liseronfle

[liseronfle]

No words, just perfection and I don't even like that much Gojo.

whisper of the heart — a nerdjo fic

synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.

pairing — nerd! satoru x reader

genre — academic rivals to lovers

word count— 32k (oops)

warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.

small playlist i listened to while writing

"You all can come and grab the papers now—do not ask me for any re-evaluations, the mark presented on the paper is your final mark—"

You barely listen. The professor could be reading a grocery list for all you care. Your focus is already on the stack of midterms in his hands, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs.

The exam had been brutal—200 marks, covering classical mechanics and electromagnetism, some of the toughest material in your Physics II course. Past students had called it a horror show, a midterm designed to crush dreams and expose weaknesses. It was weighted heavily in your final grade, which meant every single mark mattered. The room is filled with a tense hum, a mixture of eager whispers and anxious murmurs. Some students hesitate in their seats, mentally preparing themselves before facing their doom. But you? You don't wait. You weave through the aisles, manoeuvring past people, determined to be one of the first to grab your paper.

And, of course, Gojo is right behind you.

"Jeez, you could at least pretend to be patient," he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he strolls lazily down the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. You roll your eyes. "Not all of us have the luxury of cruising through exams without trying."

"I do try," he says, flashing you a grin. "I try just enough." Before you can shoot back a response, you reach the professor’s desk. Professor Takeda raises an unimpressed brow as he sorts through the papers.

"You two again," he sighs. "Half my life as a professor has been spent watching you bicker."

"Don't be dramatic, sir," Gojo says smoothly, resting an elbow on the desk. "It's only been three years." Takeda shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about headaches before handing you your paper. You grab it without waiting, fingers slightly shaking as you flip it over.

98.

The relief rushes through you instantly, so strong you can’t help the triumphant burst of excitement. "Ninety-eight!" you blurt out, beaming as you hug the paper to your chest. It’s a damn near perfect score, and after all those sleepless nights, all those hours of grinding through problem sets—you earned this. Gojo, still waiting for his turn, glances at you with an expression you can’t quite place. His usual smirk is still there, but there’s something else—something quieter, almost thoughtful, before he smooths it over with his usual easy confidence.

Takeda hands him his paper. Gojo flips it over, barely reacting as he reads the number at the top.

"Ninety-five." Your grin widens.

"You mean I beat you?" You practically bounce on your heels. "Me? The one you said was ‘too uptight’ and needed to ‘relax and accept second place’? Me?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as he folds his paper out of your sight. "Don't get too cocky," he drawls, shoving the paper under his arm. "It’s just three points."

"Three points above you."

"For now," he corrects smoothly, nudging your shoulder as he moves past you.

It’s been this way since freshman year. You and Gojo had ended up in the same introductory physics course, and from the very first midterm, it was clear: you were the only two truly competing at the top of the class. But while you poured everything into studying—late nights, flashcards, equations scribbled on napkins—Gojo seemed to barely put in the effort. He’d show up late to lectures, half-asleep in sweatpants, glasses slightly skewed, yet somehow still aced every exam. He never took notes, never stressed, never seemed to break a sweat. It drove you insane. Because no matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in—he was always right there with you. Sometimes ahead, sometimes just behind, but never far enough to ignore.

And worst of all? He made it look easy. By now, the entire physics department knew about your rivalry. Professors expected you to fight over test scores. Study groups would take bets on who would score higher. Even during practical lab sessions, it was always a silent battle—who could get through the calculations faster, who could figure out the trick questions first. You hated him. And now, after years of this, you finally had something over him. A small, almost imperceptible shift in the universe.

You beat Gojo Satoru. As soon as class ends, you’re practically floating out of the lecture hall, midterm still clutched in your hands. The second you step into the cafeteria, your eyes scan the room for your friend, and when you finally spot her at your usual table, you don’t even bother with a greeting. “I got a ninety-eight,” you announce, sliding into the seat across from her with an undeniably smug grin. “And I beat Gojo.”

Her head snaps up from her laptop. “Wait— Gojo Gojo?”

You roll your eyes. “As opposed to what? Some other Gojo in our department?”

“Oh my God, you actually did it?” she gasps, setting her drink down as she stares at you in something close to awe. “I thought that man was unstoppable.”

“Well, turns out he’s not.” You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Guess he finally met his match.” Your friend is still blinking at you in disbelief when a voice cuts in from behind you, slow and amused.

“One good score, and you think you’re the shit.” You freeze. Then, before you can even turn around, Gojo is already there, stepping up behind you like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. You feel the presence of him—tall, lazy, entirely too smug—before you even lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s leaning in just slightly, close enough to loom, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. That familiar, insufferable smirk is plastered on his face, condescending and infuriatingly amused.

You huff. “Can’t a girl enjoy her victory in peace?” 

He tilts his head, that same damned smirk never wavering. “Victory?” he echoes, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? One midterm doesn’t erase three years of domination.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. Like you’ve actually dominated me.”

“Oh, you want me to bring out the stats?” Gojo hums, slipping into the seat beside you like he owns the place. He props his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his palm as he begins, “Physics I final—97 to your 96. Thermodynamics midterm? 95 to your 91. Electromagnetic Fields exam—”

You groan. “Jesus Christ, you memorized all of them?”

“You think I don’t keep track?” He arches a brow, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not my fault I have a consistent history of kicking your ass.”

Your friend snorts into her drink. “He kinda has a point—”

You shoot her a glare. Gojo, meanwhile, is clearly having the time of his life. He leans in, that imposing height of his making his presence impossible to ignore, his voice dropping just slightly, almost teasing. “But sure,” he drawls, chin resting in his hand. “Enjoy your one win, (name). I’ll let you have it.”

You grip your cup so tightly the plastic crinkles. “Let me have it?”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t want you to cry when I obliterate you on the final.” Your friend nudges you under the table, mouthing he’s so full of shit, but you barely register it—because the air between you and Gojo is charged in a way that makes your stomach twist. You won’t admit it out loud, but part of you wonders— is this how he always talks to you?

So close, so taunting, like he enjoys watching you bristle. You hate how natural it feels, how effortless the rhythm of your bickering has become. But more than anything, you hate the way your heart stutters when he pushes himself out of his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and grins down at you like he already knows how the next round of this fight is going to end.

“You should really start studying,” he hums, walking backward toward the exit. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you fuming at the table. Your friend watches him go, eyebrows raised. “So, uh,” she says slowly. “Are we sure you guys aren’t flirting?” You glare at her.

“I hate him.” She smirks. “Mhm.” You seethe a little, realising—with a stab of annoyance—that yes, that motherfucker is actually leading right now in terms of grades and rankings. It’s not even about the marks. Okay, maybe it’s a little about the marks. But you’ve always been the smart woman in your course. The one who professors hold up as an example. The one whose name has been printed on merit lists and whose email is always flooded with internship offers and research opportunities. You’ve spent years perfecting your academic standing, earning every achievement through sheer effort and discipline. But for some odd reason, none of it ever seems to matter until you’ve compared it with Gojo Satoru. You glare at his name on the leaderboard, one place ahead of yours. A single midterm shouldn’t be enough to infuriate you, and yet—

Your eye twitches. How the hell did you even get here?

Well.

Actually.

You know how. You just try not to think about it because, frankly, it’s one of the most mortifying moments of your entire academic career.

—

It was the very first week of freshman year, and you were, for lack of a better term, an insufferable know-it-all. Not in a bad way—okay, maybe in a slightly bad way. But it wasn’t your fault that you took your education seriously, or that you actually read ahead in your courses, or that you genuinely cared about learning. If anything, you were doing everyone a service by answering questions when no one else raised their hands. So, on that particular day, when your physics professor asked the class a question about vector components, you barely hesitated before speaking up.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” someone cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” The interruption had been so unexpected—so audacious—that it completely derailed your train of thought.

And when you turned around, irritated beyond belief, there he was. White hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, an undeniably punchable smirk tugging at his lips. You had no idea who he was at the time. Just some tall, obnoxious guy slouched lazily in his seat, all limbs and arrogance, tapping a pen idly against his notebook as he stared at you with barely concealed amusement.

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “you must be so fun at parties.” The class chuckled. Your jaw clenched. “Well, someone has to answer when no one else even tries.”

“Right, because we’re all just too stupid to understand vectors,” he drawled, stretching lazily in his seat.

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back.

“Didn’t have to,” he grinned, tapping his temple. “I could feel the superiority radiating from you.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to turn back around before you said something that would get you in trouble on the first week of class.

“Okay, okay,” your professor cut in, looking thoroughly unbothered by the exchange. “Let’s keep the debating to actual physics concepts.” That should have been the end of it. But then you heard a low tsk from behind you.

“I bet she memorized the textbook cover to cover before the semester even started,” the white-haired menace mused under his breath to his friend with the long, black haired locks, who seemed disinterested in what his friend had to say.

You whipped around. “I did not—”

“Don’t lie, nerd.”

“Excuse me?!” The class chuckled again. And when you shot a glare toward your professor, expecting some kind of reprimand, he just sighed and muttered, “God, I already know you two are going to be a pain in my ass.” From that moment on, it had been war.

Your first set of midterms was when you realized he wasn’t just talk. You walked into class with a 97 on your physics exam, feeling confident—only to glance over and see Gojo slouched in his seat, grinning as he casually flipped his test paper over to show a 99. He made eye contact with you as he tapped his fingers against the big red number. You nearly broke your pen in half.

And so it began.

Every exam, every assignment, every single class discussion became a battleground. You would argue over formulas, nitpick each other’s solutions, and constantly try to one-up the other. You worked your ass off to close the gap, pouring hours into perfecting your work. And Gojo? Gojo barely looked like he was trying. That was what infuriated you the most. He never seemed stressed, never looked exhausted, never talked about pulling all-nighters. He just showed up, half the time looking like he hadn’t even studied, and still somehow stayed ahead. Until now. Until your 98 finally beat his 95. A single win isn’t enough. But damn, does it feel good.

—

You step into the lecture hall, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Gojo Satoru is exactly where you expect him to be—sprawled out in his usual seat, legs stretched obnoxiously far like he has no concept of personal space. His sunglasses rest on top of his head, keeping his messy white hair from falling into his annoyingly pretty eyes, and the second he spots you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. You’re already exhausted. 

“You’re early,” you mutter, slipping into your seat and pulling out your laptop.

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back. “What, do you set an alarm just to make sure you get here before me?”

“You wish.”

“Nah, you wish.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He shrugs, propping his chin on his hand. “Still got under your skin, though, didn’t it?”

You make a sound of irritation in the back of your throat, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his smug attitude, but your friend plops into the seat next to you, completely unaware of the storm brewing between you and Gojo. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to shift gears—there’s something more important than your ongoing war with him. Something much, much more important.

“Okay, so, I found this book series last night,” you begin, your fingers twitching excitedly as you pull out your phone. “I was going through one of those book recommendation guides—you know, the niche ones that aren’t full of the same ten bestsellers—and this one just caught my eye.” Your friend hums in interest, booting up their laptop. “What’s it about?”

You practically buzz with excitement. “So it’s kind of like—ugh, how do I explain it—it’s this really well-written like narrative, mystery, suspense, romance, but with, like, existential themes? And this insane world building? And apparently, no one talks about it because the publisher went under before it got the recognition it deserved, so it’s kind of a hidden gem.” As you speak, Gojo, who had been staring blankly at the front of the room, blinks. That sounds familiar.

“You’re really selling it,” your friend teases.

“Right?! And apparently, it’s super hard to find, but I checked, and our library actually has a few copies.” You tuck your phone away, already feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m gonna borrow the first book after class.” Gojo leans back in his seat, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Yeah, he thinks. I’ve definitely read that.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rests his chin in his palm and listens as you keep gushing. Because now that he thinks about it, he really liked that series too. It had been one of those random books he picked up between classes, half expecting to get bored, but then something about it hooked him. The way it wove together philosophy and adventure, the quiet melancholy lingering in the prose—it was the kind of book that stuck with you. But he never finished it. Midterms had hit, and between exams, research papers, and group projects that made him want to rip his hair out, he just… forgot. He never went back to check out the last few books. He had meant to, but by the time he had free time again, his brain had moved on. And now here you are, unknowingly digging it back up.

His fingers drum idly against the desk, and for some reason, he can’t shake the thought: She’s gonna love it.  He steals another glance at you. You’re still talking, eyes bright with excitement, flipping through your phone as you read off little details from the guide you found. The enthusiasm is contagious—he can’t remember the last time he saw you this animated about something that wasn’t academics. Usually, all your energy goes into perfecting equations, arguing with him over points lost on exams, and trying to one-up him in every possible way. This is… different.

And weirdly, he finds himself kind of liking it. Not that he’d ever admit it.

–

So after class finally finishes—thankfully, your professor had been going through a hard topic that he kept droning on and on about, emphasising how likely it was to appear in the final exam—it was enough to sate even Gojo, who, for once, shut up and took notes diligently. You head out at lightning speed, managing a small “see you later” to your friend before disappearing into the hallway. Honestly, ever since the new year of college had started, you’d barely had time to indulge in activities you actually enjoyed.

Sure, you squeezed in a few books here and there when you had the chance, but it was difficult finding ones that hit just the right way—ones with the same kind of engaging plot, the same writing style that kept you hooked. You’d tried, but nothing had stuck with you the way your favorite books used to. It had been frustrating, going through these long periods without anything to read. But this time, you had a feeling it would be different. 

Turning a corner, you step into the vast college library, its sheer size never failing to impress you. The high, arched ceilings, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, and the dozens of students scattered across large wooden tables, heads buried in textbooks—it’s an environment that should feel welcoming, yet all it does is remind you how much work you still have waiting for you. You shake that thought away.

Right now, you’re here for one thing.

You glance at your phone, rereading the author’s name one last time before slipping it into your pocket and heading straight for the fiction section. It’s tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the library, past the heavier academic texts, and while it’s not as large as the science or philosophy sections, it still has an impressive selection. The shelves here are a little dustier, the books a little more worn—proof that they don’t get checked out as often as the physics or chemistry textbooks. You trace your fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for the title. When you finally spot it, you feel a flicker of excitement. There it is.

The first book in the series. The cover is simple yet striking, the title embossed in slightly faded silver lettering. You pull it off the shelf carefully, glancing around to see if the rest of the series is there. To your delight, every single book is lined up neatly in order. Some of them look well-loved, the edges softened from use, some even slightly bent, as if they’d been carried around in bags, read and reread countless times.

You flip the book over and read the blurb. Even though you already know the gist of the story from your research, there’s something about reading the official summary that makes your excitement spike. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for—an underrated but brilliant story, the kind that feels like a hidden gem. Unable to resist, you take the book with you and settle down at one of the smaller, tucked-away tables. You’re a slow reader, someone who likes to absorb every word, letting the imagery settle in your mind before moving on. But the moment you turn to the first page and begin reading, you’re immediately pulled in.

The writing is crisp and immersive, the kind that hooks you effortlessly. Within moments, you’re completely lost in the world of the book, eyes darting across the pages, flipping to the next before you even realize it. The characters are compelling, the descriptions vivid, and the dialogue sharp. You can already tell this is going to be one of those stories that sticks—the kind that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve finished. Just as you reach a particularly interesting part, your phone buzzes.

You blink, momentarily disoriented before glancing at the screen. It’s a reminder you set for yourself. Right. You still need to study. A sigh escapes you. As much as you want to keep reading, you know you can’t afford to waste too much time. With some reluctance, you close the book and stand up, making your way toward the borrowing counter. You check it out quickly, securing it in your bag, already planning when you’ll carve out time to read it between your study sessions. It’s something to look forward to, at least. And if you had known just who had been the last person to check it out before you, maybe you wouldn’t be so eager.

–

The ringer from your Pomodoro timer goes off, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet of your dorm room. With a sigh, you drop your pencil onto your open notebook, rolling your shoulders back as you stretch in your seat, feeling the slight stiffness from hours of hunching over your desk. Lazily glancing at the glowing numbers on your laptop screen, a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.

Four hours of focused work.

Good. You’ve finally finished studying for the night, trudging through a mountain of tricky concepts and endless equations—just enough to ensure you’ll keep up with the next few lectures before the actual final exam looms over you. The weight of the work you’ve put in settles in a satisfying way, a quiet reassurance that you’re keeping up. Yawning, you grab your phone, thumbing through a few unopened texts, sending half-hearted replies where needed.

Your mind is already half-tuned out, already drifting toward what you actually want to do now that your responsibilities are out of the way for the night. Pushing yourself up from your chair, you shuffle toward your bed, sinking into the softness of your mattress with a pleased sigh. And then, with an eager flicker of excitement, you reach for the borrowed library book resting on your side table, fingers running over the slightly worn edges of the cover.

Finally.

Opening it to the page you had left off, you settle deeper into the blankets, eyes scanning the words slowly, absorbing every detail. The prose is effortless, pulling you into the world woven between the lines. The atmosphere is rich, each description vivid and carefully placed, the characters full of depth. There’s a certain feeling you get when a book is just right—something that clicks into place, the rare kind of story that makes the outside world blur at the edges. You don’t rush through it.

You savor every word, taking in the dialogue, the intricate details of the setting, the careful unraveling of the plot. Then, just as you shift slightly, readjusting your grip, a small slip of paper flutters from between the pages. You blink, momentarily pulled from the trance of the story, watching as it lands lightly on your blanket.

Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the slightly yellowed, aged texture of the paper. It’s rectangular, not quite as thick as a regular bookmark, with neat printed lines running across it in faded ink.

A borrowing card.

You stare at it for a second, a vague memory surfacing. Back during your university orientation in first year, you remember a librarian offhandedly mentioning that some of the older books in the collection still had checkout cards inside them, relics from a time before everything became digitized. But since you’d only ever borrowed course-related books—ones that were constantly replaced with new editions—you’d never actually come across one. Huh. 

Your fingers trace the faded lines as you sit up slightly, eyes scanning the list of names scrawled across it—

Except… there are no names. Just one. Or rather, just a set of initials, written neatly in blue ink

G.S.

The date beside it is from a while ago, though not too long. But the strange thing is, it’s the only entry on the entire card. You blink, flipping it over, checking the back. Nothing. So… no one else has borrowed this book? You hesitate, gripping the card a little tighter. You’re supposed to write your name down now, right? That’s how these things work. It’s a log of borrowers. But then—why had this person only written their initials?

A weird feeling stirs in your chest. Not unease, exactly—just something you can’t put a name to. It’s probably nothing. Maybe this book just wasn’t that popular. The only reason you found it was because of some obscure online guide, after all. Maybe no one really checked it out over the years, and the one person who did just didn’t feel like writing their full name.

Shaking your head, you push the thought aside, grabbing a pen from your nightstand. Without thinking too much about it, you write your own name neatly beneath G.S., along with today’s date. Then, you tuck the card back into its place and return to your book, letting yourself sink back into the story. A few more pages in, about a quarter of the way through the book, your eyes catch something that makes your brow furrow.

Are those… scribbles?

Your annoyance flares up immediately. Who the hell desecrates a library book? It’s practically sacrilegious. Your fingers tighten slightly around the spine as you bring the book closer to inspect the crime against literature, fully prepared to be enraged—

Wait.

They’re not just random scribbles. They’re annotations.

Your irritation dims slightly, curiosity piqued as you squint to make out the neat, slightly slanted cursive handwriting running along the margins. Some words are underlined, a few sentences circled, and in a crisp blue ink, a note is scrawled beside a particularly tense conversation between two characters:

“I can just tell he’s gonna be the one dead first. He’s overreacting to everything.”

You blink. Then, despite yourself, a small giggle escapes. Because—okay—whoever wrote this isn’t wrong. You literally thought the same thing just a few moments ago. As much as you love a good, well-written novel, you’ve read enough books in your life to recognise the telltale signs of an early death flag. And this character? He’s practically begging to be taken out of the story. Your amusement lingers as you scan the page again, eyes flitting to more scribbles running alongside the printed words.

"God, she sounds so insufferable."

You smirk a little at that, suppressing a chuckle.

"I like this line—the quote kinda speaks to me."

Your gaze follows the arrow pointing toward a particularly well-crafted piece of dialogue. Huh. You actually like that line too.

"I take the previous statement back—no way did he say that entire motivational monologue just for him to throw his morals aside..."

A small, surprised laugh escapes you. You love when characters do this kind of thing—spend pages waxing poetic about their grand principles, only to completely toss them out the window at the first sign of trouble. It’s frustrating, but also wildly entertaining, and you find yourself nodding unconsciously in agreement.

You shift slightly, adjusting your grip on the book as your initial annoyance starts to morph into something else—something you don’t want to admit is enjoyment. Because as much as you usually hate unnecessary markings in books, these annotations don’t feel disruptive.

They feel… engaging. Like you’re reading with someone. It’s a strange feeling—an unexpected, quiet kind of companionship in the margins of the book. You scan ahead, flipping a few pages forward, wondering if this mystery annotator—G.S., you assume—has left their thoughts scattered throughout the entire book.

Oh. They have.  Almost every page has at least something scribbled in the margins. Some annotations are sarcastic, others incredulous. A few are simple observations or predictions about the plot, and some are just random, dramatic reactions that make you snort.

"Oh my GOD, just kiss already!"

You huff out an amused breath, shaking your head.

"He is so painfully oblivious it’s almost impressive."

Honestly, you were thinking the same thing. Before you realize it, you’ve started reading out loud—not the annotations, but the actual book. It’s something you do sometimes when you’re alone, when a scene is particularly well-written or emotional. And now, with G.S.’s thoughts scattered alongside the text, it almost feels like you’re having a conversation with them. Like they’re some ghostly presence in the book, reacting alongside you in real time.

You catch yourself before you say something back to one of the notes.

Which is insane. Because this is just a random person’s handwriting in a library book. And yet���

You exhale through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the page. You kind of… want to know who they are. Who is G.S.? Because if their annotations are anything to go by, they have the exact same thoughts as you while reading. The same exasperation, the same eye-roll-worthy observations, the same appreciation for the well-crafted lines. And you can’t help but wonder—just who was sitting with this same book in their hands, reading the same words, thinking the same things? It’s an odd, fleeting curiosity, but you push it aside for now, shaking your head as you turn the page.

You settle deeper into your blankets, the book resting comfortably in your hands as you turn the page. The words on the paper blur slightly in the dim light of your bedside lamp, but you don’t mind—you’re too immersed now, drawn into both the story and the unexpected presence of G.S. in the margins. The next chapter begins, and you take a slow breath before diving in, eyes flicking between the printed text and the handwritten notes.

"Oh, I just know this is going to go terribly."

You glance at the line it’s referencing—a scene where the protagonist makes a bold, arguably reckless decision. Yeah, G.S. is probably right. A few more pages pass. The tension in the book rises, and you’re so absorbed that you nearly miss the next annotation.

