice. He wastes no time in taking it and kneeling in front of you.
Floyd holds the ice to your eye - a bit too harsh- and clenches his jaw when you wince. You won't meet his eyes and it only pisses him off more, "Oi. Look at me," and you do with your one eye. "Why didn't you call me. Why'd you not show up," You sigh and reach a hand to cover his, "because I knew you'd be pissed... I handled it, okay? No need to fake the whole 'I will protect you, my little Shrimpy' scenario. We both know that's not your thing, "
You're wrong. It's not a scenario. You can dismiss his flirting all you want, but even Floyd has a limit. Do you not see how absolutely wreaked overhearing those airheads made him? He's going to do worse than you can think. He won't kill them. No, he'll make sure that no one messes with you anymore. You can't see it, but on the inside he is over it. Done. Finished. Officially has 0% patience.
"Did you know that every time you spout crap like that, it pisses me off? I don't 'act,' because that's boring. I'm not lyin' when I say I like you, and you better start believin' it because I'm over the niceties. If someone messes with you, they mess with me. You're in deep (Y/N) and I'm not letting go, so wait here while I handle some little pests. I love ya. I act this way BECAUSE I love ya. Quit denying me already,"
No one will ever mess with you again. Not with the sparkly little gem on your ring finger, tying you to one of the largest and most threatening groups in the undersea world to date.
{ An aquamarine tear. In all honesty, Floyd did not put much thought into his gem. It sparkled. It is the color of his hair streak (or close to it). He imagined it on your finger and thought that it would stand out - ensuring that anyone and everyone could see it. He thought of your possible expression upon seeing it, and was sold}
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Hello welcome to my little sideblog! I like to write cute YN x Character fanfiction! Maybe when I work up the courage il post them!
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