"There it is. The classic ‘staring at the moon in emotional turmoil’ scene. Authors love this one."

You snort. Okay, but they’re right. You tilt your head, momentarily pausing your reading to stare at the note. It’s a little strange, this dynamic you’ve somehow fallen into with a complete stranger. You feel like you know them, or at least, their reading habits. Their humor. The way they react to the exact same things that pull at your attention. It's unsettling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. You flip forward, skimming ahead to see if the notes continue—and they do.

"I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. HE’S A TRAITOR."

You blink, pausing mid-sentence. Your gaze darts back to the text, where a major plot twist has just been revealed. Your mouth parts slightly, rereading the words to make sure you’re seeing them correctly. Damn. You did not see that coming.

You exhale, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Fine. Point to you, G.S. You keep reading, now almost waiting for the next annotation, like it’s a second voice in your head providing commentary as you go. And when the protagonist makes another questionable decision—

"Why are men in fiction like this?"

—you laugh, shaking your head. It continues like that for pages. Every now and then, G.S. 's notes make you chuckle, or nod in agreement, or roll your eyes because come on, that was an obvious metaphor. And as much as you want to be annoyed by the interruptions, you find yourself… enjoying it. Maybe even liking it. At some point, you shift your position, getting more comfortable against your pillows, completely absorbed. The words feel alive, and not just the printed ones, but the ones scribbled in blue ink alongside them. It’s a conversation you never expected to have—one separated by time, by anonymity, by the unlikelihood of ever knowing who G.S. is. Your fingers brush over the ink of the annotations, slightly faded but still legible. Thinking back to the date listed on the library card from quite a while ago, you wonder if G.S. has even thought about this book since then. Or if they’ve forgotten about it entirely. You stare at the letters for a moment longer before shaking your head, pushing away the odd sensation curling at the back of your mind.

It’s just a book. Just some random person’s annotations. It doesn’t mean anything.

A reminder notification pops up on your phone—one you’d set earlier to keep your study schedule in check. You sigh. Right. You should get some sleep soon. Reluctantly, you close the book, running your fingers over the cover one last time before placing it on your nightstand. You’ll finish it later—between classes, between assignments, between all the little gaps in your schedule where you can steal a moment to read. And maybe, you’ll keep an eye out. Because now, you kind of want to know if G.S. ever came back for this book.

–

By the time your next Physics lecture rolls around, you’ve already finished the first book in the series. It had consumed your nights, pulling you in with its immersive world-building and gripping storyline—but, if you were being honest, the experience had been made infinitely more enjoyable because of the annotations left behind in the margins. The presence of another reader, someone who had walked the same narrative path as you and left breadcrumbs of their thoughts along the way, had made the book feel less like a solitary escape and more like a shared secret. So, naturally, when you stride into class that morning, you’re already prepared to discuss it at length with your friend.

What you aren’t prepared for is Gojo Satoru.

Not that you ever are, really. He has a habit of making his presence known, like some self-appointed force of nature existing solely to get under your skin. And today is no different—he walks past you with an easy, sauntering gait, the kind that’s deliberately slow enough to be obnoxious. There’s a telltale smirk tugging at his lips, the glint of mischief in his strikingly bright eyes as he leans in, as if he’s about to say something insufferable just to throw off your morning. You pretend not to see him.

Your willful ignorance must be obvious because you hear him scoff under his breath as he passes by, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

Instead, you beeline toward the row where your friend is already seated, setting your bag down with an eager bounce in your step.

“Dude,” you start, flipping open your laptop with a flourish, “remember that book I told you about a few weeks back?” Your friend raises a brow. “The one from that super niche book guide you were raving about?”

“The very same one,” you confirm, barely able to contain your excitement. “I finally finished it, and oh my god, it was so good. The plot? Phenomenal. The pacing? Perfect. But you know what actually made it even better?” 

You don’t notice the way Gojo hesitates just as he’s about to settle into the seat behind you. He freezes, fingers hovering above the keyboard of his laptop as his ears zero in on your conversation.

“You found another book to obsess over?” Your friend teases, but you shake your head fervently.

“No, no, listen,” you insist, your voice lowering slightly as you lean in, “someone left annotations in it.” 

Satoru’s fingers twitch.

“You mean like, study notes?”

“No! Like, actual thoughts—comments, reactions, opinions. And not just boring analytical stuff, either. They were funny. Snarky. They made fun of the characters at the exact moments I wanted to. It was like reading the book with someone, you know?”

A very distinct, yet invisible, sense of dread creeps into Gojo’s chest.

Oh. Oh, shit. The annotations. He had completely forgotten about those. He had scrawled them in the margins ages ago—mostly on a whim, partly out of boredom, and entirely because he physically could not read a book in silence. If there was one thing Gojo Satoru was incapable of, it was shutting the fuck up, even when he was the only audience for his own commentary. So, naturally, when he had found himself enjoying the book way more than expected, he had started treating it like a private conversation with himself, writing down whatever thoughts came to mind.

He never expected anyone to see them. And now, sitting barely a foot away, he’s listening to you—of all people—excitedly gush about his stupid little scribbles, completely oblivious to the fact that the person you were praising, the one whose humor you found entertaining and whose insights you had agreed with, was him. He schools his expression, keeping his head tilted just enough to appear disinterested. But his ears are wide open.

“Whoever wrote those notes,” you continue, flipping your pen between your fingers, “had some serious opinions. And honestly? I kind of love them. Like, I think we have the same brain.”

Satoru presses his lips together, biting back a grin.

You? Agreeing with him? That was new. 

Your friend hums. “So you’re basically having a book club with some anonymous person who read it before you?” You chuckle. “I mean… kinda? It’s weird, but it’s nice in a way. Like, usually when I read, it’s just me and the book. But with the annotations, it’s like there’s this extra layer of interaction. I get to see how someone else processed the story, how they reacted to the same moments I did.”

Satoru knows he should stop listening. He should. But he doesn’t.

Because something about this whole situation—the fact that you, of all people, had unknowingly connected with him through a book—has him equal parts amused and intrigued. You, who always huffed when he teased you. You, who rolled your eyes at his antics, who made a point to ignore him even though he knew you were hyper-aware of his presence.

You had spent nights poring over words he had written in passing. And you had liked them. God, if you knew, you’d probably strangle him on the spot.

“I actually wanna see if this person has read the rest of the series,” you muse, mostly to yourself. “Like, maybe they annotated other books too.” 

Satoru exhales through his nose, staring at his laptop screen but not actually registering anything on it. Well. This was going to be interesting.

–

You make your way to the library once again, the first book of the series clutched in your hands, ready to be returned. It feels weird, parting with it. As if you’re saying goodbye to something that had, for the past week, been a quiet companion during your late-night reading sessions. But not to worry, there’s still like five more books in the series. Your steps slow slightly as you approach the return counter, fingers absently reaching into your bag’s open pocket for a pen. Without much thought, you flip open the book and scrawl the date of return onto the inside of the back cover, where the borrowing card is located. Your thumb absentmindedly drags across the faded blue ink of the initials scrawled in the row above where you’ve signed your name. 

G.S.

Whoever they were, they had made your reading experience infinitely better with their wry, sarcastic observations and strangely thoughtful insights. It was like reading alongside a particularly sharp-witted friend—one who, frustratingly, was just out of reach. You’re lost in thought, mulling over the mystery of G.S., when you abruptly walk straight into something firm and unmoving. And warm.

Something that smells like sandalwood and fresh linen and something inexplicably, irritatingly familiar.

You barely have time to stagger back before a voice—deep, lazy, and dripping with its usual brand of smugness—drawls, “My, my, pretending to walk around with your nose in a book so people think you’re more studious than you actually are?”

Your stomach sinks. You do not have the patience for this right now.

“Fuck off, Satoru,” you mutter, not even looking at him as you try to sidestep. Predictably, he moves right in front of you again, blocking your path with that insufferable ease of his. Hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored slacks, sleeves of a stupidly expensive cashmere sweater pushed up to reveal the sharp line of his wrists and veiny forearms, and his ever-present glasses glinting under the dim library lights—he looks as if he owns the place.

His head tilts, white hair falling slightly over his frames as he glances down at the book in your hands. That smile—all teeth and smugness—spreads across his face like he’s caught you in something scandalous.

“Oh? Reading a book that isn’t course-related? Scandalous. What happened, got bored of being a try-hard? Or are you just begging to score lower than me on the final?” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Not that I’d expect you to actually be on my level, but it’s cute that you try—”

You stop listening after that. Normally, you’d throw something equally sharp-tongued back at him, tell him to go get hit by a bus or something equally creative, but you’re too drained to bother. The exhaustion from back-to-back lectures, plus the fact that you haven’t eaten anything substantial today, has dulled the sharp edges of your patience. A dull ache pounds at the base of your skull, and every word out of his mouth makes it throb even harder. Your expression must give away more than you intend because, for a split second, Gojo falters.

It’s quick—barely there. But you see it.

A flicker of something almost resembling concern flashes behind his glasses, like he’s actually noticed how drained you look. The moment is gone before you can process it. His usual smug expression slides right back into place, and you don’t have the energy to care.

“I need to return this,” you say flatly. “Get out of my way.”

Instead of stepping aside like a normal person, he falls into step beside you, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets. “Oh? So now you acknowledge my presence,” he muses, voice light. “What, you didn’t miss me in class today? I even waited for you to roll your eyes at me like you do every morning. Felt almost lonely without it.”

“I genuinely do not care,” you reply without looking at him. He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Ouch. Someone’s moody today. Low blood sugar? On your period? Brain finally given up trying to keep up with mine?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead sliding the book into the return pile with a little more force than necessary. Gojo watches, his gaze flickering between you and the book.

“What book were you returning, anyway?” The question is so casual, so offhanded, that you almost don’t clock it as strange. Almost. You narrow your eyes at him. “Didn’t take you for someone interested in my life.”

His lips curl into something unbearably smug. “Oh, I’m not.” He rocks back on his heels, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just like knowing what my rival is up to outside of class. You know, studying your weaknesses. Gathering intel. The usual.” 

You stare at him. “You are so full of shit.”

“I really am,” he agrees cheerfully. You exhale through your nose, patience wearing thinner by the second. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere being a general public nuisance?”

“This is me being a general public nuisance.” He grins. “And you’re the lucky victim of the day.”

“God, I hate you.”

“Aww, that’s cute. But you should be honest with yourself,” he says, following you as you make your way toward the exit. “I think you’d miss me if I suddenly disappeared.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You so would.”

“I would thrive in your absence.”

Gojo makes an exaggerated show of wiping away an imaginary tear. “How cruel. And here I was, thinking we had something special.”

You push open the library doors, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. Finally, freedom. But, of course, Gojo keeps following you.

“…Why are you still here?” you ask, tiredly. He hums. “Dunno. Walking this way.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “A mystery. How exciting.” You consider throwing your bag at him. You settle for walking faster. You quicken your pace, hoping Gojo will get bored and wander off. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He easily keeps up with you, long legs making it effortless, his stupid grin never fading.

“Walking faster won’t shake me, you know,” he muses, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company.” You don’t bother responding, gripping the strap of your bag tighter and staring straight ahead. He walks backward in front of you, head tilted, watching you with an almost lazy amusement. “So, where are you going? Café? Student lounge? Maybe a secret nerd meeting where you all discuss the best highlighters for maximum efficiency?”

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes, Satoru. That’s exactly what I’m doing. We’re all going to sit in a circle and ritually sharpen our pencils while whispering incantations about final exams.” He gasps dramatically. “I knew it. I bet you have a shrine dedicated to good grades too. And, like, a little altar where you sacrifice people who get higher scores than you—”

“I don’t need to sacrifice anyone,” you cut in, dryly. “Because I get the highest scores.” His grin widens. “Not all of them.”

You bristle, and he knows it. You both know that you and Gojo have been locked in a constant academic battle since the semester started. It’s maddening how often you end up in the top two spots. Even more maddening that he acts like he doesn’t even try. You exhale slowly, trying to focus on literally anything else. “I’m going to get food. Why don’t you go fuck off somewhere, like, I don’t know, ruin someone else’s day?” 

“You wound me with such crass language,” he says, clutching his chest like you physically struck him. “I’m just being a good friend.”

“You’re not my friend.”

“Wow.” He sighs dramatically, as if genuinely offended. “All this time we’ve spent together, and you still call us enemies? I’d like to think of us more as… frenemies.”

“I would like to think of us as strangers.”

“And yet,” he says, smirking, “you still talk to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Only because you won’t shut up.” 

Gojo shrugs. “Details.” 

By now, you’ve reached the campus café. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifts through the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. You knew skipping lunch was a bad idea. Gojo hears it, of course.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift, delighted. “Was that your stomach? Should I be worried? Are you dying of starvation? Is this how our rivalry ends?” You ignore him and step inside. The café is buzzing with students, some hunched over laptops, others chatting over coffee. You head straight for the counter, scanning the menu, debating if you should just get something quick and easy or actually sit down for a meal. Gojo, uninvited, leans casually against the counter beside you.

“Getting a drink too?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.

“Why do you care?”

“Maybe I wanna know what fuels my biggest competition,” he says, tone exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What’s the secret? Triple shot espresso? Pure willpower? The tears of your academic rivals?” You give him a look. “You’re projecting. You probably run on the suffering of others.”

“Obviously,” he says easily. “But I like to mix in a little sugar sometimes. Keeps me balanced and shit.” You’re about to tell him to go bother someone else when the barista glances up. “Next?” You quickly place your order. Just as you’re about to pull out your wallet, Gojo’s voice rings out:

“I’ve got it.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What.”

“I’m paying.” You stare at him, genuinely baffled. “Why?”

He grins. “Because I’m so generous, obviously.” You narrow your eyes. “No, really. What’s the catch?”

He puts a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You think I’d trick you? I’m hurt.”

“Yes.”

Gojo just laughs and hands his card to the barista before you can argue further. You glare at him. “This better not be some elaborate scheme to hold this over my head later.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” he says cheerfully. “I plan to bring it up all the time.”

“Of course you do.” Your drink– tea to be specific– is ready a moment later. Begrudgingly, you take it, mumbling, “Thanks.” Gojo gasps, eyes wide. “Did you just thank me?” You exhale. “Never mind. I take it back.”

“No, no, it’s too late, you already said it.” He grins. “You like me.”

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you at best.” Gojo sips his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s basically the same thing.” You groan and turn to leave.

Thankfully he doesn’t make the move to follow you this time.

–

Your… somewhat friendly interaction with Sa—No, Gojo—was forgotten by the time the next week rolled around. Not deliberately, of course. But between your physics assignments, math problem sets, and an unrelenting pile of lecture notes to review, your brain had simply discarded the memory. College had a way of pushing everything that wasn’t directly necessary for survival to the furthest corners of your mind. Currently, you were in the library, hunched over a thick textbook, your fingers curled into your hair as you skimmed the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking.

You groaned, tilting your head back against the chair and letting your gaze drift to the high ceilings of the study space. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Your physics notes sat in front of you, covered in a desperate sprawl of formulas and diagrams, but the more you stared, the more meaningless the symbols became. You needed a break. Your eyes flickered toward the fiction section.

It wouldn’t hurt to get another book.

A moment later, you were standing in front of the shelves, fingers tracing the spines as you searched for the second book in the series. It didn’t take long to find—it was positioned neatly with the rest of the series, the cover slightly fading due to how long it had probably been there. As you turned to leave, your thumb brushed against the inside cover, where the borrowing card was located.

And there, scrawled in the same faded blue ink as before, were the initials:

G.S.

You paused. Your mystery commentator had been here before you. Again. You traced the letters absentmindedly, your mind flickering back to the first book. Their annotations had been witty, sometimes mocking, but always sharp. You had enjoyed them—more than you expected.

You flipped to the borrowing card. G.S. had checked out this book multiple times. At least three dates next to their initials. A strange feeling settled in your chest. Who were they? You shook your head, pushing the thought aside as you made your way to the borrowing counter. It doesn’t matter. It’s just some random person. Still, as you returned to your study space, setting the book beside your untouched notes, your fingers itched to open it.

You tried—really tried—to focus on physics. For maybe ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, you slid your textbook aside and cracked open the novel. This one picked up right where the last had left off—the protagonist, an ambitious scholar, now forced into an uneasy alliance with a rogue historian, both of them hunting for a long-lost manuscript said to contain the secrets of the universe. Their journey took them through ancient libraries, shadowy alleyways, and grand halls of academia filled with intrigue and suspense that you thoroughly enjoyed. 

It wasn’t long before you noticed the annotations.

"What an idiot. Why would you trust someone who literally betrayed you three chapters ago?" You huffed a quiet laugh. It was scrawled in the margins of a tense conversation between the protagonist and the historian, who had indeed been suspiciously untrustworthy.

Another note, a few pages later: "This argument is painfully dumb. If they just communicated, we wouldn’t need three more chapters of tension." You found yourself smiling. Whoever this was, they were blunt, maybe a bit cynical, but entertaining.

Then, another annotation caught your attention—this one different. It was scribbled beside a passage where the protagonist was deciphering an ancient mathematical equation, trying to understand the patterns behind the manuscript’s code. The handwriting was just as casual, but the content—

"This is basically just Fourier analysis but dressed up in fancy old-world academia. If the author actually wanted to be accurate, they’d at least mention waveforms. But nooo, we get poetic nonsense instead."

You blinked. That was… oddly specific. And not the kind of thing your average literature enthusiast would comment on. For a fleeting second, you wondered—

Does G.S. study physics?

The thought was strange, lingering in the back of your mind even as you continued reading. Minutes turned into hours. Slowly, students trickled out of the library. The rustling of papers faded, the soft murmur of whispered conversations disappearing into the silence of the near-empty study space. You didn’t notice.

Not until the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling that the library was closing soon. With a sigh, you shut the book, stretching your stiff limbs. Physics could wait a little longer.

–

A few days later, you found yourself in yet another grueling lecture. The classroom was buzzing with low chatter as students filtered in, some sleep-deprived, some over-caffeinated, and most looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. You were somewhere in the middle—tired but functional, flipping through your notes with half-hearted interest as you tried to prepare yourself for another two-hour session of mathematical physics. You adjusted your laptop screen, took a sip of your tea, and just as you settled in, you felt a presence.

A familiar, irritating presence. 

“Morning, rival,” Gojo Satoru said cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to you with all the grace of an avalanche. You didn’t even look up. “Go away.”

He tsked. “Is that any way to greet your favorite classmate?”

“You’re not my favorite classmate.” He grinned, propping his chin on one hand.

“Don’t lie. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here to make class interesting.”

You ignored him, resolutely staring at your notes. The professor arrived a moment later, quickly settling into the day’s topic—wave equations and their applications. The discussion meandered through standard examples, Fourier transforms, and the different methods used to break down complex waveforms.

You barely registered the name of the theory—just a fleeting recognition of something familiar—before you were back to jotting down notes. At first, you were focused, diligently taking notes and absorbing the information. For the first thirty minutes, you managed to avoid paying him any attention. You scribbled down notes, underlined important formulas, and even managed to listen without feeling the urge to slam your head into the desk.

But then—of course—Gojo had to open his mouth.

“So, hypothetically,” he mused, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students, “if we were to apply this to a broader model, say… nonlinear oscillations, wouldn’t that mean—”

You immediately frowned. He was already trying to sound smarter than he was.

“That’s not how that works,” you cut in before the professor could even acknowledge him. Gojo turned to you, looking far too entertained. “Yeah, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” You shifted in your seat, twisting to face him fully. “You can’t just apply Fourier analysis wherever you want and expect the results to be useful. Nonlinear oscillations don’t break down the same way because of the introduction of chaotic behavior—”

“Oh, come on,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand. “It’s not that deep. Sure, chaotic elements make things messier, but that doesn’t mean the framework is useless.”

You let out a sharp breath. “It means the entire assumption of the analysis changes. You can’t approximate a nonlinear system with linear components and expect the results to hold up—”

“You can if you use a perturbative approach,” he countered smoothly.

You almost growled. “A perturbative approach only works when the nonlinear term is small relative to the linear system. If the nonlinearities dominate, your entire model collapses.”

“Not always,” Gojo shot back, shifting in his seat with that insufferable smirk. “It depends on how well you construct the higher-order terms—”

You threw your hands up. “At that point, you might as well scrap Fourier analysis entirely and just use a different decomposition method!” A few students had stopped taking notes. Some were watching out of curiosity; others, out of sheer amusement.

Gojo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “But that wasn’t the question, was it? The point is that Fourier methods can still be useful, even if the system isn’t perfectly linear—”

You gritted your teeth. “Useful doesn’t mean accurate, dumbass.” Gojo gasped dramatically. “Did you just call me a dumbass? Right here? In front of our professor?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you stopped saying objectively incorrect things—”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re not right.”

“I am right.”

“No, you’re—”

A loud cough. You both froze. Slowly, you turned toward the front of the room, where the professor was staring at you both, unamused.

"Would you two care to bring your literary debate outside of my physics class?" You swallowed. Gojo scratched the back of his neck, looking entirely unbothered.

"...No, sir."

"Good," the professor said flatly. "Then kindly stop interrupting the lesson." You resisted the urge to sink into your chair. Gojo, of course, had the audacity to look amused. As the lecture resumed, you shot him a glare.

"This is your fault." 

He winked. You swore you were going to strangle him one day. As soon as class ended, you were out of your seat, shoving your laptop into your bag with slightly more force than necessary. Behind you, Gojo was taking his sweet time, stretching like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours actively making your life worse. “Man,” he sighed dramatically. “That was a great discussion, don’t you think? Nothing like a little intellectual sparring to keep the brain sharp—”

You spun around so fast he almost bumped into you. “Discussion?” you repeated incredulously. “That wasn’t a discussion, that was you talking out of your ass like usual.”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. You know, I feel like I say that phrase a lot. Would you prefer it if I said thee painfully wrench mine own heart with such careless words–”

You rolled your eyes and stormed out of the lecture hall, weaving through the crowd of students. Of course he followed, long strides easily keeping pace with yours. “I’m just saying,” he continued, completely ignoring your clear irritation, “it’s kind of funny how you always shoot me down but never actually prove me wrong—”

Your jaw clenched. “I do prove you wrong. Every time.” 

He smirked. “Do you, though?”

“Yes!” You turned on your heel, walking backward so you could glare at him properly. “Just because you talk like you know everything doesn’t mean you actually do—”

Gojo’s smirk widened. “So you do think I sound smart.” Your eye twitched.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sounds like that’s what you said.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“Only if you join me, sweets.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why, you don’t like being called sweets?–”

You groaned, turning back around and quickening your pace. You weren’t going to stand here and let him twist your words into whatever self-indulgent nonsense was brewing in his head. Gojo, naturally, kept up with ease. “You know, it’s weird how you always get so mad at me. Maybe you should work on that anger problem of yours.”

“Oh, I have an anger problem?” You spun around again, narrowing your eyes. “You’re literally the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” He tilted his head in mock thought. “I dunno, you seem to get pretty riled up over nothing—”

“You are nothing.”

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly genuine. “Damn, that was actually kinda good. You been practicing comebacks in the mirror?”

“Leave me alone, for the love of god, before I strangle you, bastard–”

“Oooh, kinky–.”

Before you could actually commit violence, someone stepped between you. “Alright, enough,” a smooth, tired voice interrupted. You looked up to see Suguru Geto, Gojo’s ever-patient best friend, standing between you with the exasperation of a man who had dealt with this before.

“Satoru,” he said, dragging a hand down his face, “leave her alone.” 

Gojo pouted. “But we were bonding.”

“We were not bonding,” you snapped. Suguru gave you a knowing look. “And you,” he sighed, “stop encouraging him.”

You scoffed. “Encouraging him? I—”

A hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You glanced up to see your own friend standing beside you, looking just as exasperated as Suguru. “Come on,” she muttered, tugging you away. “We’re going to lunch before you actually try to kill him.” You didn’t resist, only because the temptation was strong. But as you turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of Gojo flashing that stupid, insufferable grin at you.

You stuck your tongue out at him. Gojo only winked again in response. Why did he keep winking at you? It made you wanna puke. You definitely needed lunch. Maybe something very, very spicy.

–

You're sitting in your dorm again, cross-legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. The textbooks and notes are pushed to the side of your desk, proof that at some point you had every intention of being productive tonight. A third empty cup of tea is perched precariously on your nightstand, and the finished second and third books of the series stacked besides your laptop. 

It had been a slow burn, working your way through them between lectures and study sessions, but now, the empty feeling of finishing a book you enjoyed is settling in. Worse yet, it's late at night, which means you can't borrow the fourth book until tomorrow. The thought alone makes you sigh as you shut your laptop and flop back against the pillows.

You flipped open the third book, fingers brushing over the slightly worn borrowing card tucked inside. The neat, slanted initials ‘G.S.’ were there again, written in blue ink. And just like before, the pages had been marked with the same sharp, and sometimes frustratingly perceptive annotations that had made you laugh, scoff, and even—on some particularly well-argued points—begrudgingly nod along. Your mind drifts, replaying some of your favorite annotations from the books.

There was the one where G.S. had written, "Oh, he's totally gonna betray them," followed by a later note that read, "I CALLED IT. WHERE’S MY PRIZE?" That one had made you laugh out loud in the middle of the library, earning a few disapproving stares. Another one of your other favorites from the third book had been an annotation scrawled in the margins of a pivotal scene:

“The irony of this moment is almost painful. She sees herself as the heroine, but the real tragedy is that she’s just another character in someone else’s story.”

You had reread that line about five times before closing the book and staring at the ceiling, feeling somewhat existential. Another annotation had been pure sarcasm:

“Yes, because when faced with adversity, the best solution is always to run directly into danger. Genius.” That one had also made you laugh out loud in one of the study halls located in some part of your university, earning a weird look from the girl across the hall. But the annotation that had really stuck with you—really made you pause—was in the third book, written in response to a section that delved into the intricacies of time and choice:

“If you think about it, this entire dilemma can be broken down into a fundamental question of physics. If time is just another dimension, then isn’t every choice we make just another coordinate on an already-existing map? So is it really ‘free will’ if we’re just tracing a path that’s already there?”

That one had thrown you for a loop. It was the kind of thought that lingered, weaving its way into quiet moments when you least expected it. And, you hated to admit, it made you think—whoever this person was, they were kind of brilliant.You sighed, snapping the book shut. You needed to get the fourth one. Now. But a quick glance at your phone reminded you that it was almost midnight, and the library had closed hours ago. You groaned, letting your head submerge deeper into the pillows. You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly, until your eyes flicked to the messages her friend had sent earlier—recommendations for movies she’d been meaning to watch. You scrolled absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything interesting, until your thumb hovered over one title:

Whisper of the Heart.

Something about the name tugged at your memory. Wasn’t this the one with the girl who loved books and a mysterious boy who shared them? On a whim, you pressed play. The soft hum of the opening scene filled the quiet of her dorm, and soon, you were drawn in. The gentle storytelling, the warmth of the animation, the way the main character, Shizuku, slowly became obsessed with the name written in all the books she borrowed—

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your face grew hot as you sat up straighter, eyes darting to the books stacked beside you. You weren't doing that. Right?

…Were you? Because if you really thought about it—if you really thought about it—weren’t you kind of doing the same thing? You buried your face in your hands. This is so embarrassing. And yet, as you peeked between her fingers at the screen, you couldn’t help but draw the comparison between Seiji Amasawa and your mysterious, faceless G.S. Seiji had been intriguing, a presence felt long before he actually appeared. Just a name scribbled in books, a person she hadn’t met yet but somehow felt connected to. And wasn’t that exactly what G.S. was?

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed, kicking your feet against the mattress. “I need to stop,” you mumbled into your pillow, but your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. You didn’t even know this person. For all you knew, G.S. could be some forty-year-old professor or a girl who just happened to find the same series as you on the niche book guide you were on. And yet, there was this tiny, ridiculous, completely unserious part of you that wanted to believe—

What if it was some guy? A guy with sharp wit, someone who thought deeply about things most people glossed over, someone who liked this series enough to leave behind thoughts for others to find. A guy who— No. Nope. Nope. You were not about to mentally script herself into some shoujo romance anime over marginalia.

But the damage was done. Because now, your brain had latched onto the idea, spinning daydreams faster than you could stop them. Some dramatic, cinematic first meeting. Some passing moment where you’d reach for a book, and a hand—slender fingers, ink-stained maybe—would brush against yours, and you’d look up and—

You shot up again, shaking your head violently. God, this is pathetic. But even as you scolded herself, you couldn’t wipe the stupid little smile off your face. You were allowed to have a little fun, right? Just a tiny bit of harmless romanticising? You collapsed back into the pillows, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as the movie played on. And as Shizuku’s voice echoed through the room, musing about stories, destiny, and the people we stumble upon by chance, you thought—just for a second—Maybe, maybe, you kind of liked this. The idea of it all. The way life sometimes felt like a story waiting to unfold. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s unrealistic—but right now, in the quiet of your dorm, with the soft glow of your laptop screen and the remnants of Whisper of the Heart playing in the background, you don’t really care.

–

Satoru Gojo had always been considered a prodigy. A genius. Someone born with an innate brilliance that set him apart from others. It had been that way since he was a child—where other kids had to struggle and study, he breezed through school without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just academics, either. He was quick-witted, sharp, and effortlessly charming in a way that made people gravitate toward him. But when you grow up with everyone expecting greatness from you, it becomes suffocating. 

So he learned to play the fool.

It started as a mask—being overly cheery, always teasing, never taking things too seriously. It was easier that way. No one could see the weight of expectations if he always had a grin on his face. And at some point, the mask became second nature. Satoru Gojo, the carefree, insufferable genius. The only person he could ever drop it around was Suguru. His best friend, the one person who could keep up with him, who understood what it meant to carry something too heavy to put into words. Then, freshman year of university, he saw you.

He had noticed you before—how could he not? You were diligent, meticulous in a way that fascinated him. You always sat at the front of the class, always had color-coded notes, always took everything so seriously. And maybe that was what caught his attention first. You were everything he wasn’t. Where he coasted through life, you worked hard for it. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t quite know how to communicate with someone. So he did what he always did. He teased.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” he cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” He had meant it playfully. A joke. But the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes flickered with irritation, made something click in his brain. You didn’t like him. And yet, he couldn’t stop teasing you. Even when he knew it annoyed you, even when he knew you hated him. Maybe it was because you challenged him. Maybe it was because, for once, someone didn’t look at him like he was untouchable. Or maybe it was because he liked you.

Not just because you were pretty—though you were, infuriatingly so—but because you were determined. Because you cared about things deeply. Because you fascinated him in a way nothing else did. He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood something, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you were nervous when results came out. It was all so... endearing.

And maybe that’s why he finds himself watching you sometimes—when you’re scribbling furiously in your notebook, when you’re biting the end of your pen in deep thought, when you’re rolling your eyes at something he says but still, still responding. He watches, because for the first time, someone makes him want to understand more than just equations and theories. And if the only way to keep your attention was by being your rival, then so be it.

–

The next morning, you had a practical class, a hands-on session designed to reinforce the theory you’d been learning. Since it was held in a laboratory, students were sorted into small groups to share lab tables. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—you weren’t grouped with Satoru, but by some cruel twist of fate, his group was at the same table as yours. The setup was simple: four students per group, two groups per table.

A long, clean expanse of black lab benches stretched across the room, each one covered with neatly arranged equipment: a set of metal ramps, photogates, a timer, and a set of small carts. Today’s experiment was a classic: measuring acceleration using a motion sensor. Each group was supposed to release a cart down a ramp and use the photogates to measure velocity changes over time. Simple, right? Satoru, of course, had already started causing trouble before the experiment even began.

“You know, it’s kinda unfair that I wasn’t put in your group,” he mused, leaning against the lab bench with a smirk. “Would’ve been fun watching you pretend to know more than me.” You didn’t even look up as you adjusted the height of the ramp, focusing on making sure it was aligned properly. “Oh please, Gojo, you would’ve just copied all my calculations and then taken credit for my hard work.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d let you take, like, fifty percent of the credit.” Your lab partner snorted beside you, shaking their head as they double-checked the photogate placement. Satoru, undeterred, watched as you bent over to place the cart at the starting position. His group was still setting up, which meant he had time to bother you before he actually had to do any work.

“I bet my group’s results will be more accurate than yours,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing him a glance. “You do know accuracy depends on precision and minimising errors, right? Which means—” you motioned to his group, where one of them was currently struggling with the timer, “—your chances of that happening are slim to none.” 

Before he could retort, your professor called for everyone’s attention, signalling the start of the experiment. Both of you fell into your respective tasks, measuring, calculating, and recording values with practiced ease. You got so caught up in fine-tuning your results that Satoru didn’t get the chance to throw more taunts your way. That was until, while waiting for your next trial to begin, you turned to your friend beside you, excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my god, I finally watched Whisper of the Heart last night,” you gushed, voice dropping into that high-pitched, dreamy tone reserved for things you were completely obsessed with. Your friend gasped, clutching your arm. “Stop. You did not.”

“I did.”

“DID YOU CRY?”

“OBVIOUSLY.” 

Satoru, who had been focused on adjusting his group’s ramp, stilled slightly. He knew that movie. More than that, he could predict exactly why you were talking about it. Casually, he glanced over, pretending to check his photogate readings while shamelessly eavesdropping. Your friend squeezed your arm excitedly. “I told you it was perfect. The vibes, the music, the slow-burn romance. Tell me you loved Seiji.”

“Oh, I loved Seiji,” you sighed, eyes sparkling. “Like, the way he was so ambitious but still so soft? And the way he believed in her? And the fact that he left little signs for her without even realizing how much they’d mean?” You could feel yourself getting lost in the emotions of it, and your friend was right there with you, nodding along enthusiastically. “It was so romantic,” she said dreamily. “The idea of someone quietly believing in you and pushing you forward. It’s just—”

“SO good,” you finished for her, and the two of you squealed quietly before catching yourselves and trying to focus again. Then, almost absentmindedly, you added, “Honestly, I feel like I’m in Whisper of the Heart right now.” Your friend perked up. “How so?”

You nudged her lightly. “Because of G.S.”

Satoru, who had been handling the cart for his next trial, fumbled slightly. Your friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “No way. You mean your G.S.?” 

You groaned. “Don’t call him that. But yeah. The whole leaving-annotations-in-the-books thing? And how I keep borrowing them? It’s totally giving Seiji and Shizuku. Like yeah I kinda sound corny right now–”

“Not really honestly, I get it–”

“Exactly! See? I knew I wasn’t crazy. Imagine G.S is like Seiji– scratch that, imagine he’s better, like some sweet, studious, hot book nerd–”

Satoru swallowed, suddenly feeling warm despite the sterile chill of the lab. You thought he was like Seiji? More than that, you thought G.S could perhaps even be better than Seiji? That was—that was something.

“And next week,” you continued, stretching your arms over your head, “after I finish studying, I’m going to borrow the next book.”

Satoru barely heard the rest of the conversation after that. His brain had latched onto one horrifying realisation—

The last four books weren’t annotated. Oh, shit. He hadn’t really expected you to grow this attached to his stupid thoughts scribbled on the edges of the frayed pages, hadn’t expected you to burn through the series so fast. He completely forgot that he didn’t bother annotating the last few books because he had gotten so busy with work. But you had just sat there, eyes sparkling, gushing about his notes like they were some grand romantic mystery. You liked them. You liked his words. Not just the books themselves but the tiny, scribbled thoughts he had left behind. Satoru’s stomach did a weird little flip. It seemed to be doing that a lot every time his nosy ass overheard you talking about his writing.

You really liked his writing. The writing you’d been gushing for about two weeks now. You really found it special. You liked it so much that the thought of continuing the series without it made his chest ache. Because what if you borrowed the next one and found nothing? What if you flipped through the pages, searching for his voice, only to be disappointed? No. No way. That wasn’t happening. Initially he had done it as a way to, y’know, simply yap, maybe desecrate the pages of a book from a library with his oh so superior commentary. But now? He was going to do this for you. Because the way you had talked about Whisper of the Heart—the way your face had gone soft and dreamy, the way your voice had gotten all excited—he wanted that. He wanted to hear you talk about how much you enjoyed the little quips that made their way into his head every time he read something. He wanted to be the reason you spoke like that again. Maybe it was pathetic, but he wanted– really wanted to once again be the reason why your cheeks slightly went pink when your friend called him yours. Even if they were his initials, they were his, and it insinuated he belonged to you, right?

The second class ended, Satoru bolted. There was no time to waste. He had four books to annotate, and he didn’t care if it took him all night. If you wanted G.S., then G.S. was going to be there.

–

Satoru burst into his dorm, heart pounding as he dumped his bag onto the floor. His fingers fumbled with the zipper as he yanked it open, pulling out the four books you were inevitably going to borrow next. He stacked them on his desk, staring at them like they were some kind of urgent mission—because they were. You liked his notes. You liked his notes. That thought alone sent a weird, warm feeling blooming in his chest. He flopped into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply. This wasn’t just about keeping up the act anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining the mystery of G.S. or feeding into some casual curiosity you had. No, this was about you. About the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the books. The way you had called him—unknowingly, of course—your own Seiji. The way you were so excited to continue the series, fully expecting to find more of his little thoughts nestled between the pages. He wasn’t going to let you down.

Satoru grabbed the first book off the stack and flipped it open, his pen poised over the margins. He scribbled his initials in the borrowing card in the same blue ink that he always used– he always thought the blueness of the ink was much better than any other pen colour out there. Before he started reading, he did this in all the library cards, and made sure that the date corresponded to the previous dates– so you wouldn’t think it was suspicious that the last remaining books were all borrowed on the same day. He then started reading—not just skimming, but really reading, more carefully than he ever had before. Thankfully he did remember the plot of the first three books, so catching up with what was going on wasn’t too hard. Every sentence was weighed, every line considered. What would make you pause? What would make you smile?

When he hit a particularly poetic passage, he underlined it and wrote in the margin: Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing.

He smirked to himself. If only you knew. 

A few pages later, he found a scene with the protagonist staring out a train window, deep in thought. The description was vivid, full of melancholic longing. He tapped the pen against his lips before jotting down: Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? He could already imagine you reading it, tilting your head slightly, considering his words. Would you reply in your head? Would you wonder what kind of person wrote something like that? The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he leaned in closer, more invested than ever. Hours passed, but he barely noticed. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as he worked, annotating with a mix of teasing, sincerity, and the occasional cryptic remark just to mess with you. In the fifth book of the series, there was a passage about finding comfort in routine—about how little, familiar things could feel like home. He thought back to all the times during your early morning classes, how you’d bring a steaming thermos filled with a tea of some kind, something to sip on while you reviewed the lecture slides before the professor started the lecture. The half cold tea in that same thermos, he’d seen you nursing it outside the exam hall before a midterm while your eyes furiously scanned your meticulous, colour coded notes. Satoru probably guessed that it was a habit of yours– to have a warm comforting drink while you read– lecture notes, physics textbooks, or fiction.

He hesitated for a second before writing: Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this. 

Would you pause when you read that? Would you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe G.S knew you? That someone had been paying attention? Or maybe you’d think he’s just like you? The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him. By the time he reached the second last book, his hand was cramping, but he didn’t care. He stretched briefly before diving back in. This one had more banter between the characters, something he knew you loved. He played into it, adding sarcastic commentary in the margins. When the heroine had a particularly dramatic internal monologue, he scribbled: Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

He could already hear your reaction. The annoyed little huff, the way you’d roll your eyes but secretly love it. You always did have a tendency to refute things first, only to realise you enjoyed them later. He’d sometimes see it in the way when you’d roll your eyes or let out a disapproving noise at Satoru plainly criticising one of the professors under his breath during a lecture– but Satoru’s eyes were sharp, he never missed the smallest twitch of your lips as soon as you’d finished your melodramatics. The last book was the longest, and by then, the city outside his window had gone quiet. His dorm was dim except for the glow of his lamp, and his body was buzzing with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. He was too far in now, too absorbed in the thought of you reading all of this soon. This book had a recurring theme about missed chances—about words left unsaid and moments that could have changed everything if only someone had spoken up. It hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully underlined a sentence: Sometimes, we don’t realise what we mean to someone until it’s too late.

Beneath it, he wrote: I hope this never applies to y̶o̶u̶ whoever is reading this.

And then– and then he wrote another little thing, but it felt a bit too intimate, a bit too revealing so he neatly crossed it out. His pen hovered over the page for a moment. That was the most honest thing he had written all night. Satoru exhaled, rubbing his eyes before sitting back, staring at the stack of books now filled with his thoughts. He had done it. You wouldn’t get a single blank page. You’d find him in every single one.

–

Satoru strolled across campus with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, weighed down by four thick novels. The books—now thoroughly marked up, pages lined with his messy scrawl—felt heavier than they should have, but maybe that was just him. He’d spent the entire night annotating them, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or think about anything that wasn’t you reading his words. Now, all he had to do was return them before you got to the library. He wasn’t about to let you see him checking them in like some lovesick idiot. He carefully managed to place them back on the shelf after scanning them as ‘unborrowed’.  He was a few steps from the library doors when someone rounded the corner, and before he could react—

Bam. The collision wasn’t hard, just enough to jostle him off balance, and he barely had time to reach out and steady you before you could stumble back. “Damn, could at least pretend to watch where you’re going,” he drawled, glancing down at you with a smirk. “Or do you just like running into me?”

You scoffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I totally planned that. Just desperate to bump into you of all people.”

“Oh, come on,” he teased, stepping aside so you could walk past him. “If you wanted an excuse to see me, you could’ve just said so.” You rolled your eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m actually on my way to the library, unlike some people who just loiter around.”

His grip on his tote bag tightened for half a second, but he kept his expression easy, unreadable. “Library, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I finished this book from a series I’m actually enjoying, so I figured I’d borrow the next one today.” You didn’t even know why you told him that, but you figured it was an improvement from the usual bickering you two always had going on. He hummed, nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. Well…” He took a step back, flashing a lazy grin. “Have fun with that.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you sound weird?”

“I always sound weird.”

“Yeah, but more than usual.” 

Satoru shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” You stared at him suspiciously for another second before shaking your head. “Whatever.” And with that, you pushed past him, making your way toward the library doors. Satoru watched you go, fighting the smug grin threatening to take over his face. He could already picture it—the way you’d flip through the pages, expecting plain text, only to find the familiar, scrawled handwriting in the margins. He wondered if you’d smile. If you’d talk about it again the way you had in class. He shook his head to himself, finally turning away. Yeah. He was so in trouble.

–

You settled into your usual spot at the campus café, tucking yourself into the corner by the window with the newly borrowed books. Yes, books. Not a book. You figured that if there were just four more books left in the series, you’d just borrow them now, instead of continuing the annoying walk from your dorm or lecture rooms to the library. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee beans wrapped around you, grounding you in your routine.

With your drink beside you and your phone silenced, you flipped the fourth book open, eager to dive in. You didn’t even bother to check the borrowing card this time, neither had you written your own name in it yet, heart beating a little faster as you childishly hoped that the familiar cursive scrawls were still present in the weathered pages.  You had barely made it past the first few pages when your eyes caught something in the margins next to one of the more romantic lines.

Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing. You blinked. Your stomach did an odd little flip, completely unprovoked. Honestly speaking, your heart did that little flip more in regards to the familiar blue handwriting rather than the line on the page. You knew exactly whose handwriting that was. 

G.S. had struck again. A slow smile pulled at your lips as you traced the ink with your fingertip. You had gotten so used to these notes, the little jokes, the occasional deep thoughts, that it almost felt like a conversation now. Like you weren’t reading alone, but with someone who understood exactly what you’d linger on, what you’d pause to appreciate. And yet… something about this one felt slightly different. You glanced at the ink again. It looked a little… darker? Not as faded as some of the earlier notes in the series.

You frowned slightly but shook the thought away. Maybe it was just your imagination. You kept reading. A few pages later, the protagonist stared out of a train window, lost in thought. The description was melancholic, vivid, and all too relatable.

Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? You exhaled sharply through your nose. Yeah, you thought. All the damn time. You tapped your fingers against the table, feeling that same strange connection as before. Whoever G.S. was, they had a way of making their presence known—not just through the words they chose to underline, but in the little thoughts they left behind, the questions they posed, the moments they chose to comment on. It was like they could hear your thoughts before you even formed them, like they knew exactly where your mind would linger on the page.

The sun dipped lower outside the arched windows of the campus café, casting long shadows across the floor as golden light pooled over the tables. The afternoon crowd had begun to thin, students trickling out one by one, their conversations fading into the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of cups behind the counter. The once-busy space was quieter now, more intimate, like the world had momentarily shrunk down to just you and the book in your hands. You traced the ink of the latest annotation with your thumb, barely skimming the words but feeling them all the same. It was a strange thing—to be so affected by someone you had never even met. Had you met them? The question pressed at the edges of your mind, unspoken yet persistent. The specificity of some of these notes, the way they seemed to know you—it made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t quite sure how to name.

You glanced at the café entrance, as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching you, waiting to see your reaction. But no one lingered. Just the usual stragglers—people buried in their own work, in their own stories. Still, the feeling remained. With a quiet exhale, you pulled your focus back to the page and turned it, sinking further into the book. The story continued, but now, each annotation felt like something more. Like a conversation waiting to happen. And by the time you could hear the cicadas chirping outside, you had successfully finished the fourth book.

–

Your luck today had been astoundingly awful. The first sign was your hair—a complete disaster from the moment you woke up. Brushing it down did nothing. Water made it worse. Mousse? A grave mistake. You finally resorted to tying it up, accepting defeat. Then came the sharp pain on your forehead, a telltale sign of a forming pimple, because of course your skin had decided to betray you too. But the true betrayal came from your kettle, which, after years of faithful service, had chosen this morning to stop working. No tea. No caffeine. No hope. And now? Now, as if the universe hadn’t already tested you enough, you were seated next to Gojo Satoru, his chair pushed obnoxiously close, his long legs stretching out under the desk like he owned the place. His expression was insufferably smug, like he had personally orchestrated all of this just to get under your skin.

Have you ever mentioned that you shared more than one class with Gojo? Sure, you were both in the same physics course, but once again, your luck with picking extra subjects was nothing short of terrible. That’s how you ended up in psychology—a field that couldn’t be further from the world of physics you were so deeply immersed in. You had figured it would be a nice change, to explore a different kind of science. 

Unfortunately, a certain white haired freak seemed to share the same thought process. 

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “We’re not choosing your dumb topic.”  Gojo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Excuse you, my brilliant topic.”

“You want to write about the psychology of humor.”

“Exactly! It’s fascinating.” He grinned. “What makes something funny? Why do people laugh? Why am I so naturally hilarious?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re in a psychology class, Gojo, not a stand-up workshop.”

“And yet, humor is deeply psychological.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe if you had a better sense of humor, you’d agree with me.” You scowled. “I have a perfectly fine sense of humor.”

“Sure you do,” he teased, “in the same way a brick has mobility.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not doing a research paper on why people laugh.”

“And I’m not doing one on cognitive dissonance,” he shot back, drumming his fingers against the desk. “It’s been done to death.”

“It’s interesting,” you argued. “It actually ties into real-world behavior.”

“So does humor.” You stared him down. He stared right back, his lips curving just slightly, like he was having the time of his life getting you riled up.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Gojo snorted. “What are we, five?” You held out a fist. He sighed, then did the same.

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Your scissors to his rock. Your eye twitched. His grin was downright gleeful. “Looks like we’re writing about humor.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’ll thank me when we get a great grade.” You grumbled something under your breath, flipping open your notebook to at least try and plan the assignment. You weren’t about to let him ruin your GPA over jokes. But Gojo wasn’t looking at the notebook. He wasn’t even thinking about the project anymore. His gaze lingered on the way a few wisps of hair had escaped your ponytail, framing your face. He wasn’t used to seeing your hair tied back—it made your features more striking, somehow. It made him notice the little things, like the way your brow creased when you were annoyed, or the way your lips pursed slightly when you were trying really hard not to snap at him. And it was funny. All morning, you’d been looking at him like he was a headache, while he… well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t kind of enjoying himself. He propped his chin in his palm, watching you jot something down in your notebook.

“You know,” he mused, “for someone who’s so against my topic, you sure do make me laugh a lot.” You shot him a suspicious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Gojo smirked. “Just an observation.” You scoffed. “An annoyance is not the same thing as amusement.”

“Tell that to your cognitive dissonance.” You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, something distracted you. A shift in the air, a fleeting scent—something clean and warm, like cedar and the lingering spice of cologne. You blinked. You didn’t know why you noticed it now, of all times, but the way he smelled was… oddly pleasant. You shook it off, focusing on your notes again. Only, now you were very aware of other things, too—like the fact that his hand, resting casually on the desk, was a lot bigger than yours. His fingers were long, his knuckles prominent, and his nails were annoyingly well-groomed for someone who clearly put zero effort into most things. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to refocus. It’s just Gojo, you told yourself. He’s just being annoying. As usual. I’m probably ovulating or something. Gojo, meanwhile, had caught the way your eyes flickered over to him, how you quickly looked away after.

He tilted his head. “Something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, deadpan. “How fast I can finish this project so I don’t have to deal with you.” Gojo chuckled, and despite yourself, you felt the sound of it—low and amused, like he found you far too entertaining. “Oh, sweets,” Gojo drawled, his voice lilting with amusement, “no way in hell am I gonna let you finish this project fast enough to escape me. C’mon, in our three beautiful years of rivalry, you’ve never once tried to get to know me—”

“Let’s just start the project,” you cut him off, already pulling out your stationery and notebook, flipping to a fresh page with more force than necessary. You barely resisted the urge to groan at the topic glaring back at you. Humour. Ugh.

Gojo, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t even have to try—he just always noticed things. The way your lips pressed into a thin line, how your fingers fidgeted with the cap of your pen, how your shoulders tensed slightly, like you were already resigning yourself to suffering through an assignment you hated. His smirk faded—just a little. And then, before he could think about it too hard, he sighed.

“You know what?” he said, nudging his notebook aside. “Screw it. Let’s do your topic.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, waving a hand. “Cognitive dissonance, weird little psychology experiments, all that jazz. It’s fine.”

Your eyes narrowed. “This feels like a trick.”

“Wow, you think that low of me?,” he said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I am capable of compromise, you know.”

You gave him a flat look. “Since when?”

Gojo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, watching you with a lazy kind of curiosity.

“Seriously, though. If you hate my topic that much, let’s just do yours. No big deal.”

You stared at him, suspicious. Gojo Satoru? Giving up? It felt wrong.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes further. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” he insisted, but the way he said it, all breezy and casual, made you even more suspicious.

“… You want me to owe you a favor, don’t you?”

He gasped, scandalised. “Sweets, I would never manipulate you like that.”

You scoffed. “You absolutely would.”

“Okay, yeah, I would,” he admitted easily, grinning. “But this isn’t that.”

You hesitated, drumming your fingers against the notebook. Then, you exhaled, shaking your head. “No. We’ll do humor.”

Now he was the one taken aback. “Huh?”

“I don’t want to hear you complain about how boring cognitive dissonance is for the next two weeks,” you said, scribbling down a rough outline. “And you’re actually interested in humor, so we’ll get it done faster.”

Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“Hold on. You’re giving in?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making it weird.” His grin was slow, teasing, like he had just won something. “This is, like, a historic moment. I should get it framed.”

“Gojo.”

“I mean, imagine if people knew—”

“Gojo.”

“—that you actually care about my interests? That you—gasp—want to make me happy?” You kicked him under the desk.

“Ow!” He laughed, rubbing his shin. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it.”

“But really,” he said, still grinning, “this is kinda nice.”

You quirked a brow. “What is?”

He shrugged, tilting his head. “Usually, we’re arguing for ourselves. This is the first time we’ve argued over, like, what’s better for the other person.” Your lips parted slightly. You hadn’t thought about it like that. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, absurdly, a little laugh slipped out of you. Just a small one, but it was enough to make Gojo’s eyes flicker with amusement. And before you knew it, he was laughing, too. It wasn’t even that funny, but somehow, the realisation of how ridiculous this entire thing had been—bickering for fifteen minutes over who should get their way only to insist on the opposite—had you both quietly shaking with laughter in the middle of the library.

“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breathless. “Let’s get this outline done before we completely fail this class.”

“I’d never fail,” Gojo said, flipping open his notebook. “I’m naturally brilliant.”

“You would if I weren’t here keeping you on track.”

He grinned. “See? You like being my partner.” You rolled your eyes, but as you both started drafting the project together, something about this—about working with him, actually working—felt… nice. And even though he was still Gojo, still distracting, still annoying, still insufferably smug, for once, he didn’t feel like an opponent. He just felt like Satoru. Not Gojo, but Satoru. Of course, the moment things got too productive, he ruined it.

“Y’know,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, “I am gonna make sure our humor project includes at least one joke at your expense.”

You deadpanned. “Then I’m making sure our references include an article on the psychological effects of annoying classmates.”

Gojo gasped. “I would love to read that.”

You smacked his arm with your notebook. And, as usual, he just laughed. You two managed to get a lot of the work done– not just a solid outline of your project, but the finer details too. Gojo suddenly shoved his chair back, standing up so abruptly that you startled. “I need to do something,” he announced, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. You frowned, confused. “What? Where are you going?”

“Just wait here,” he said, already turning on his heel. Your brows furrowed. “Wait—what? Gojo—”

“Just wait!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. You stared at the empty space where he had been, utterly bewildered. What the hell was that about? For a moment, you debated packing up your stuff and leaving just to be petty, but curiosity got the better of you. Huffing, you tapped your pen against your notebook, drumming your fingers impatiently. Three minutes passed. Then five. Then—

Gojo reappeared, striding back toward your table with an obnoxiously triumphant grin. In one hand, he held two drinks, in the other, a small paper bag. He set them down in front of you like he was presenting some kind of grand prize.

You stared. “... What is this?”

“Snacks,” he said, like it was obvious. “I see that,” you said, eyeing the drinks. One was clearly milk tea—yours, probably—but the other was some sugary monstrosity topped with whipped cream, which was obviously his. “But why?”

“Well, we’ve been working,” he said easily, plopping back into his seat. “Figured we deserved a break.” You blinked, then looked down at the tea again. It smelled… exactly how you usually ordered it.

Suspicion prickled at you. “Did you—did you get this on purpose?” 

Gojo took a sip of his own drink, unbothered. “Yeah?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what I drink?”

Gojo shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just noticed that one time when I ended up paying for it.”

You paused. The thought of Gojo Satoru noticing anything about you—remembering how you liked your tea, going out of his way to get it without even asking—made your brain short-circuit for a second. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, so you just focused on unrolling the top of the pastry bag, peering inside. There were two croissants—one chocolate, one plain.

“… Okay, but the pastries?”

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got both.” You squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He smirked. “Sure it does. If you like chocolate, I got it right. If you don’t, more for me.” You stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Unbelievably thoughtful?” he supplied.

“Unbelievably annoying.”

Gojo grinned. “That too.” Rolling your eyes, you took the chocolate croissant anyway, breaking off a piece. The tea was still warm when you took a sip, and you hated that it was perfect—hated that Gojo Satoru of all people had somehow memorized exactly how you liked it. He propped his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched you. “Y’know, for someone who’s been roasting me for the last five minutes, you seem to be enjoying that a lot.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.” He only laughed, reaching for his own pastry. “No promises.”

–

Over the next week, you and Gojo fell into an oddly stable rhythm. It wasn’t immediate—nothing with Gojo ever was—but slowly, the sharp edges of your interactions dulled. The bickering still happened, but it felt different, less like clashing swords and more like an inside joke neither of you wanted to drop. Your study sessions were always in the same corner of the library, where Gojo insisted on pushing the limits of how far back he could tilt his chair before it inevitably crashed to the floor.

(“Gojo, if you fall and crack your head open, I’m not calling an ambulance.”

“Nah, you totally would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would, sweets. You like me too much to let me die like that.”)

You’d grumble and go back to your notes, but a traitorous part of you was starting to find his antics almost… endearing. Your actual progress on the project was steady. It surprised you—Gojo might’ve been infuriating, but when he actually focused, he was sharp. He had a way of cutting through useless information, pinpointing the most interesting angle on a subject, making connections you hadn’t considered. Begrudgingly, you kind of understood why he was always neck to neck with you in grades.

(“So, humor as a psychological coping mechanism?”

“Mhm.”

“And you want to include self-deprecating humor as a subsection?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s like, prime material.”

“You literally never make fun of yourself.”

“I make fun of myself all the time.”

You scoffed. “Oh, really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. I mean, look at me—six-foot-three, gorgeous, built like a god—my life is so hard, y’know?”

You stared at him. “That was not self-deprecating.”

“No?” He shrugged, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do something weird. “Maybe I just want you to compliment me.”

You threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head.) 

There were… moments. Small, fleeting things you didn’t know what to do with. Like the time your pen rolled off the table and he picked it up, spinning it between his fingers before handing it back to you, and you noticed—really noticed—how big his hands were. Or how, sometimes, when he was reading something on your laptop, he’d lean in too close, and you’d catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, but with something warm underneath. You ignored these things. Obviously. 

But then came the gym. You were only there because you needed to de-stress. The project had been long, your classes demanding, and you just wanted to move your body and clear your head. You weren’t expecting to see him there. At first, you didn’t even realize it was Gojo. You were just filling your water bottle, minding your business, when your gaze flickered to the squat rack and landed on a very tall, very shirtless figure. And then your brain short-circuited. Because it was Gojo.

And Gojo was—

Built.

Like, really built. You had known he was tall. You had known he was in shape. But knowing and seeing were two different things. His usual oversized hoodies and button-ups had hidden the fact that his entire torso was carved like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a defined chest, abs for days and—

Your gaze dropped lower.

—Happy trail. Something inside you malfunctioned. Because, okay, fine, sure—objectively speaking, Gojo Satoru was attractive. You had always known that. But this? This was different. This was some kind of cruel joke. This was the universe personally handing you a vision of a half-naked Gojo and saying, Hey, enjoy struggling with this one! You were staring. Oh, god, you were staring. You needed to leave. You were about to spin on your heel and get the hell out of there, but that was when he noticed you. His gaze locked onto yours in the mirror, and something slow and amused curled across his lips.

“Yo,” he called, turning around fully now, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were so close to pretending you hadn’t heard him, but there were only so many places to run. You forced yourself to walk over, as if this was normal, as if your brain hadn’t just imploded from seeing Gojo Satoru shirtless. “You work out?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel, and you hated that even that was distracting.

“Yes, Gojo, I work out,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. He grinned. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugged, all easy confidence and knowing smirks. “You don’t exactly look like the gym type, sweets.”

“Because I don’t look like I can deadlift a hundred kilos?” you shot back. 

He tilted his head. “Can you?”

“… No.” 

He laughed, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Then I rest my case.” You scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re staring,” he quipped, and your breath caught in your throat. Your face heated. “I—I am not.” His smirk deepened. “Sure you aren’t.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to school your expression into something neutral. You refused to let him know he was right. But as you turned on your heel and all but stomped to another part of the gym, you could still feel his gaze on you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it. 

The next day, you almost considered canceling your study session. Not because you were avoiding Gojo. Obviously. You were just busy. Lots of work. Essays. Big academic responsibilities. But you weren’t a coward. (And okay, fine, maybe a tiny part of you was curious to see if things would be normal again. Not that things were weird, but—well. Whatever.) When you arrived at the library, Gojo was already there, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, lazily flipping through his notes.

“Look who decided to show up,” he said without looking up. You dropped your bag onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.” He smirked. “Feisty today, huh?” You ignored him, pulling out your laptop. “Did you actually get any work done?”

He held up a single, crumpled page. 

You groaned. “Gojo.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning forward, “in my defense, I was busy yesterday.” You knew exactly what he was referencing. You refused to react. Instead, you snatched the page from his hands. “We’re never finishing this at this rate.” 

Gojo leaned on his hand, watching you with a lazy smile. “Maybe I just like dragging this out so I can keep seeing you.”

Your fingers twitched around your pen.

He was messing with you. Obviously. That was what he did. But it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered sometimes. Or the way your stomach dipped when he said things like that. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re getting this done today, whether you like it or not.”

“Bossy,” he murmured, still watching you. You gave him a look. And then you got to work. And as much as you hated to admit it, your study sessions with Gojo had started to feel… comfortable. It was weird. In some ways, nothing had changed—you still bickered, still teased, still rolled your eyes at each other every five minutes. But there was something different underneath it now, something you couldn’t quite name. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Not yet.

–

The lecture hall was packed, the dull hum of students settling in filling the air as you pulled out your notes. Today’s topic was something about fluid dynamics—not that you were paying too much attention. Mostly because you were tired. And, maybe, because there was a certain someone sitting behind you.  You don’t know when or why it had started– maybe it was the fact that you’d, well, always been deprived of male attention (since you were hyper focused on academics instead. Those men won’t bring you scholarships, but your GPA will!), or the fact that you had seen him multiple times in the past weeks without feeling the urge to rip his head off, or maybe you actually were ovulating, you hadn’t checked your cycle on your period tracking app yet but it was likely—

You had been doing your best to ignore it, to ignore him, but Gojo had a way of making his presence known. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, you were now even more hyper aware of him—the occasional shift of his chair, the absentminded tapping of his pen against the desk, the quiet sighs of boredom that you knew were dramatic. And then, just as you were finally starting to concentrate, you felt it. A presence leaning in behind you, the faintest brush of breath against your ear.

“Sweets,” Gojo whispered, his voice low, teasing.

Your whole body went rigid. “What,” you hissed, barely moving your lips, keeping your eyes trained on the professor at the front of the room.

“There’s a fatal flaw in this lecture,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. You refused to turn around. “Gojo, I swear—”

“I mean, really,” he continued, like you hadn’t spoken, “how can they expect us to focus on physics when you’re sitting right in front of me?” Your grip on your pen tightened. Your face was definitely heating up. Slowly, finally, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics?”

Gojo grinned, chin resting on his palm, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m not flirting. I’m just… y’know… testing like behaviourism, or whatever.”

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to react. Noticing your silence, his smirk grew.

“Or,” he whispered, tilting his head, “is the idea of me flirting with you not so bad?” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Then you turned back around, focusing very hard on your notes, pretending you hadn’t heard him, pretending your heart wasn’t doing something very annoying in your chest. Behind you, Gojo chuckled softly, and you could feel his smirk.

You hated him. You hated him. Nah, you didn’t.  You just… now mildly disliked him.

–

By the time the physics final rolled around, your life had been reduced to a frantic cycle of cramming formulas, flipping through notes, and barely surviving on caffeine. The psychology project with Gojo had taken up way more time than you expected—not just because of the work itself, but because of him. His constant presence, his insufferable teasing, the way he somehow made long study sessions more bearable with his antics. It was irritatingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him, and by the time you’d turned in your joint paper, you were too mentally exhausted to even think about anything else. Which was probably why you forgot about book five. When you finally let yourself have a break, that you found it tucked away in your bag.

The sight of it sent a flicker of guilt through your chest—you’d been so eager to read it, and then you just… hadn’t. You curled up by the window, the campus café bustling quietly in the background, warm drink in hand as you flipped open the book. This one was slightly smaller than the other ones in terms of length– you’d be able to finish it in an hour or so. The familiarity of the prose was comforting, like stepping back into a world you knew well. And then, right beside a passage about finding comfort in the little things—the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet joy of returning to a familiar book—was an annotation.

Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Okay. That was… oddly specific.

A chill—not unpleasant, but strange—crept up your spine. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the fact that G.S. knew this about you. It was as if they’d noticed your habit of your love of tea. But it was probably a coincidence. I mean, tea is enjoyed by millions of people in the world, right? You exhaled slowly, shaking the feeling off as you flipped a few more pages. The wittiness of the quips grew, and you eagerly read through each one with heightened interest. In about forty five minutes, you had managed to finish the fifth book with ease. Since you had some free time to spare, you started on the second last book.

The first note you came across was pure sarcasm, scrawled beside a particularly dramatic inner monologue from the protagonist.

Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. The teasing was familiar, familiar enough to imbue a sense of relaxation in you. The annotations drew you in, the ink curling across the margins like whispered thoughts meant just for you. It was easy to imagine G.S. sitting beside you, their presence warm and familiar, flipping through the pages with quiet amusement. Someone who knew exactly which passages would make you pause, who understood the way certain lines lingered in your mind long after you’d read them.

Your fingers traced over the words they had left behind, and for a moment, you let yourself daydream. You imagined meeting them—G.S., whoever they were. The two of you sitting in some hidden corner of a library, books stacked high around you, the world outside fading away. Maybe their voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind that made you want to lean in a little closer. Maybe they smiled when you argued about a particular passage, when you pointed out something they’d written in the margins.

Maybe they would look at you like you were something worth understanding.

The thought sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. It was silly, this little fantasy, but you let yourself indulge in it anyway. And that was when your brain betrayed you.

For a brief, horrifying moment, the faceless idea of G.S. wasn’t faceless anymore. The image of Gojo flashed into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. But it wasn’t just him reading beside you, wasn’t just him scrawling out these notes with his long, annoyingly pretty fingers.

It was him kissing you.

Gojo’s lips brushing against yours, lazy and confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand sliding up your spine, the heat of him pressing against you, that teasing voice of his murmuring something you wouldn’t quite catch—

Your entire body froze.

No.

No, no, no.

You tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the book in front of you, but the words blurred together, unreadable. Your mind was stuck, caught on the vividness of the thought that had just invaded it.

Gojo.

Not just Gojo sitting across from you, running his mouth like he always did. Not just Gojo tossing a wadded-up paper at your head or poking at the end of your pen when you were trying to write. No—your brain had conjured up something else entirely. Gojo leaning in too close, his breath warm against your lips. The weight of his hand pressing into the small of your back, fingertips splayed across your lower back, your waist, your sides. The slow, unhurried way he would kiss you—because of course he’d be like that, because he was always so damn self-assured. Because he never did anything halfway.

And worse—worse—you could almost hear him. That stupid teasing voice, low and amused, murmuring something between kisses, something only meant for you. Your fingers twitched, and you slammed the book shut.

No. Nope. Not happening.

Your pulse was erratic, your skin burning like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You blinked rapidly, as if that alone could erase the thought from existence, but the sensation lingered, the imagined heat of him refusing to dissipate. It was just stress. That’s all it was. You were exhausted, overworked, and had spent way too much time in Gojo’s orbit lately. Of course your brain was short-circuiting. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to reopen the book. Back to reality. Back to G.S. 

Back to anything that wasn’t Gojo Satoru and the absurd, fleeting idea of what kissing him might feel like.

–

Gojo’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present as he tapped the end of his pen against the open physics textbook in front of you both.

“And then—are you even listening to me?” You blinked, realizing you’d been zoning out. “Yeah—yeah,” you mumbled, scrambling for something relevant to say. “Professor Takeda can be an ass sometimes, even if he’s awesome at teaching.” Gojo grinned, apparently satisfied with your response, and continued yapping as he absentmindedly worked through some small equations on the paper in front of you both. His handwriting was quick and fluid, annoyingly neat for someone who acted like he never took anything seriously.

You didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after the two of you had finally submitted the psychology project, something between you shifted. It wasn’t spoken aloud, wasn’t even acknowledged outright, but it was there—an unspoken understanding. You still bickered, still argued over trivial things, but there was something else now too. A companionship. A quiet, reluctant camaraderie that neither of you had actively sought out but somehow settled into with surprising ease. And now, you were in the library with him, ironically revising for the upcoming physics final, less than a week away. You weren’t sure when he had become your unofficial study partner, but here he was, scribbling down formulas as he complained about Takeda’s obsession with fluid dynamics.

“You’re still struggling with Bernoulli’s principle?” you teased, shifting your chair slightly to get a better look at his notes. 

“Struggling is a strong word,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I prefer ‘strategically choosing to ignore it until I absolutely have to care.’”

You scoffed, but before you could argue, your eyes landed on the book beside your bag—the sixth book in the series you’d been slowly working through, the second-to-last one before the finale. You had completely forgotten about it. You were pretty sure you had hit the maximum borrowing period, and at this rate, you were lucky the library hadn’t sent you an overdue notice.

“I need to go return this,” you muttered, grabbing the book and standing up.

Gojo glanced at it, tilting his head slightly. “That again?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“That series,” he clarified, nodding towards the book in your hand. “You’ve been reading it forever. What’s the deal?” You hesitated for a moment, not really sure why you felt the sudden urge to explain, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I… I don’t know. It’s comforting, I guess,” you admitted. “It’s one of those series that just sticks with you, you know? And it’s not just the story—it’s the annotations.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Annotations?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Someone else read these books before me, and they wrote all these little notes in the margins. Some of them are funny, some are insightful, some are just straight-up teasing—but they make the whole experience feel… shared, I guess.” For once, Gojo didn’t say anything. He just listened, head tilted, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

You coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I should go return this.” You turned before he could say anything else and made your way to the library’s return section—only to find the drop-off shelves completely blocked off with construction tape. A small sign informed students that book returns had to be made manually at the front desk. With a sigh, you made your way to the librarian’s desk. She smiled at you as you set the book down.

“Returning this?” she asked, flipping open the cover to check the borrowing card.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. She hummed, scanning the barcode. “You know, someone else borrowed this whole series a while back.”

No way.

No way, no way, no way.

Is this how you were going to finally find out who the faceless stranger you had grown attached to was? Your heart skipped a beat. You forced yourself to keep your voice casual. 

“Oh? Can you recall who?” 

She paused, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. “Give me a moment dear. He’s a male…about the same age as you, actually. Well I think he might be the same age as you. Hmm, he was tall, quite tall, had this head of brilliant white hair, and glasses. His eyes were startlingly blue too. I can’t remember his name but you two’d get along, he seemed very interested in these series too!” She chuckled, taking the book from you to store it under one of the accompanying shelves.

Your blood ran cold.

She continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “Had this little keychain on his bag too. It tinkled a lot when he came in to borrow the books.” Your mind flashed back to the small jingling sound of Gojo’s keychain— a digimon one. The one that always made a tiny noise whenever he slung his bag over his shoulder. Oh my god.

Your grip tightened on the desk. “Right. Thanks.”

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to return the book without your hands shaking. But the moment you turned away, the weight of the realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitched, your vision tunneled slightly, and for a second, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you back to the table.

Gojo.

Gojo was G.S.

The knowledge settled in your bones with a dizzying clarity, making the library around you feel unreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake up from. The notes, the teasing comments, the underlined passages—it had all been him. The same Gojo Satoru who drove you insane with his arrogance, who somehow wormed his way into your study sessions, who made physics revision bearable with his endless chatter. And he had never said a word about it. By the time you reached the table, your emotions were tangled beyond recognition—embarrassment, frustration, something dangerously close to hurt. You dropped into your seat, a little too forcefully, the noise drawing his attention.

Gojo barely glanced up from his notes. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You swallowed, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists against your lap. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something sharp, something that could cut you open if you weren’t careful.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He finally met your gaze, his pen stilling against the page. For a second—just a second—there was nothing but blankness in his expression, as if he truly didn’t understand what you meant. But then, recognition flickered in those bright, unreadable eyes. And slowly, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, he grinned.

“Took you long enough.”

A sharp breath escaped you, like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. Something twisted in your chest. He knew. He had known. You exhaled shakily, trying to hold onto your composure, but your voice wavered when you spoke again. “You—” You swallowed hard. “You knew it was me reading those books, and you just—”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. You hated the way he was looking at you, like this was funny, like this was just some game he had been playing all along. Like he had been waiting for you to connect the dots, to put the pieces together while he sat back and watched. Something inside you cracked.

“You were just messing with me.” The words came out quiet, but there was something raw beneath them, something unsteady. “That’s what this was, right? Just another one of your games?”

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

“That’s not—”

But you didn’t let him finish.

You stood up too fast, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turned, students shooting you mildly annoyed glances, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You felt like the library was closing in around you, like you needed to get out before you drowned under the weight of it all.

“Forget it,” you muttered, voice tight. You grabbed your bag, barely able to look at him. “I’ll see you in class.” And before he could stop you—before he could say something that might make you stay—you turned on your heel and walked out of the library. Your pulse roared in your ears, your face burned with humiliation, and your heart—God, your heart was a tangled, aching mess you weren’t ready to unravel yet.

–

You didn’t talk to Gojo for three days. Not once. Not in class, not in the library, not even in passing. If he was in a group conversation, you found an excuse to leave. If he tried to sit next to you, you conveniently needed to be somewhere else. And if you caught even a glimpse of him from across campus, you turned in the opposite direction before he could call your name. It wasn’t out of pettiness. At least, you didn’t think so.

You were hurt.

The weight of it had settled deep in your chest, a slow, heavy ache that didn’t fade no matter how much you tried to distract yourself. You felt stupid, looking back at all those late nights spent tracing the loops of G.S.’s handwriting, at the way you had let yourself get caught up in the fantasy of someone—someone you thought understood you. Someone who had felt just as deeply about those books as you had. And the whole time, it had been him.

Had he just been laughing at you? Watching you get wrapped up in his words, in him, while he sat back and waited for you to figure it out? Had it all just been some kind of joke? You didn’t know what answer would hurt more. Gojo, however, wasn’t making your avoidance easy.

He noticed, of course. The first day, he seemed ashamed. You saw it in the way he frowned when you brushed past him after class, in the way his gaze lingered when you sat on the opposite end of the library instead of your usual table.

The second day, he got annoyed.

“Are you serious right now?” he had muttered when you blatantly ignored him outside the lecture hall, your fingers tightening around your books as you sped up. By the third day, his frustration had given way to something else—something quieter, something bordering on concern.

He caught your wrist as you passed him in the hallway that morning, his grip loose enough for you to pull away if you wanted.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are we—?” He hesitated. “Did I—?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, you saw it—uncertainty.

Gojo Satoru was scared. But you weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. So you shook him off and kept walking.

He let you go. For the rest of the day, you tried to pretend like it didn’t feel like a mistake. That night, unable to sleep, you reached for the last book in the series—the one you had borrowed before you found out. You had been meaning to return it. The thought of flipping through those pages again felt wrong after everything that had happened. But something about the weight of it in your hands made you pause. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you curled up in bed and opened to the first page.

And read.

At first, it was mechanical. You skimmed. Skipped paragraphs. Let your eyes pass over the words without really taking them in. But then—somewhere along the way—you found yourself slowing down. The story was familiar, but it felt different now. The annotations were there, just like before. The same small, thoughtful notes in the margins. The same underlined passages, the same occasional sarcastic remark scribbled beside overly dramatic monologues.

And it still felt intimate.

Your chest ached. Gojo’s handwriting had always been a little messy, but now, you could hear his voice in it. The playful quips, the teasing corrections, the occasional rambling thoughts that trailed off mid-sentence. He hadn’t just read these books. He had shared them. With you. But it wasn’t until you reached the end of the book that you froze.

A note, scrawled beneath a passage about missed chances. About how sometimes, you don’t realise what someone means to you until it’s too late.

To whoever is reading this, I… really hope that this never applies to you. 

And then, right underneath it, you spot a small sentence. Your eyes narrow as you lean in, catching the faint blue ink beneath the initials G.S., nearly lost beneath the hurried strike-through. It’s messy, almost like he had written it in a rush, then panicked and scratched it out before anyone could see. The ink is slightly smudged, the letters not quite as crisp as they should be. But you can still read it.

T̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶, I̶ h̶o̶p̶e̶ I̶ d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ m̶i̶s̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ t̶o̶ t̶e̶l̶l̶ y̶o̶u̶ h̶o̶w̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ I̶ r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶, r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ y̶o̶u̶.

Your breath catches. The frustration twisting in your chest falters, cracking under the weight of what you’re seeing. This wasn’t just about G.S. This wasn’t just about some stupid rivalry, some elaborate, long-running inside joke only he was in on. He had liked you.

All along.

The truth of it presses against your ribs, turning your anger into something else—something hot and unbearable and aching. Because of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t have just let you take that book without noticing. Of course he wouldn’t have just been some faceless mystery behind the initials. He had been right there, all this time. Watching. Waiting. Never saying a damn thing. You press your lips together, gripping the book tighter, torn between wanting to shove it in his stupidly smug face and the overwhelming realization that this—this whole thing—had never been a game to him.

Not really. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the page, heart pounding. You should be mad. You are mad.

But now? Now you don’t know what to do with the way your chest is clenching, your stomach twisting, the words replaying in your head over and over again. He really, really liked you. And he had been too much of an idiot to say it.

It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. Your fingers curled around the edge of the page, heart hammering against your ribs. And in that moment, without a second thought—

You didn’t hesitate.

You barely registered slipping on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, heading across campus toward the dormitories. Your pulse roared in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the weight of the book heavy in your bag. You remembered the way he’d joked about it once—how it was almost too easy to find his dorm because the boys’ rooms were stacked directly above the girls’.

("It’s like fate, babe," he’d drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re literally sleeping right below me."

"Don’t say it like that," you’d deadpanned, shoving him off.

He’d only grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What? It’s true. If you ever get lonely, just know I’m right there—" he pointed up dramatically "—in room sixty-nine."

You’d groaned at that. "Of course it’s sixty-nine."

"Oh, absolutely." His smirk had been positively insufferable. "The universe practically insisted on it.”)

And now, here you were. Standing in front of his stupid door, his stupid room number glaring at you, mocking you, reminding you of how easily he had wormed his way into your life. You knocked. There was a pause. Then—footsteps. The door cracked open, and Gojo blinked down at you, disheveled, his glasses slightly askew. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, and for once, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered sharply. “What if the dean catches you? It’s past curfew.”

You ignored him. “Explain.”

Gojo stared at you. Then, with a sigh, he opened the door wider and let you in. His dorm was surprisingly neat, save for a few open textbooks on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before leaning against the edge of his bed.

“You want an explanation?” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to collect his thoughts. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, lacking its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze.

“Fine.”

And then—something shifted in his expression. That raw, unguarded look returned, cracking through the facade of the cocky, untouchable Gojo Satoru.

“I liked you this entire time.”

Your breath caught. His words were quiet, but they landed like a stone in your chest, sending ripples through every assumption you had made about the past few months. No—longer than that. Yes, you had gathered from that scribbled annotation that he had liked you, but hearing it was different from reading it. The weight of what he was saying pressed down on you, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flickered away for a second, like he was considering taking it back, like he was still terrified of saying it out loud. But then, with a short breath, he pressed forward.

“I—” He licked his lips, shaking his head slightly. “When I overheard you talking about the books, about G.S., I thought… I don’t know. At first, it was funny.” He let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You, of all people, getting caught up in my annotations.”

A pang of hurt flared in your chest at that, but Gojo’s face twisted almost immediately, like he regretted saying it that way.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmured. “I just mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You always had this way of looking at me, like you had me all figured out. Like you already knew what kind of person I was. And I guess… part of me thought it was funny that I got to be something different in your head for once.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but Gojo wasn’t done. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His eyes darted back to you, searching, waiting for you to interrupt, to tell him he was ridiculous. When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was bracing himself.

“But it wasn’t just the books,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t just some joke to me.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “Because the truth is, I—” He hesitated, then finally met your eyes again, his own brimming with something raw and unguarded. “I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled at your sides as his confession settled in. You wanted to say something—anything—but all you could do was stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears.

He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Long time, huh?” His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost self-conscious. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But I did. I do.”

Your mouth felt dry. “Since freshman year?”

His lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. “Yeah.”

Your mind reeled. Freshman year. That meant before the rivalry, before the teasing had turned sharp, before you had convinced yourself that he was just some cocky, insufferable show-off who loved to push your buttons. Before you had started believing he only saw you as an opponent to one-up. Gojo sighed, dropping his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you. “You remember that first day of class?”

You blinked. “Where we had to introduce each other to the class?”

He nodded. “You were wearing that stupid oversized sweater that practically swallowed you, and you kept tugging at the sleeves like you wanted to disappear. I just– at first I thought you were just so cute” His lips quirked slightly at the memory. “And then you opened your mouth when we argued for the first time in class– remember? When you answered that question on vector components and I poked fun at you or something, and when you responded back to me, you had this… fire in you. You wouldn’t let me get a single word in edgewise, like you had something to prove.”

His expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his gaze. “And I just remember thinking—shit.”

Your breath hitched.

“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” he murmured, like it was a confession he had never meant to say out loud. “But I did. And when we started arguing all the time, when it turned into this whole thing between us, I thought—fine. If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, then I’d settle for getting under your skin.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And trust me, I tried to stop thinking about it. About you. But I couldn’t. And then you started borrowing those books, and it was like—” He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t even know how to put it into words. You swallowed hard, heart hammering. 

All this time.

Every argument, every smug grin, every lingering glance across the room—he had liked you this entire time.

“But then you kept reading them.” His voice had softened, like he was talking to himself now as much as to you. “You kept flipping through those pages, talking about how much you liked G.S– and god, who am I to deny you when you speak like that? When you speak like that about my thoughts, my feelings, spilled onto the pages of those stupid books? And suddenly, I was waiting for you to borrow the next book. Waiting to see which parts you’d pause on, which annotations you’d react to. Waiting to hear what you’d say about G.S. So I–”

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

“– I borrowed the remaining four books or so. I annotated every last one of them, annotated them so maybe, maybe I’d get to hear that gorgeous voice of yours talking about it in class again. I’d get to see that giddy smile when you’d refer to me as your Seiji Amasawa again. As your G.S. And honestly, it was worth the entirety of the long night I spent, just so I’d see you fucking smile throughout the day and snap less at me because G.S. wrote something that made you think he was similar to you– because in reality, with the way you viewed me– entirely my fault by the way– it would never be possible.” He took a deep breath after saying that.

“And I realised—” He paused, just for a second, like he needed to steady himself. “I liked it. I liked you. Not that I didn’t already like you, but— but I was falling. Like really deep.”

Something inside you twisted painfully. Your lips parted, but you couldn’t force out a response. You had spent the past three days agonizing over the idea that he had been toying with you, that this had all been some elaborate joke, but this—this was different. This was Gojo Satoru, stripped of his usual bravado, laying his feelings bare in a way that felt like it might physically hurt him.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked away, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m an idiot?” he said dryly. Then, quieter, “Because I’m Gojo Satoru, and I figured you’d never take me seriously?”

Your chest tightened at that.

Before you could process that, he spoke again.

“I know I was arrogant. I know I still am arrogant,” he muttered, his lips curling bitterly. “I push too hard. I’m too much. I act like I know everything, and maybe I do most of the time, but—” He swallowed thickly. “Those annotations… they were the only time you ever saw me.” His voice had dropped lower now, almost vulnerable, and something about it made your pulse stutter.

“Not the dumbass you argue with in class. Not the rich kid with the perfect grades. Not the guy who has to prove he’s the smartest person in the room.” He let out a slow breath. “Just… me.” 

The silence between you stretched, thick and charged.

Gojo’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. He looked like he was bracing for impact, like he had just thrown every last piece of himself at your feet and was waiting to see if you’d step on them. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for him.

Then—

You stepped forward. Gojo stilled the moment your fingers brushed against his hoodie, his breath catching in his throat. He stood up, towering over you, an unfamiliar glint in his cerulean eyes. You hesitated, your fingertips barely grazing the fabric before curling into it, fisting it lightly like you needed something solid to hold onto. His whole body went tense under your touch, his usual easy confidence absent now, replaced with something far more uncertain—far more vulnerable.

“You really are an idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath against the space between you. His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, wanted to tease, wanted to be Gojo—but he didn’t. Instead, he just let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against his hoodie. “Yeah.” 

The word hung in the air between you, weighty and full of something neither of you had the strength to name. And then—before you could second-guess yourself, before doubt could creep in—you surged up onto your toes and kissed him. Gojo made a startled sound against your lips, his whole body going rigid for half a second, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But then—slowly, desperately—he melted into it. His hands found your face, cupping it with a tenderness that made your heart twist. His palms were warm, his grip firm, like he was terrified you’d slip away, like he needed you to know this wasn’t a joke to him. That it had never been. He kissed you like a man making up for lost time—deep, searching, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than even you had realized. When he tilted his head, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, you felt it—all of it.

Every unspoken word. Every missed chance. Every moment that had teetered on the edge of this but never quite fallen. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath him. Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest, thundering against your ribs as you pressed yourself closer, your hands sliding up from his hoodie to clutch at his shoulders. Gojo let out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips, like he had been holding back for so long that finally getting to kiss you was unraveling him.

And maybe it was.

Because as much as you had spent the past few days convincing yourself that this had all been a game to him, this—the way he was holding you, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin—told a different story. Gojo Satoru didn’t play games with things that mattered. And you—somehow, impossibly—mattered. When you pulled back, slightly breathless, Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then, slowly, he grinned. “So,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away. “Don’t push it.” Gojo laughed, bright and real, before pulling you back into his arms.

“God, do you know how beautiful you fuckin’ are? It drives me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your lips before he swoops down, capturing your mouth with his own again, his large hands grounding themselves against your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

You giggle against his lips, trying to push him off, but he refuses to budge. “S-Satoru—wait!” Your protest is muffled, barely audible between the kisses he keeps stealing, his lips soft but insistent against yours. 

He lets out a quiet, needy sound, almost a whimper, his grip tightening on your hips. “Shut up,” he murmurs breathlessly, squeezing lightly at your waist as if that alone will silence you. “Been waiting to kiss this pretty mouth for sooo fuckin’ long… Let me get my fill, yeah?” You barely have time to respond before his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. The second you allow him in, he kisses you deeply—desperately—his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, claiming. The soft little noises you make against him seem to spur him on, his fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he tugs you even closer. His legs bump against the edge of the bed, steadying you between his parted thighs, and the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you tangled up in each other.

A surprised squeak leaves your lips when his thumbs slip just beneath your shirt, brushing against your bare skin. His hands are cold, the contrast against your warmth sending a jolt of electricity through you. He laughs—a quiet, smug chuckle—and then the bastard has the audacity to bite your bottom lip in amusement. “Shh,” he teases, lips brushing against yours. “Don’t wanna get caught sneakin’ into my dorm after hours, do you?”

Before you can even process a response, his hands move to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the ground with ease. A gasp leaves your lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he manoeuvres you to the bed. He turns smoothly, lowering you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, his movements slow, deliberate, eager. And this time, you don’t hesitate. Your hands fist the front of his hoodie, yanking him down in a clumsy rush to kiss him again, your breath mingling with his as your noses bump. His glasses shift slightly from the movement, and with an annoyed huff, he pulls them off, setting them aside carefully before his gaze returns to you—hungry. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, moving with a mixture of urgency and something softer, something deeper. His lips trail from yours to your jaw, to the delicate skin of your neck, to the dip of your collarbone—his hands following the path his lips leave behind, fingers toying with the fabric of your open jacket. He pushes it off your shoulders tentatively, almost testing, waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

A pleased hum vibrates against your throat as his confidence grows, his hands sliding over your arms, your waist, memorizing the shape of you beneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could mold yourself against him if you just tried hard enough. The kiss is more than just the heat of the moment. It’s more than just the weeks—months—of built-up tension. It’s the culmination of years of frustration, of stolen glances, of biting words laced with something deeper neither of you had wanted to acknowledge until now.

And maybe, maybe, it’s also the weight of finally realising—fully understanding—that the only person who had ever been able to keep up with you, to challenge you, to drive you absolutely insane, yet make you feel like this… was him. Satoru groans against your skin, nipping at your neck as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your waist. But even in the heat of the moment, he’s calculated. His lips map out a path of possessive little marks just below your collarbone—places that can be covered easily. Even now, he’s thinking things through. Your breath hitches when his fingertips skim the skin of your hips again, this time firmer, testing. Your cheeks burn, and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You can—you can take it off.” 

Satoru goes very, very still. You swear you can feel the exact moment he processes what you’ve just said, the exact moment he realizes that you mean it. His hands tighten slightly against you, his breath coming out a little shakier than before. And for once, for once—he doesn’t have some cocky remark ready to go. Because this? This is real. And for the first time, Gojo Satoru doesn’t want to ruin it with a joke. He gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes eyeing the new expanse of skin that has just been made available to him.

“My gorgeous girl…”

He whispers out, before he’s back to lavishing your skin with attention, paying close attention to your breasts, lips lovingly, reverently moving across your skin with gentleness you hadn’t thought possible by him. You don’t know what possesses you, but something suddenly clicks and shyly, you unclasp your bra, leaving your entire upper half bare, making Satoru’s breath hitch. And then, in a moment that takes you completely by surprise, he does something that makes your heart both melt and swell—if that was even possible.

Because instead of his usual teasing, instead of his cocky grin or some flirtatious remark that would make you roll your eyes, Satoru simply looks at you. Really looks at you. His intense blue eyes don’t dart downward like you half-expected, don’t darken with some unchecked hunger. Instead, they stay locked onto yours, unwavering, all traces of playfulness and impulsive need fading away. What replaces them is something quieter—something gentler. A tenderness that makes your breath catch, your chest tighten. 

Satoru, who always had a joke ready. Satoru, who always teased and never took anything too seriously. Satoru, who could have had anyone but had spent years bothering you instead—staring at you now like you were something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, carefully, softly, he speaks.

“Are you sure you wanna… do this?” His voice is quieter now, laced with something that sounds an awful lot like uncertainty. Like he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is. “I’m not—pressuring you or anything, am I?” His fingers twitch slightly at his sides before he hesitantly lifts a hand, reaching out toward you—not to pull you in, not to take what you’ve offered, but to tuck a few strands of your hair away from your face. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.

“I just—” He exhales, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching, as if trying to read your thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. If me kissing you made you think you needed to… y’know, do anything more—then I’m sorry.” The words leave his lips like a confession, like the idea of you feeling obligated to be with him hurts him. And that—that simple fact—makes something inside you ache. Because Gojo Satoru, for all his arrogance, for all his relentless teasing and larger-than-life presence, was standing before you now with uncertainty in his eyes. Not because he didn’t want this—God, did he want this—but because he needed to be sure that you did too. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

Because this isn’t how you thought this moment would go. Not with him—not with Gojo Satoru. You had braced yourself for teasing, for him to say something infuriatingly smug, to grin like he had won some long-fought battle. But instead, he was looking at you with quiet hesitation, with care. With something that felt like love. Your throat tightens.

“Satoru.” His name– his first name, not Gojo– leaves your lips in a breath, barely above a whisper. His hands—so sure and confident only moments ago—remain frozen where they rest against your sides, like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll change your mind.

“I want this,” you say, and you make sure there is no room for doubt in your voice. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I’m not saying it just because you kissed me, or because I think I have to. I want this.” His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His grip on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

You take a breath, steadying yourself, because you need him to understand—really understand. 

“I’ve wanted this for longer than I want to admit,” you confess, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your fingers flex where they rest against his chest, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart beneath your palm. He’s warm, impossibly so, like he’s radiating heat just for you. “And it scares me, Satoru. You scare me.” His brows furrow, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly downward. “Scare you?”

You nod. “Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. You drive me crazy. You make me want to strangle you half the time, and the other half I—” Your voice catches, and you swallow thickly before continuing. “I want to be near you. I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hands slowly slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing—just holding. His thumbs brush against your ribs, barely ghosting under the underside of your chest, but even that light touch sends a shiver up your spine.

“You have to know this isn’t just some impulsive decision for me,” you tell him, voice softer now, filled with something you can’t quite name. “I don’t do things just because they’re convenient, or easy, or expected. I do them because I choose to.” You reach up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath stutters when you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely lost. “I’m choosing you,” you whisper, staring straight into those brilliant blue eyes. “Not because you kissed me. Not because of some annotations in a book. But because I want you, Satoru. I want this.”

A shaky exhale leaves his lips, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing altogether. His grip on you tightens just enough for you to feel it, his fingers pressing into your waist like he’s holding himself back. Then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your lips when he speaks.

“You can’t take that back now, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

In a flurry of kissing and movement, his hands roamed over your breasts, fingers pressing and kneading with a slow, deliberate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his palm left a burning trail in its wake, making you arch into him, craving more—needing more. His lips never left yours for long, only breaking away to breathe, to murmur your name against your mouth like a prayer, before diving back in, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own hands found their way under his hoodie, fingertips exploring the firm ridges and planes of muscle beneath. He was all taut sinew and warmth, his body solid beneath your touch, the faintest tremble betraying just how much he wanted this too. Heat pooled in your lower belly, a slow and delicious ache, as you pressed your palms flat against his stomach, feeling the way his muscles flexed under your touch.

And then you felt it—the thin trail of hair below his navel, soft against your fingers, leading downward. Your breath hitched at the realisation, a flush creeping up your face as your hands lingered there, tracing along his happy trail. The sensation made him shudder, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he let out a low, breathy chuckle. “You’re teasing,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now, his grip tightening slightly where he held you.

You shook your head, though your fingers betrayed you, still trailing feather-light touches just above the waistband of his sweats. “Just exploring,” you whispered, emboldened by the way he reacted to your touch, the way his muscles tensed as if he was barely holding himself back. His entire body felt heavier now, weighted with desire as he sucked in a slow breath. His fingers twitched against your sides, like he was restraining himself, before he finally gave in.

With one fluid motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside, leaving his torso bare. The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs. He was beautiful—lean but strong, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, skin warm and golden in the dim light. The definition of his abs trailed down to his happy trail, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this, vulnerable yet utterly self-assured, the usual cocky glint in his eyes replaced with something softer, something just for you. You traced your fingers lightly over his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath came a little heavier, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto the last thread of his restraint.

"You're staring," he teased, though his voice was lower now, rough around the edges.

"Maybe," you admitted, dragging your fingertips just a little lower, reveling in the way his breath hitched. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was a heat in his gaze now, something dark and wanting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I might start thinking you like what you see.”

Your pulse thrummed wildly, heat licking at your skin as you met his eyes.

“I do.”

He gave you a full-blown grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, his canines glinting in the dim light of his dorm room. It was a look you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, teasing, effortlessly confident—but now, there was something else underneath it. Something softer. Something real. His hands, warm and slightly rough, hesitated at the waistband of your sweats, fingers grazing the fabric as if waiting for permission. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. But despite the heat in his gaze, despite the way his breath was uneven and his chest rose and fell just a little too fast, he didn’t move forward. Not yet.

“Are you sure?” His voice was lower now, quieter, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. His usual bravado was nowhere to be seen—no teasing remark, no cocky smirk. Just Satoru, looking at you like you were something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Like he was terrified of doing something wrong, of ruining this moment before it could fully begin. You could feel his hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, could hear it in the way his voice wavered just slightly, as if he was bracing himself for you to change your mind.

It made your heart ache. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, and he leaned into it instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself. His breath hitched, just slightly, and you saw the way his lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered when your fingers traced along his jaw.

“Satoru,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. His eyes flickered to yours—deep, cerulean, searching.

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.” For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was letting the words settle, like he needed to make sure he heard you right. And then—

He exhaled, something tight and heavy leaving his chest, and his hands finally gripped your waist properly, fingers digging in just a little, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

“God,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice almost shaky. “You have no idea how much I fucking love hearing you say that.”

He gently coaxed you out of your sweatpants, hand finding itself atop your underwear, breath hitching at the dampness that was present. Seems like this fueled his ego a little bit too much, because the next thing you knew, the Satoru you knew was back.

“Dang you’re wet as fuck.”

You gave him a pointed look and he faltered, the smirk on his lips morphing into a grin as he ushered out apologies. Your hands clutched the sheets when his fingers began to gently touch you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you eyed his hand with need. You couldn’t stay mad with him for long the way his fingers tugged the flimsy material down and began to work his hand between your legs. He grinned, experimentally probing around, ocean eyes half lidded.

“This is where you’re weak, right?” He murmured sensually, fingers finding your sensitive nub, eyes flickering up to watch your reactions, his pretty pink lips parted open in pleasure as he watched you come apart under him. He was precise with his fingers, circling you, teasing, pinching and rubbing, before thrusting in all the right spots, reaching places your own hand was unable to take you. Before long you had to let out muffled whimpers into his big palm that he had slapped gently across your lips; it covered almost the entirety of the lower half of your face– you were a bit loud. 

Unable to take it anymore, you finally reached your breaking point, squirming underneath him as you came all over his fingers. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid succession, your breath coming in short, uneven pants as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set alight, over sensitised and trembling in the lingering warmth of his touch. Your skin was flushed, heat radiating from every inch of you, and the room felt impossibly small, like it was holding the weight of everything that had just passed between you. 

Hungry for more, you made quick work of his sweats, sliding them and his boxers down (pokemon boxers but you were too needy to make fun of him for it). Satoru loomed above you, shakily guiding himself to your entrance, pale lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. He was hard– had been hard the moment you two had started kissing, pressing up against you in a needy manner.

“Su–Sure you can take it? Don’t need a break?” He breathed out, referring to the fact that you had practically jumped at the opportunity to take things further right after having an earth shattering orgasm thanks to his lanky fingers.

“So fucking sure– please, Satoru.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, and he swears he almost comes from the sight. He nods, leaning down to kiss your lips gently, all the while he ushers himself inside you slowly. 

Now you knew he had meant you not being able to take it because you might have been tired after your first orgasm, but now it felt more like he was warning you, because he was long, pressing inside of you deliciously. Once he had buried himself to the hilt, he halted in his tracks, giving you time to adjust. His face was screwed in pleasure, likely trying not to give in the urge to move. After a few minutes, when you deemed the feeling of him inside you as highly pleasurable and not the slight uncomfortableness that you initially felt while being split open in two, you murmured out a small “I’m ready,” and that was all it took for Satoru to start moving.

He kept up a slow, steady yet deep pace, his muscular form looming over yours, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The dim light of his dorm cast shadows along the sharp lines of his body, emphasizing the taut muscles in his arms, the sculpted contours of his chest, and the way his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement. His skin was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over his toned physique, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch. His broad shoulders framed his lean build perfectly, his biceps taut as he braced himself above you, his fingers curling into the sheets as though restraining himself from losing control entirely.

And then there was his face. Messy white hair fell into his eyes, strands sticking to his damp forehead, and his lips—God, his lips—were parted, slightly swollen from kissing you breathless. His sharp jaw clenched subtly, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and when his gaze flickered down to meet yours, you felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was intense—raw, focused entirely on you, like nothing else in the world mattered. His impossibly blue eyes, darkened with something deep and consuming, dragged over your face, your body, drinking you in like you were something precious, something his. “Satoru—” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him groan, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “You have no idea how good you look right now. How good you feel right now.” He moved his hands from your waist, his fingers trailing over your skin as he shifted, bracing his forearms on either side of your head. The new position brought him even closer, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you as he continued to move within you. His breath was heavy, mingling with yours, and for a moment, it was all-consuming—the feeling of him, the weight of him, the slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. When you had imagined being with Satoru like this, you’d thought it would be… different. You had expected teasing, cockiness, maybe even some ridiculous commentary, because that was just who he was. You thought he’d smirk down at you with that usual self-assured gleam in his eyes, crack some joke between kisses, whisper something infuriating just to make you blush. You had even braced yourself for the possibility of him being downright kinky, because he was Gojo Satoru, and he loved pushing limits.

But this? This was something else entirely.

This wasn’t just cocky flirtation or the result of years of pent-up rivalry and tension—this was intimate. It was raw, real, and so incredibly him, stripped of bravado and playfulness, leaving behind only the man in front of you. The one who had been waiting, wanting. The one who had loved you quietly, even when you didn’t know. His movements were deliberate, his touch reverent, his normally mischievous eyes dark with something softer—something deeper. When he leaned down, his lips ghosting over your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a silent confession. A plea. A promise. His fingers threaded through your hair, brushing over your temple, before trailing down to cup your jaw with aching gentleness. “You okay?” he murmured, voice hushed, almost breathless. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the warmth in his voice, the concern laced into every syllable, and you nodded, reaching up to lace your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t expect what?”

“For it to feel like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “For you to be like this.”

Satoru stilled for half a second before exhaling softly, lowering himself further so his chest was flush against yours. His nose brushed against yours, lips hovering just out of reach, and when he spoke, his voice was almost fragile. “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured. “It was never just some passing thing, y’know? It was always you.” Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping his hair just a little harder as his words settled deep within you. The air between you felt electric, charged, as if the weight of every unspoken feeling had finally caught up with you both. He kissed you again—slow, deep, purposeful—and you melted into him, your hands roaming over his bare back, nails lightly dragging along his spine. He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he moved, his body fitting against yours so perfectly that it made your heart ache. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet, lingering touches, the shared breaths, the whispered words against flushed skin. It wasn’t just about desire or need anymore. It was about something much more.

And before long, you were coming again, whispered cries of his name leaving your mouth as you tightened around him– and if he had indulged in the feeling a second longer, he would have finished inside. He splattered on your stomach, hissing at the feeling, pale eyes fluttering shut. After a few seconds of basking in the afterglow, he quickly went into his bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach down. Your breath came in quick, unsteady gasps, each inhale failing to steady the trembling in your limbs. A slow burn lingered beneath your skin, every nerve alight with the remnants of his touch. The air felt thick, pressing in around you, charged with everything that had just transpired. Heat clung to you, pooling in the spaces where his hands had been, leaving you adrift in the aftermath.

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, gripping them like an anchor, like you needed something to steady yourself against the dizzying sensation still coursing through your veins. A shuddering breath escaped your lips, and you swore you could still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the way they had mapped out every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest ache. Satoru was watching you.

You could feel his gaze—heavy, intense, something unreadable flickering behind those endless blue eyes. His hands hadn’t left your body entirely, his fingertips still resting against your hips, warm and grounding. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch—a mixture of awe and something softer, something tender. Like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like he was committing every second of this moment to memory. He swallowed, his own breathing uneven, before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he just needed to feel you. His lips brushed over your skin again, trailing up toward your jaw, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

–

​​The room was bathed in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows across tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Your body still hummed from the aftermath, warmth pooling in your limbs as you lay half-draped over Satoru, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. For a while, neither of you spoke. His fingers idly traced shapes along your spine, the touch featherlight and absentminded, while his other hand rested lazily on your hip, holding you close. You could still feel the heat radiating from his skin, the aftershocks of everything you had just done settling between you in the form of comfortable silence.

It was intimate, more than anything. More than the way he had touched you, more than the way he had moved inside you—this moment, the stillness, the way he exhaled softly like he was content, was what made your chest tighten.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“So,” he drawled, breaking the peaceful quiet. “Would it be weird if I rated that experience a solid twelve out of ten?” You groaned, weakly smacking his chest, but he only laughed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your palm. “Oh my God, Satoru—”

“I mean, I am the strongest,” he continued, completely undeterred, stretching one arm lazily above his head. “So it makes sense that I’d be great in every department.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

He grinned, tilting his head to peer down at you. His hair was a mess, white strands sticking out in different directions, and his lips were still kiss-bitten, smugness radiating off of him in waves. “Oh, don’t worry, sweets, I’d never joke about my performance in bed—”

You smacked him again, this time harder, and he let out a dramatic oof, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him.

“You were being so sweet just a second ago,” you muttered, pouting as you nestled closer against him. “Why do you have to ruin it?” Satoru chuckled, his arms wrapping securely around you as he pulled the blanket over both of you. “C’mon, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”

You sighed, exasperated, but deep down, you knew he was right. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face you properly, one long leg tangling with yours. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softer than you expected after all his teasing.

“…Was it really okay?” he asked, voice quieter this time. Almost hesitant. Your heart ached at the sincerity laced in his words, the way he was still Satoru, even after everything. Still checking in. Still making sure. You smiled, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “It was perfect.”

A slow, almost shy smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the cockiness was gone, replaced by something softer. Something real.

Then, of course—

“Perfect, huh? So you are saying I’m the best you’ve ever had—”

“GOJO SATORU, I SWEAR TO—”

His laughter rang out through the dorm, loud and unfiltered, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh too, the warmth of it curling around your heart. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers traced along your spine—it was all lulling you into the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. The teasing had settled into something softer, something quieter, and as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever. Satoru shifted beneath you, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm as he murmured, “Hey.”

You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. His fingers tapped against your skin, hesitant. “Be my girlfriend.”

That woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, your head lifting slightly to look at him. “Huh?”

He huffed out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it. The Satoru everyone else knew was loud, arrogant, untouchable. But right now, he was just a boy with messy white hair and sleep-heavy eyes, holding you close like he was afraid you might slip away.

“I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat, “we’re already doing all this. And I like you. A lot. So…” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your waist. “Be my girlfriend.” Your heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t just another one of his playful remarks. This was real. A slow smile spread across your lips. “Wow. That was kind of romantic.”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, sweets.” You giggled, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, fingers threading through his hair. “You really like me?”

He turned his head back toward you, his eyes—those striking, endless blues—soft in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I really do.” Your chest felt too full, your heart racing faster than it should have been after everything you’d already done tonight. But it wasn’t nerves or fear—it was excitement, warmth, the dizzying rush of knowing Satoru Gojo, of all people, wanted you in a way that wasn’t fleeting.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” He grinned instantly, arms wrapping around you as he rolled you onto your back, settling half on top of you with a triumphant look. “Took you long enough to say yes,” he teased, but the relief in his voice gave him away.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, like he was trying to seal the moment in time. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.

—

Getting into a relationship with Gojo Satoru was like being swept into a whirlwind—one that was loud, chaotic, and entirely consuming. Everyone around you had the same reaction when they found out: About time. 

Shoko had rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke from her cigarette as she smirked. “Honestly, I thought you guys were already dating. You’re both just that disgusting.” Nanami had simply given Gojo a long, knowing look before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about finally. Even Geto—before everything—had grinned, clapping Satoru on the back and saying, “I was starting to think you’d never get your head out of your ass.”

Satoru, naturally, took it all in stride, tossing an arm around your shoulders and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist me forever.” 

Your life since then had been… a lot. In the best way possible. Because being with Satoru meant being at the center of his world, whether you liked it or not. And he was obsessed with you. Absolutely obsessed. It was the way he always had to be touching you—his hand warm on the small of your back, his fingers playing with yours, his arm slung around your shoulders. It was how he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating thing in existence, eyes always following you, filled with nothing but admiration. It was the teasing—“I get it, babe. I’m super hot, but please let me study for five seconds without you getting distracted by me.”

It was the sweetness—bringing you your favorite snacks when you were stressed, pressing kisses to your temple when he thought you weren’t looking. Intertwining his large hand with yours and placing it in his coat pocket And, well, it was also the other things—

“Satoru, we have a lecture in twenty minutes—”

“Plenty of time, sweetheart. What, you don’t want to study with me?”

“This isn’t studying. You’ve been making out with me for the past ten minutes. And you really do need to stop. What if someone catches you in my dorm?”

“C’mon, I can’t resist you–”

“Sure you can, ‘Toru.”

“But you love me.”

You did. God, you did. And he loved you. He never let you forget it. You’d studied together for your physics final, working hard side by side. Even though Satoru acted like everything came easy to him, he did work for it. And so did you. You spent countless nights pouring over equations, bouncing theories off each other, fighting over who got to use the good highlighters.

And when results day came—

“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at your score.

100%. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the paper, the weight of all those late-night study sessions, the stress, the endless debates with Satoru over formulas and theories—everything culminating in this moment. Pure, unfiltered pride swelled in your chest. Before you could fully process it, a loud whoop filled the air.

“YES! I knew it!”

Suddenly, you were lifted off your feet, spinning in a dizzying circle as Satoru’s wild laughter bubbled over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to him as he twirled you around the hallway like an overexcited kid. 

“My baby’s the smartest person in the world!” he crowed, not caring about the amused stares from your classmates. “Geniuses bow to you! The world kneels before you! Einstein weeps in his grave—”

You were laughing breathlessly by the time he finally set you down, his hands still firm on your waist as he grinned down at you. Your heart swelled at his excitement. “You did well too, right?”

“Pfft, of course.” He flipped his own paper up dramatically, flashing his score.

99%.

“I mean,” he sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “you totally obliterated me, absolutely wrecked my pride, but it’s fine. Matter of fact, I think it was the fact I didn’t revise Bernoulli’s principle enough that resulted in me getting only 99%-”

In another world where he wasn’t your boyfriend, you would've smirked and gloated about beating him, and he would’ve snapped back with something equally smug. But instead, all you felt was pride—pure, unrestrained pride for him. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Satoru melted into you, his arms encircling your waist as he hummed into your shoulder. “Mmm, say it again. I like hearing that.” You chuckled, pulling back slightly—just enough to see the sheepish grin creeping onto his face.

“Actually…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes glinting with something suspicious. You frowned. “What?” He exhaled dramatically. “You’re probably gonna kill me when you hear this.” Your eyes narrowed. “Satoru.”

“Okay, okay—” He raised his hands in surrender, before leaning in like he was telling you a juicy secret. “Technically, I got a 99 on the midterm.” You blinked. “…What?” He grinned. That smug, trouble-making, up-to-no-good grin. “Buuuut you looked so beautiful when you were all happy about your score, so I lied and said I got 95 last minute.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You—WHAT?!” 

Gojo Satoru—the cockiest, most competitive man you knew, the one who never let anyone forget how brilliant he was—had lied about an exam score for you? He burst out laughing at your expression, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Don’t go feeling all bad about it, sweets. This final weighed more than the midterm, so technically—” he booped your nose, “—you’re better than me.”

You were still reeling, warmth spreading through you as you realised he had lied to see you happy. “You changed your answer for me—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off your shock, smirking. “I’m the best boyfriend in the world. You can say it out loud, babe.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated, before tugging him down into a kiss.

He instantly responded, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips warm and eager against yours. The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by something softer—something real. When you finally pulled back, he looked way too smug.

“…Still smarter than you, though,” you teased, just to knock him down a peg. Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, you absolutely crushed my heart and then ate it—”

Before you could react, he suddenly straightened, towering over you with a wicked glint in his eye. His large hands slid around your waist, ushering you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. His voice dropped, suddenly deep and velvety, amusement laced with something more sensual. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in bed, huh?”

You groaned, immediately shoving at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“Your worst.” He waggled his eyebrows, entirely unashamed. You shoved his face away, laughing as he grinned, easily catching one of your wrists in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.

–

Later that night, you were curled up in his dorm, forcing him to watch Whisper of the Heart. He had grumbled and groaned, saying he’d already watched it way back in high school and that he "totally got the whole love and dreams thing," but you still made him sit through it. He spent the first twenty minutes sulking, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like a spoiled cat.

“I’m way better than Seiji,” he huffed after a particularly sweet scene. “Like, a million times better.” You snorted. “Jealous of an anime boy, Satoru?”

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, tightening his arms around you. “If I was in this movie, she wouldn’t even look at him.”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth. “Sure, babe.” His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your sleeve, and for a while, you both watched in silence, the glow of the laptop screen painting soft shadows over the room. Halfway through the movie, you reached into your bag to grab your laptop, but something tumbled out and hit the floor with a soft thud. You blinked at the familiar cover of the last book.

“Oh crap,” you muttered, picking it up. “I forgot to return this.” 

Satoru turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait…” He plucked the book from your grasp, flipping through the pages with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. “You didn’t return this yet?” You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I kinda forgot.” His fingers slowed as he reached the back cover, eyes landing on the borrowing log where the name “G.S.” had been scrawled in blue ink.

For a moment, he just stared. His thumb ran over the initials like he was absorbing the weight of them, of what they had meant to you before you knew the truth. His usual teasing expression softened, something almost nostalgic flickering in his eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he grabbed a pen from his desk, twirled it between his fingers, and, without saying a word, carefully crossed out “G.S.”

You watched as he replaced it with something else—his full name, written neatly, in the same familiar shade of blue ink in the column beneath the crossed out G.S. He paused, then handed you the pen. Understanding settled between you like an unspoken promise. Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing the tip to the page to the column under his name, adding your own in smooth, looping letters.

The same date. The same ink. Together.

Satoru stared at it for a long moment, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips, something softer, something fonder. He looked at you with that unreadable, almost reverent gaze—the one that always made your breath catch. And then, with absolutely no warning, he grinned and yanked you straight into his lap.

“Sooo,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as his arms locked around you. “How does it feel to know you’ve been fantasising about me this whole time?” You groaned, swatting at his arm. “Satoru—”

He just laughed, effortlessly dodging your weak attempts at smacking him. “Nah, nah, don’t try to deny it! I knew you had a crush on me.”

“I did not—”

“G.S.,” he sing-songed, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “You thought I was some mysterious, tortured genius. Bet you used to daydream about me in class, d’you think I showed up as some mysterious faceless guy in your wet dreams?—” You grabbed a pillow and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter rang through the room, and when he pulled the pillow away, he was still grinning. He kissed your shoulder, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

And this time, you let him gloat.

a/n: summary of this entire fic basically (art creds to su2kuna on 𝕏)

sorry if there are error/grammar mistakes or slight plot issues uni is lowkey gnawing at the folds of my brain and a girl gets sick of reading 32k words over and over again.. but i hope you all enjoyed reading this because i really enjoyed writing it :) huhuhuhu much love

[liseronfle]

Lovely !

Lilia Fact Sheet

(Voted 8th-most-popular-character (tied with Jamil) on the jpn server in a combination of seven different character-ranking surveys held throughout 2021)

Art by Toboso Yana: "Diasomnia Dorm goes to see a movie after school." Lilia: "It's great that students get to see movies at a discount!" - Malleus: "Is it really all right for you and I to be paying the student price?" Silver: "Malleus-sama, Father, do you prefer salted popcorn or caramel popcorn?" Sebek: "Why do you get the seat next to Malleus-sama!! Swap with me immediately, Silver!!!"

Lilia does not actually remember his own birthdate, putting down January 1st when he applied to enroll at Night Raven College, but the date does not seem to have any particular significance to him.

Lilia looks like a young boy but speaks in a somewhat old-fashioned way, using the pronoun “washi”. His actual age is unknown and he refuses to reveal it, even to his own adopted son, Silver.

In history class Malleus says he sees a picture of Lilia in their Magical History textbooks, Lilia has said himself that he has “witnessed the past 500 years of history firsthand”, and remembers most of it. In conversation he will reference ancient historical events as if they were incidents he saw for himself only recently.

It is probably safe to assume that he is several years older than Malleus, as he references having met him when “he (Malleus) still had eggshell on his head”, and how child-Malleus used to cry when he couldn’t figure out how to dress himself.

Lilia appears in several vignettes for other characters, and seems both sociable and to enjoy lending a hand in his own way.

Like Malleus he does not require a broom to levitate, and will often insert himself into conversations by suddenly appearing upside down in front of people. He boasts that he has healthy skin and top grades despite his habit of staying up all night playing video games.

Lilia is, infamously, a terrible cook. Malleus has said he never wants to eat anything Lilia cooks ever again in life, and Silver’s disliked food consists only of anything made by Lilia. Silver tells us that Lilia refuses to follow the order in which recipes are written, ignores the recommended quantity of ingredients and introduces entirely new ingredients that were never a part of the original recipe.

We learn that the reason for this is that Lilia only formed an interest in cooking once he had a family to look after. He was determined to focus upon nutritional meals for them, and when a recipe did not have enough healthy ingredients for his liking, he would introduce new ingredients so as to increase the meal’s nutritiousness. As a result, he now ignores the instructions of recipes that do not sound healthy enough.

According to Sebek, Lilia either does not care about unpleasant tasting food or does not notice it, as he can consume foul-tasting potions with enjoyment and once ate an entire pot-au-feu dish that a young Silver had attempted to cook and accidentally burnt, without complaint.

Lilia’s poor cooking ability seems to be gaining notoriety throughout the school because of how he enjoys attempting to share his home cooked meals with others, and how he passes on his unfortunate cooking tips and tricks to his fellow students. In one of Jamil’s vignettes, Jamil firmly refuses Lilia’s offer of assistance with readying a meal for Kalim, reflecting on a rumor he heard that Lilia is not to be trusted with food preparation.

Lilia receives a book of recipes from Trey on his birthday and comments that “the ingredients listed here will never be enough—I will work something out”. We learn that he participates in the school’s “Master Chef” curriculum every year, and always fails the course.

While we know from Book 5 that Lilia is wholly capable of singing normally when he chooses to, he does not always do so. His personal preference is for heavy music and screaming, and he will shout even when singing lullabies.

During a recruitment event for the Pop Music Club, Lilia attempted to stage dive into a crowd of gathered first years, and fell to the floor when no one caught him. The recruitment event resulted in a single new member for the club: Kalim.

Lilia enjoys music because it brings people together, regardless of age or place of birth.

Lilia seems to be acting as a chaperone for Malleus at the school, always watching over his interactions with other students with pleasure. 

Rook calls him “Monsieur Curiosité”, while Floyd refers to him as Mendako-chan (eng: flapjack octopus)

He enjoys black licorice immensely, and his dislike of marshmallows seems to come from the fact that he simply finds them unsatisfying.

Lilia does not enjoy being in the sun, preferring cloudy weather, and wears a sun visor during his PE classes. He is often joined during battles and his flying lessons by clouds of bats, while a single bat will often fly down from the rafters of the lecture hall to visit with him during magical history lessons, his favorite subject.

Lilia wears an oversized lab coat during alchemy lessons intentionally, in order to promote his “cute” appeal, of which he is very much aware and seems to be going out of his way to emphasize. He says that, while the sleeves get in his way, he puts up with it because of how cute they make him look. His school uniform jacket is also overly large, and is the same size as the one worn by Malleus.

In vignettes we have learned that Lilia is a former king’s guard for the Lord of Briar Valley, was highly trusted by the Queen at the time and earned medals of bravery for his courage in battle. Though he has since retired from the front lines, he is still a very formidable opponent both physically and magically, defeating multiple third-year students who had been bullying Epel in his lab wear vignette and holding his own against Malleus in Beansfest (until the latter ran out of beans, resulting in Lilia’s victory).

Contrary to his violent past, Lilia’s wish in the Wish Upon a Star event is for peace between the different races of Twisted Wonderland, and we learn that he has taught Silver that war should never be an option. 

Lilia became interested in traveling alone only recently, after things became “peaceful”, and he is extremely well-traveled. He enjoys solo-trips to foreign countries and often brings back souvenirs for both himself and others. Lilia as said that he particularly enjoys interacting with people from other countries.

He was initially a very strict educator while raising Silver and Sebek, but after seeing them struggle with their training, he realized that it was wrong to raise children in the same way he had treated his subordinates on the front lines. He has been raising them in a laissez-faire manner ever since. (Sebek has parents and siblings of his own, but it seems that Lilia has been overseeing Sebek’s tutelage alongside Silver from when they were both very young.)

Silver has shared that he is in extremely good physical shape, often doing situps while hanging upside down from the canopy of his bed. This scene has been animated by a fan at the link below.

Lilia’s hair is naturally black. He dyes the under part different colors depending on his mood.

At NRC Lilia enjoys online games and magi-cam, the twst-equivalent of instagram. He is an accomplished gamer, and has expressed that he enjoys multi-player games as people from all over the world are able to gather to enjoy themselves together without the boundaries of physical borders. 

Lilia seems to be familiar with Sam’s family, saying that he was acquainted with Sam’s great-great-great-grandfather.

Some great artists for Lilia fan-art and more (SFW, no story spoilers)

・Great (but lowkey depressing) Diasomnia Family Comic

・More Diasomnia Family

And by the same artist

・King’s Guard Lilia on a unicorn

・Variety of Characters, mostly of Lilia

Voice Lilia is voiced by Midorikawa Hikaru (緑川 光), one of the most accomplished voice actors of his generation. His performance as Heero Yuy in New Mobile Suit Gundam W was what inspired Silver’s seiyuu to pursue voice acting. He has also had leading roles in SLAM DUNK, Fushigi Yugi, GTO, DIABOLIK LOVERS, Persona 3, Fate/Zero, Granblue Fantasy and more, having been active in the voice acting industry since 1988.

More information available here

Additional Fact Sheets ・Riddle Rosehearts ・Trey Clover・Cater Diamond ・Ace Trappola・Deuce Spade ・Leona Kingscholar ・Ruggie Bucchi ・Jack Howl ・Azul Ashengrotto・Floyd Leech・Jade Leech ・Kalim Al-Asim・Jamil Viper ・Vil Schoenheit・Rook Hunt ・Epel Felmier ・Idia Shroud・Ortho Shroud ・Malleus Draconia ・Silver・Sebek Zigvolt・Lilia Vanrouge ・Sam・Crewel・Trein・Vargas・Crowley

[liseronfle]

If only I had enough words to share how much I liked this work, but sadly, I don't. Beautiful fiction around making things right for Riddle as a child, it's beautiful, healing and everything we needed.

i'll dry the villain's tears

t h e r o s e r e d t y r a n t ' s m o t h e r

you get reincarnated into a role that became the breaking point of the villain's story and you, be it an unwillingness to cause them harm or a desire to survive, must work hard to make sure they grow into a better (or at least safer) person.

You had died.

at least, you think you did.

It was hard to remember much.

Blinding lights, fading screams, it all felt so fuzzy and distant that you could hardly even remember your old face. The new one staring back at you was strange and foreign and perfect; it was almost like you were staring into the eyes of a doll. You pressed a well manicured nail to your cheek, feeling the soft skin give underneath your touch. So this is what she looked like. Bright red hair and piercing silver eyes, Riddle's mother made for an intimidating figure. You could only imagine how wicked she would look when angry despite her pretty looks.

You let out a soft sigh, leaned back against your chair, and attempted a smile at your reflection. The muscles around your cheeks creaked in protest at the attempt and gave you little more then a grimace.

"Not one for smiling, are you Mrs. Rosehearts?"

Well, whatever sickness that had overtaken the former Mrs. Rosehearts seemed to have passed and you no longer needed constant supervision from whoever Riddle had called for. Speaking of, where was Mr. Rosehearts? Surely her husband must've been worried sick once he had heard his wife had collapsed.

After a few moments of pondering, idly rummaging through drawers and inspecting every nook and cranny of what you assumed to be your new bedroom, you quickly discovered there was only a wardrobe for one. How strange. As you continued digging through your new and incredibly modest clothes, your hunt for clues was quickly interrupted by a sharp knock at your door. You dropped everything and let out a quiet shriek, feeling what felt like your heart quickly jumping in to your throat at the surprised new guest. Imwardly, you had to remind yourself that you were in fact, not snooping! This was your stuff now and could look through it all you liked. Quickly patting down your clothes and pinning back your frazzled hair, you attempted to compose yourself and cleared your throat, quietly acknowledging their presence.

"Uhm - yes! You may come in."

Whoever stood out your door seemed almost hesitant, waiting at the door long enough for the silence to slowly grow awkward, before the door let out a small click and they entered.

It was Riddle.

"I finished my lesson for the afternoon." Riddle spoke quietly, eyes never leaving the space behind your head, as if too nervous to even look at you, "If you would allow me, I'd like to take a small break to rest my eyes."

Here it was! Your moment! You had dreamed of this since the beginning and you could finally, finally make a difference and fix the broken relationship between him and his mother!! You eagerly turned towards him, feeling your skirt pick up in your excitement and ducked down, balancing your weight on the balls of your feet and lowering yourself down to his level.

"Actually, Riddle, how would you like it if we took a break together. I made us some tea!" You smiled, eyes crinkling in delight, "And then after that we-"

"No, thank you."

Eh.

What a quick response!!!!

Blinking past the surprise, you were startled to notice that Riddle had taken a few steps back, his eyebrows knitted together in what almost looked like confusion. You could feel the apprehension and barely disguised fear roll off of him in waves as he opened his mouth to continue.

"It's not time for a tea and I'd much rather get back to my studies as soon as possible.."

Yes, you supposed it was rather late in the evening for a tea time but it couldn't be that bad to take a small break to unwind after a tiring afternoon, surely! Bu then again, you realized, Riddle's mother always enforced a strict schedule. There was no time for snack breaks or play time, everything was chosen for him down to the very last millisecond of his day. Breaking this trend would not be an easy task. Mrs. Rosehearts made sure of that.

"Ah, you're right! Silly me..." You took this moment to reach out, intending to push back a stray hair from Riddle's face but he flinched. It was hardly noticeable and honestly, if you weren't down at his level and painfully aware of every twitch and fidget, you wouldn't have noticed but still, you felt your heart break a little more.

"Yes... It must be the fever." You sighed out, lowering your hand before slowly putting it back in your lap, "I must still feel tired after being in bed the past few days. Being stuck in my room must've made me a little mad."

Riddle made no effort to respond, only slowing raising his head. When his silver eyes met yours, you smiled and kept his gaze, "Would you do me a favor then, Riddle? I'm feeling terribly lonely and would like the company... however," You had to give him the option, "if you'd rather end your studying for the day and choose yourself what you'd like to do until your bedtime, you're more then welcome to."

As much as you wanted to quickly mend the relationship between the two of you, you knew you could not rush it. Years of abuse and tyranny do not go away with a single good deed and the more you tried to force it, the more you guessed he would push away.

Riddle paused and searched your eyes, looking for any signs of this being a test. He seemed almost hesitant to even ponder the choices before him as if he had never made his own decision before - with his mother's blessing no less - and wasn't eager to start now.

"I won't be upset, Riddle. You c-"

"I would like to have tea with you, please."

You mentally fist bumped the air, tears of success running down your face. Progress! This was progress, right? Willingly getting him to break his rigid schedule was already a huge undertaking but getting him to choose to spend time with you? You could practically hear the angels singing in your head.

Getting him to slowly and comfortably break his schedule was one thing but his diet? That was a whole other trauma to fight and you didn't know where to start. Unlike Riddle's mother, you weren't a doctor. Your knowledge of what was healthy and what was not and how to balance calories was never something you were taught past the very basics. Smugly, you figured she wasn't any good at it either so really, it could only get better.

It started with little things, replacing what kinds of ingredients you used and portions and the like and you spent many a nights on Magicam, researching food trends and advice from dieticians and other mothers. Anonymously, of course.

If Riddle noticed the change in his diet, he made no attempt to question you about it, probably enjoying whatever you were doing enough not to bring it up. You were his mother after all and although the dinner table was still quiet between the two of you, it was a more comfortable silence as if you were both too worried to break it. Watching him eat was also a treat. You had always thought Riddle was a pretty child, but to see sparks of life flicker behind his trained expression was a victory you always cherished. Sometimes it was small things, like him kicking his feet or the shock of trying a new taste. It was precious, watching him slap his palm to his face as he jumped in his chair, eyes practically tearing up at the taste of pepper of all things.

And then, one day, you decided that perhaps it was time. A strawberry tart.

You paced in your bedroom for days, practically digging holes into the floor as you plotted your next big move. This moment was perhaps the most important of all the other events that had happened in Riddle's life and you knew it was going to be a real big hurdle to cross.

"Riddle?"

He perked up slightly from his desk at the sound of your voice and turned to look at you. His eyes were brighter now and they no longer had the same fear they once had. His gaze could almost be described as affectionate.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to be out for awhile. not for too long mind, but I have something very important I need to do. I'm sure you don't mind if I leave you to yourself for a short while?" You gave him a sheepish smile as you made your way to the front door, your hand already reaching for the handle. As much as you wanted to do this and get it over with, you could still feel the nerves biting at your ankles.

Riddle nodded his head, his red hair practically bouncing with the movement, before returning to his studies while you closed the front door behind you, breath heavy in your throat. Days of planning were all coming together. You could feel the sweat building up and running down your neck as you took a few simple breathes to calm your racing heart.

Some might consider it obsessive but you had carefully studied That particular bakery and it's foot traffic to ensure that nobody else would be in the store to witness what was about to happen for the past two weeks. In disguise, you had watched and written down the hours there was a slow lull in visitors from out in the streets, careful not to attract any sort of attention. It's not like you were planning anything nefarious! It's just that... the thought of anyone witnessing the verbal smack down you were about to receive was almost too much. But you had to do this. For Riddle, for yourself, and because you really, really, really wanted to try one of Clover Bakery's sweets.

It was time.

"Welcome in! Welcome to Clover Bakery! I'll be right with you in a moment!" A feminine voice sounded like it was in the back as the door to the bakery slowly chimed behind you, as if it was the death knell, signaling your demise. You trained your breath, in and out, and wiped your sweaty palms on the back of your skirt, willing yourself to calm down. You had to be strong! Trey and both his parents deserved a proper apology, even if technically you weren't the one who offended them. You had to fix this mess and you couldn't do it half assed!

"Sorry about that! We just finished the new batch of - oh."

Trey's mother was in front of you.

Trey's Mother was in front of you.

"I..." Your heart felt like it was going to give out. "I've come to apologize."

That obviously is not what she was expecting and judging by the widening of her eyes and the tightening of her posture, she didn't seem entirely willing to accept it but she stood there and didn't seem unwilling to hear you out so in your haste, you tripped over your words in eagerness to continue.

"Please," You lowered your head and gaze, nearly buckling under the stress, "at least hear me out. What I did - to you, your husband, your son, to Riddle - It was unacceptable."

You gulped and began the part you had rehearsed in front of your mirror. This part, while not necessarily the truth, would make the most sense.

"When I couldn't find Riddle in the room where I left him and the window opened, I panicked. I had always been very strict with Riddle and perhaps that's where I erred, where he thought that the only choice he had to enjoy an inch of freedom was to sneak out while I was unaware, So, when I couldn't not find him and found him with strangers, people I had never met before and knew very little of, I panicked."

"But what I ended up doing," Something wet fell from your eyes, "I hurt him. I hurt Riddle. I - I think that's what snapped me out of whatever idiotic beliefs I had. He wouldn't talk to me, he couldn't even meet my eyes-"

"I understand,"

Blinking past the tears, you looked up, watching as Trey's mother let out a long and weary sigh, "I may not forgive you for what you did yet, I can see you obviously mean what you're saying."

"You can?"

"Look at you. You're shaking like a leaf, you look nothing like the woman that came screaming in here for her son. Whatever happened between then and now obviously changed things."

You watched as she ducked behind the counter and wrapped something up in a small container and gestured for you to open your hands.

"Here," She closed your hands around it, "It's a strawberry tart. Those were Riddle's favorite right? I'm sure you can help mend whatever happened with something like this. It's on the house. Just... next time Riddle wants to play, let him. My son has been beside himself with worry ever since."

You held the tart close to your chest like she had just handed you the most precious thing you've ever owned and nodded your head, your once formerly primed and proper hair falling down your shoulders in wave from your excitement, "Thank you! Thank you so much... I will do whatever I can now. I won't make the same mistake again."

"Go on," You smiled, "Open it."

As soon as you returned home, you eagerly called for Riddle to join you at the family table, nearly tripping over your heels in your excitement as you carefully placed the boxed strawberry tart down. Riddle watched your expression carefully, eyeing the concealed treat from the corner of his eye. As much as he's enjoyed the past few months, this was a huge step forwards. It was almost as if he was scared that what he thought was going to happen wouldn't. What if this was an elaborate scheme? What if this was a big final test and he failed? What if-

"It's ok, Riddle," You reassured him with a low voice, pushing the small box closer to him as his eyes snapped to meet yours, "It's something really good, I promise." With a nervous look, he nodded.

You could hear his barely contained sniffles as he slowly began untying the ribbon, stopping periodically to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve, before the box opened and in the center was

the most beautiful strawberry tart he has ever seen.

His small sniffles soon erupted into wails, high pitched and heart wrenching as he sat there in his chair, his hands still in the air as his little body was wracked with tears. You couldn't hold back your own crying as you brought Riddle's small frame to your chest and hugged him tightly as he cried and cried and cried in your arm. His little fingernails dug crescents into your skin as he kept tugging you closer and closer, unwilling for there to be an space between you and him.

"My darling, Riddle," You sniffled back a tear as you dug your face into his red hair, feeling him hiccup and sob as you did the same, "I'm sorry you had to wait so long."

[liseronfle]

Original title. Realist depiction. Lovely description. No stereotype and all in characters. We love to see such an introspective take to a romantic classic !

Prompt: "It's a Zing not a Fling" :: The moment they realize you're the one. Masterlist: LinkedUP

Parts:: Heartslabyul (Here) | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

Leading up to each high-tea at Heartslabyul, its esteemed Housewarden found himself penning a singular invitation. One for a guest beyond his court, yet not his reach.

His cursive penmanship loops your name like so on restless nights in the margins of his notebook. One of the rare lapses Riddle's inner-self allows, despite still diligently studying his evenings away.

He seals each envelope with care, pressing out any creases that dare to blemish his hard work. Only the best can request your presence, even if Riddle is confident you won't deny his request no matter the condition.

A Queen cannot host without his King in attendance, after all.

Long before students rise and his duties begin, Riddle walks the familiar yet rarely-traveled path to Ramshackle dormitory. He places the envelope flat in the box, careful to angle it where no dirt could tarnish its white lace trimming. he releases the metal flap and raises the side-flag. All set for you to receive at your leisure, and for him to go on with his day.

That is - until his steps halt, with one foot already pivoted to turn back and release the letter flag.

Inner demons desperately want to delegate morning role call to his Vice, march himself into your dorm and take up whatever time he can before his role forces him to do otherwise.

To which Riddle's inner demons win each and every time, all on the reasoning that leaving an invitation behind is improper. That a proper courier must ensure a job complete with his own eyes.

Certainly not an excuse to cross your path before anyone else that day.

Another selfishness he lets slip through the cracks in his discipline.

Cracks that coincidentally began to arrive around the same time as you.

Three sharp knocks the main doorframe, one lace-trimmed envelope, and a free escort to breakfast make up in an all-exclusive Rosehearts mail service.

"Is there a reason I have to wear white?" your question hangs on a ribbon. The one wrapped tight across your chest, to be precise. One of Heartslabyul's second-years, a fellow in the most extravagant top hat you've ever seen, methodically wraps and lines measuring tape across your body.

Riddle looks up from his book, "Laws of Practical Magic in Medicinal Context," for nothing longer than a second.

"All members of the Queen's court must adorn themselves in the proper attire for ceremonies and gatherings. You are aware of this."

The hatted-student forces your arms up without a word. You jolt, startled, and he's too absorbed in his work to notice. Only muttering an apology when Riddle clicks his tongue.

"I'm still not a member of Heartslabyul - why does it matter now of all times?"

Another click of his tongue, this time for you.

"Tradition." He says, as if it's the most obvious answer.

"Tradition?" your brow crinkles, "I hadn't thought I was violating anything until now. Are there extended rules for outsiders?"

While not a member of the Queen's domain, you will forever remain part of his court. All receive invitations. All must attend in the proper attire, decked to the Queen's delight in red and white. He let it pass while you remained a friendly exception. Times have changed.

Riddle lets his book close, only when his underclassmen makes a hasty retreat with his collection of notes, fabrics, and measurements in tow. The hatter much too discourteous for Riddle's liking, but good at his job.

"I've been lenient up until now under the belief that your dorm would adopt an official uniform," Riddle sighs, albeit cracking a smile when you scamper off the tailor's perch to his side, "seeing as months have passed with no developments? I cannot excuse your attire any longer. You will wear white when at any Heartslabyul event from this moment onward."

"Don't you mean red and white?"

His thoughts halt, - "Again. Tradition dictates only white."

"Because I'm a guest?"

Riddle shakes his head, fingering the pages of his text to ignore the heat on his cheeks.

"No. Because you are the visiting Queen."

"Ramshackle needs something like this, don't you think?"

You sipped at a cup of lemon-chamomile, poured as a game of cricket began. Riddle's eye caught at your white gloves - they climbed from fingertips all to your bicep. The hatter did wonders with the roll of satin provided.

In a dorm of red, you were the sole dominator of white save for a rose brooch at the breast.

"Unbirthdays are tied to the Red Queen's rule," Riddle pulls himself from you, holding his attention on the game, "Ramshackle has no need for such things."

"That's not what I was eluding too - but thank you for the dismissal" you huff, and it's not the amused one he's learned to detect.

He allows himself a brief peek, just to catch you eyeing your reflection in the teacup. Your gaze nowhere near as enthused as his. Not at the black-heart over your lips, or shimmering silver crown sitting on your head.

"I want a tradition, Riddle. Something that makes my dorm special. Unique."

Something within him waivers at your admittance. For him these parties were routine - an obligation. Your presence made them more enjoyable, but he never cared too deeply.

Perhaps, he never allowed himself to care. Yearning for belonging. Home. That is an emotion he can empathize with.

Riddle is proud - no, he is positively delighted - to be one of the first to receive an invitation. His mailbox is forever cluttered with academic documents and professional communications. Yet he recognizes your writing on sight, and is pleased you'd not forgone a traditional physical invite. He handles it with delicate care, opening the seal like a single tear would be sacrilegious. You've settled on hosting for large holiday back in your world - one that you've mentioned a handful of times since snow began to fall.

Christmas, he recalls with ease.

Everything you say somehow stores in the main filing cabinet within his mind. For easy access, or perhaps he simply finds you far more interesting than leagues of text he's memorized.

You seem keen on twisting the original meaning of this holiday, bringing decorations, food, and everything in between to Ramshackle. Going so far as to place an appeal to the Headmaster, and with Riddle's aid, worming out a decently sized budget for dorm activities. Bless him for his way to move a room. Riddle might've preferred staying on the Headmaster's good wing, but couldn't turn down your request. Not when you are forthcoming so infrequently. In truth - Riddle has not been invited to a party before. Not as himself. Only formal gatherings that his mother arranged, hanging to her side as she paraded him like a prodigal trophy, or mandatory parties as Dormhead where preparations hung on his shoulders.

Riddle will honor your wishes; he'll selfishly relish in the fact that with a novel idea there is a lack of rules to maintain. Although your warming desire for tradition doesn't escape him, so he'll happily commission a new set of green and red to dress himself.

"You've done a wonderful job," Riddle sips at aclear flute glass, held proper at the stem between thumb and index, " I am thoroughly impressed that there is food to spare, considering Grim's gluttonous habits."

Riddle resists the urge to smirk, hiding his pleasure in another sip. He's used to others balking at his praise, yet it's different when you look at him so glowing. For once, he is not the one at table's the head seat, but you've well earned the highest spot for what he's witnessed this eve.

Ramshackle's main hall cleared for a long, expansive table decorated with broad cloth and long strands of cranberries. Candle light illuminates the hall in between platters befitting a feast. Garlands of red and green shimmered - all drawing attention to the brightly colored pine tree situated near the lounge hearth.

Riddle hadn't considered ornamenting a giant pine with twinkle strands and glass bulbs, yet its beauty stunned him nonetheless. Stockings hung on the walls, each with a student's name written in glue-glitter pen. Some messier than others, he noted. Grim's handwriting could do with work.

They'd been stuffed with little treats and ribbon - surely more that hid under their fluffy tops. Riddle wondered their purpose and how you managed to hang some well-beyond what a stool could help reach. He pictured you standing atop stacked boxes, tongue poking between teeth as you precariously leaned to hang those higher up.

For his sanity - Riddle dismissed the thought to the backends of his mind.

"Thank you -" your smile, eyes twinkling under candle-light "It surely wasn't easy getting the Headmaster's approval for all this - I'm grateful you were able to help, otherwise we might've all been eating instant noodles instead of turkey."

Riddle huffed, swirling his near-empty ice water "I didn't do much - regardless, I'm certain the evening would have turned out fine. This is a new tradition, one where you are in charge."

There's mirth in your eyes for a moment. A happy glint that he's proud to have brought back.

"I don't think Vil would've been happy eating canned tuna on the couch, but I'll take your word for it."

"Perhaps you have a point, yet it doesn't matter. Since we are not eating canned tuna and certainly not on a sunken couch." he hums, and watches closely as you pick up your glass to stand. Having postponed long enough with idle chatter, your spoon hovers near the glass rim, hesitant to clink for attention.

For reasons he is quite confident in - you look to him in a moment of hesitance, and he's prepared. As always.

Riddle nods when your eyes meet his, and then there's the familiar chime of a toast.

"Everyone! I'd like to thank you all for coming despite your busy schedules. This is the first ever event hosted by Ramshackle and I hope it's been as much fun for you as it has for me..." His attention is lost to your words, despite Riddle's attempts to nod along. It all fades out. His hearing. The feeling of his glass between his fingers, even as he rolls the stem between them. You glow.

It's nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, you've cleaned up for the evening - and he was not reserved enough to stay a compliment upon arriving. You had admired his suit in turn, fussing with his striped bow-tie even though it was already tied to perfection. He hadn't minded the slightest. Surely he'd taken ample time to admire you. What you've done to this shabby dormitory. How you are obviously trying to mimic his speech mannerisms from the countless he's given -

Yet it is not candlelight, fancy clothing or words that make you glow. It is something he cannot string words for, which is an oddity in itself.

Your earlier worry lingers, even if it is not worth dwelling on. Not with Schoeneheit here and clearly satisfied with the arrangements. He'd been the most critical about the building decor, after all. Although Riddle is certain he'd have made time to come regardless of what you arranged.

Vil is not the only one outside of Heartslabyul that you've managed to gather- Riddle notes. Students across all dormitories are here for this new tradition of yours. Ones he doesn't think to question, such as Epel of Pomefiore or Scarabia's party-hungry dorm leader. Others Riddle nearly balked at seeing, especially when Malleus Draconia of all people made an entrance just when seats were almost filled. For reasons unknown to Riddle, Malleus lingered long to admire his name-card and placemat. Even a prince was pleased with the bare minimum once entering this dormitory. Did you glow to them? He wonders. Unlike the Unbirthday parties - you've gathered these individuals out of desire. Not obligation. Ask him mere months prior and he'd think it impossible.

And yet.

Zing.

There's a yearning in your eyes - but this time not shrouded by a silver crown. It's a brilliant sparkle. An appreciation for what many would surely consider utter chaos - and he has no desire to scold you for stumbling over words or failing to follow his proper regimen for speeches.

You sit down, his ears still deaf but his sight not hindered to the adrenaline flush in your cheeks. To the tremble of your fingers as they tinker with your cutlery. How you smile for him, and he knows it's gratitude but Riddle's done nothing worthy of it this night.

As platters circle around, chatter rises - you watch, taking it all in. Not a bite taken from your plate despite minutes passing. Like you're somewhere unimaginable.

While it is considered impolite to ignore the person across you at a dinner table, Riddle is more interested in the one to his left. He understands that yearning. For friends. Family. Loved ones. To be as he wants, and accepted as he is.

Riddle reaches underneath the tablecloth, his hand finding yours in a subtle gesture. His fingers pry through one of your fists, lacing through yours like they'd been longing to the entire evening. "Relax," he whispers, soft enough that it surprises even himself, "This is the start of what is sure to be a wonderful tradition. I, for one, am immensely proud of you," he says your name with the highest reverence,praying his gaze is kind.

You glow.

Riddle squeezes your hand, striving to convey that this feeling you're experiencing is shared. His adoration might not be apparent to you just yet, but it is all consuming.

Trey is not one to snap easily or let his emotions guide his actions. He learned that he must think ahead at a young age, mediate, and it's carried him this far.

Yet this sense of control. This comfort. It is as much bane as much as it is a boon. And chaos is best experienced at a safe distance, he also figured out, like an active volcano. Enough to wow but not enough to burn. No matter what trouble comes across Trey's path, he will let it go in favor of finding a solution. Maybe he'll laugh about it later and enjoy the mischief in secret. Yet he always waits until it is safe. You are a volcano that never ceases erupting. Yet he lives on your island. Willingly. The warmth is worth each risked burn, yet he knows you'd harden yourself if he ever showed his skin. You'd turn from fiery magma into igneous rock.

You hadn't purposefully worked to agitate Riddle. No matter how much Heartslabyul's dorm-head was determined to atone for his childish behavior, change does not come overnight. Your mischief sometimes went overboard, earning a collar that had no use but to make a statement, yet it was always in good fun. Nothing a few days and proper apology could not fix. The dorm lightened up, there were upsides to these eruptions. Trey would be there to make you see.

You hadn't caused irreversible distress, like blowing up the kitchen or switching the sugar with salt right before he entered the culinary crucible. Even then, grime could be cleaned and he didn't care about winning anyways. What's a trophy when faced with your supposed 'revenge'. What for? He has no idea, but Trey knows you're capable of much worse and counts his blessings. A small dose of cortisol usually ended with a good laugh, and possibly some blackmail material that he would never get around to using.

So long as you were happy, healthy, and most importantly- present. Trey could ask for nothing else.

Yet even the most optimistic man alive couldn't remain so at all hours - and he wasn't an optimist. Merely an idealist, a mediator - a lover, in this case.

The things we do for love - he could make a list.

"Why aren't you mad at me?"

Trey busied himself scrubbing violet dye out of his forearms. On the off chance there was a cleansing tonic available, he doubts Professor Crewel would waste it on something that will fade with time. The problem more-so lies with Trey's uniform, which wouldn't be cleaned in time for the next lab showcase. He'd likely be docked points, even as a Vice Housewarden. It would be major annoyance, if nothing else.

Trey sighs, going in for the third round of deep scrubbing " - Because accidents happen. What? You want for me to scold you?"

You don't answer his teasing. Trey scrubs harder. His skin was beginning to burn and yet he continued with the futile effort. If anything to act like he's unbothered and keep you from touching what's contaminated in the sink. Protect your curiosity, dispel your guilt. "Listen to me -okay? This isn't worth getting upset over. So I'm a candied violet for a few days? It's definitely a conversation starter." Trey kept his tone light, even throwing a joke that would definitely fall flat -

"-but you should be mad. Professor Crewel is going to mark your point card -" Yes. He knows. You don't need to remind him, " - maybe we can get you a new uniform? Or...or I can come with you? We can tell him what happened together and maybe he'll show mercy?"

Mercy? At Night Raven? You're kidding.

He scrubs harder. Under the fingernails. Over his elbows. It does nothing to lighten the pigment.

"No, trust me on this. A few points off my card makes no difference to a senior," he sighs, rinsing yet again. This time with scalding water that burns his skin, "you have two more years in this lab. That's a long time to endure Professor Crewel's scrutiny - and believe me, he remembers everything. Let me talk it out with him."

A partial truth. Normal seniors couldn't afford missing marks. Trey has seniority as a member of the science club, and no past demerits. He'll have to write an accident report at best, and be on cleanup duty for the rest of the month at worst. It's easier to accept the punishment then have you be subjected to one of Crewel's lectures on lab conduct. He can practically hear the cogs in your head. They're mucking up, slowing to a chilling halt. His teeth grind together, trying to think up a reassurance but coming up flat.

He'll smooth things over with Riddle afterwards, make a strawberry tart, the one with chocolate cream you liked last week, invite you over once he's calmed down to show no harm done. It'll be fine.

"B-but that's not fair! What about your -"

Trey shut off the faucet.

"Enough already," he grit the words out, "You're not supposed to be in here after hours and Crewel isn't the sort of instructor to let transgressions go. Do you want to be barred from the lab indefinitely?"

There was not any yelling. If anything, he was too quiet. No directly hurtful words. Trey hadn't meant for his tone to come out so forceful, but the veins on his arms were starting to bulge under duress and you just weren't listening.

His skin was about to blister if he kept it under water much longer. Maybe he should have let it.

Trey will do whatever he can to keep you happy, safe - satisfied and exactly as he found you. His feelings aren't that of a wet doormat, but he's always gone the subtle route. Thought things through.

Damn it - you always made it hard to think things through.

Grabbing one of the hanging towels, Trey turns around with the tick in his neck hanging tight. Just waiting for you to go and leave him feeling strung. The lab always felt cold compared to the rest of Night Raven, you'd take your warmth but he wasn't doing a great job of protecting it regardless. His mind's already running the extra mile and looking for a way to fix this.

"I don't mind being banned if it's what's fair. You don't need to shelter me, Trey. I know when I've messed up, and I want to help if you'll just let me."

Zing.

You don't run out on him, leaving a mess behind. Leave him cold. Like when the oven turns off and the kitchen's aired out. There's no need for a step-by-step plan. His words stung - he knew by your fists bunched in the pockets of your lab coat. You dislike this as much as he does - and yet, unlike Trey, you don't run.

"Let me help. Please?"

Trey purses his lips together, taking a deep breath through his nose before letting it out in four counts. He finishes toweling his stained hands, sooths the sting, tosses the rag aside and steps into your space. Closer than needed but something he wanted.

His painted hand hovers over your head, his impulse to make light and ruffle your hair. Reign it all back in.

Except one look in your eyes stops him short, and he finds your cheek instead. His purpled thumb looks ridiculous against your reddening cheeks - utterly wrong yet you lean into him before he can change his mind.

"Alright," Trey relents, tone much softer, "You win. I'm annoyed- "

Trey pauses, his brows dipping. You wait.

" - and I'm sorry for just now."

You nod against his palm, "I am too. Let's...let's just take a bit. We don't have to tell Crewel together if you're sure, but I can at least help with Riddle. I've had plenty of practice."

That you did with the freshmen you hang around - and a success rate of zilch since they still walk away with collars more often than not.

You really couldn't protect Trey from Riddle's word, in truth. He'd scold the both of you without hesitance. Although maybe it won't be so bad, sharing a tart without the roundabout.

"That sounds good to me."

Cater Diamond calls maximum-level bullshit. Magic is definite. His split-card never fails to produce an exact replica of him down to the finest detail. The cowlick he combs over, right above his left ear. The slight downturn of his right eye - an unfortunate side effect of sleeping on his side, face scrunched tight between forearm and bicep. His freckle pattern is identical too, even the ones on his back! Every possible fluctuation of his voice, the slight lag in his gait, his superstitions about stepping on tile cracks - even as a duplicate, he won't risk that karma. Cater's unique magic was perfect. Which is why he calls bullshit when you claim to tell them apart.

No.

Tell him from them? All clones look exactly the same, act the same, but apparently they didn't replicate his 'aura'. Whatever that means.

The first time you were able to do it, he thought nothing. That maybe you were looking to feel special - especially when your only response to how was 'I can just tell'. Even though no one looked convinced, you weren't bothered.

Cater wasn't about to take it personally either. Not when you were a great source for magicam material, and one of the few people his dorm head seemed to tolerate. Definitely the cute underclassmen type his sisters would go crazy for, and he did owe you for...well, no need to keep tabs, right?

It's not like you were being rude about it either. If it was a slight against his magic ability, maybe he'd feel differently.

Except you did it again.

And again.

Again.

Oh? Another time too.

Enough times that he stops sending a copy to do his dirty work, because you'll know. Even if you don't rat him out, there's that way you try to bit down a smile that somehow gets his clones to have a looser lip.

Okay. Maybe he needed to work on that. Yet still. Risking everything on your whim just so he can cut class isn't worth the headache.

Yet he will not concede.

It's bullshit. You're bullshitting so far out that he'd sooner believe Trey skipped flossing for an entire week straight. No. A month.

But Cater can't cling to that simple, vulgar dismissal. Even if he's never said it out loud to your face. There has to be a reason. While he's not one to have it 'out' for his underclassmen, you have to be putting on some kind of front. He can't bring himself to be spiteful about it since 'Cay-Cay' doesn't exactly encompass all that makes Cater.

You have to be - because it's physically impossible for someone to be this ignorant. He can excuse your lack of Wonderland culture (and is working to remedy it) but social cues? No. You have to be doing something intentionally. Anything. To see more of him.

He respects the effort, but if you're so intent on seeing him? Well. He'd let you see all right. Just don't blame Cater if you regret losing 'cay-cay' in the process.

"Special delivery for you, Peepers. Curtesy of Heartslabyul's royal court!"

With a perfectly-wrapped gift basket on one arm, and his phone in the other's hand. Cater holds the front door to Ramshackle on his hip and outstretches the screen for your 'signature'. Aka. just for you to take some photo-evidence that he's done his duty so Riddle won't scold him for skimping.

"On god, are those my cookies? Did Trey actually do it?"

You happily take his precious phone and snap a quick picture. One of Cater on the front- stoop, and another with half your face in the bottom frame. Eyes squinted enough that anyone could tell you're smiling. He poses too on instinct, but once the classic *click* passes he's eagerly dropping the basket in your hands.

You open the wrapping and sniff the air. "It is! I could kiss that man. Just get me a step ladder and a bit of peer pressure."

Cater snorts.

"Over cookies? I admit, we do have the best baker on campus but don't make it too easy. We don't want lovesick boys raining down on Ramshackle..." he wiggles his brows with a cheeky smirk, "...or do we? So scandalous of you!"

No reward for the messenger? He almost wants to press for it, but you'd probably take him seriously.

Cater disregards the slight bitterness in his stomach, and pushes into your space to snag one of the 'special delivery' bites. He dangles the biscuit just over your head and holds it up to the sun.

You, of course, try to get it back. He relishes in the brief power imbalance.

"Aren't these just normal cookies? Wah - look how golden the edges are! Totally pic worthy, if you ask me," he jumps through the threshold and into the main hallway. The cookie just on his lips.

"Would be a shame if we just ate them all, right peeps?"

A bit of sugar is worth that expression. The front door slams on your heels as you make like a bull towards him.

"Annnnnnd that's my cue! Later, gator!"

He dips and spins at the last second, sweeping past for one action-packed getaway that leads straight out the door to the safe confines of Heartslabyul castle. Not with boisterous laughter, but his cheeks do feel extra stretched out. Cater isn't sure if he wants this feeling either.

Never mind before. That was a magicam worthy image. The 'harmless' Ramshackle prefect ready to commit murder over one cookie.

Eyeing his little prize, Cater takes a bite.

Still not a fan of sweets or chores...but he can admit that both the victory and visit are sweet.

"I have a question."

"LOL - is that why you look three-days constipated?"

"Do you always have to be such a - "

Dick?

"Yes," Cater flashed his teeth, tapping his phone against his cheek, "To you? Always."

Cater doesn't mind playing sitter for a bit. Not that you ever actually sat still. Nah. Kalim was all too eager for someone to come listen in on what the Pop Music Club was working on, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now two-thirds of his club busied themselves fighting over if they'd sing a rock ballad, or some actual pop. Since they were technically the 'pop' music club, and their optimist leader wanted you to really catch the vibes.

Cater? Cater didn't mind all that much, but was real glad he chose today to attend in person. Not because you'd rat him out, but for these odd entertaining moments. It's not like he can poke all his little 'buds' this way.

He leaned against the back of Lilia's amp, attention flickering between your prattling and his doom scroll.

"Did you know I was coming today?"

Pretty steep lead-up for a lame question.

"Nah,' Cater shrugged, but caught your disbelieving look, "whaaa? Do you think I can keep tabs on all my cute underclassmen? Don't be such a spoiled goober, peeps."

You still remained doubtful. He tapped his phone to his chin, setting a line out for you to catch.

"Alright, I'll cast. Why are you so sure I knew, huh?"

You wince, sucking some air past your teeth. He recognized that look. It's the same one Ace had every time he admit to a crime. Dang. A-Deuce really has you clutched.

"You just...I noticed you kinda avoid using your unique magic with me around. Kalim said it's how you three can make music that needs more instruments, but -"

You pause, isn't he supposed to be the skeptic here?

"Well. You're you right now. So I just thought - not to sound accusatory, mind you - that it's because of me.."

Well that's new. Not the calling him out part. Cater's let that grudge go over time. You were just too fun to mess with, and he settled for playing the cards set up. It's not like you were going anywhere.

He just didn't expect his little one-sided rivalry to make it through that 'aura' barrier, or whatever it is you called it before. Neither for him to actually show his hand, especially when he could deny it so easily.

"You want me to lay it straight with you?" Cater asks, his smile too wide for blatant kindness.

Back out man. What are you doing?

You, doe-eyed no more, nod along.

"You're hella creepy. That's why I give you special attention."

Part of Cater relishes in the startled expression on your face. In the discomfort of being seen that he's dealt with since the moment you met. Even if the feelings changed an now coated with something sickeningly sweet. A feeling he didn't want, but came regardless.

He continues without prompt.

"Did you ever think about where the name 'peepers' comes from? Sure, you're cute like a little chick. ADeuce sure Shepard you like one, and I'm sure it'd be the same if you were in Heartslabyul with the rest of us - "

You say nothing. Although Cater's not really being cruel, just honest. He knows there are better words to use here. Can think of them, but he doesn't want to.

"- but you don't really know boundaries, do you? Which can totally get you on the off-side, just saying. At first I did it to make sure you couldn't twist my clones into admitting something totes embarrassing - but now? Hmm....dunno. Just having fun."

The uncomfortable silence that follows is not fun. Although he's good at flipping back to scrolling as if he didn't just get as real as it gets IRL.

You don't stick around for practice. Part of Cater feels guilty that Kalim came back to an empty room, but he's not much in the mood for singing anymore. With you gone, he left behind two doubles.

Later, in his room, he wonders if it was 'Cay-Cay' talking or 'Cater'. They're not mutually exclusive. Either way, he doubts you'd be willing to chat casually with either again. Problem mitigated.

You were a good, if not rattling, experience.

So why's he not happy?

“I want to apologize. If you’ll hear me out.”

Now that’s not what Cater was expecting. Not at all. Two weeks without a Ramshackle resident in sight. For a bit he thought you decided to hate him for setting boundaries of all things. Ace and Deuce were your besties, but they hadn’t breathed a word about whatever you felt to him.

Either you were better at holding secrets than anyone else on campus, or those two had enough tact to respect their upperclassmen. Most likely the former, given past events.

Cater’s more interested in the cup noodle in your hands. Not even the good kind either.

“Is that supposed to be an offering? Did Acey teach you how to pull a kettle out of thin air too?” He’s going to need some hot water after all.

What would normally get those noodles thrown at Cater’s head - maybe a half-baked insult about them resembling his hair too - doesn’t work. You set the styrofoam cup on his desk and sit next to it.

“I’m sorry you felt creeped out by my ‘sixth-sense’ or whatever it is that my shared braincell friends call it. All this time I thought you were hanging out with me because we were friends or -“

You stop. Surely you wouldn’t leave him hanging, but Cater knows you as well as you know him. Too well. Blood rushes to your ears, as does words to your lips.

“- or, uh, more. Like - you didn't use the doubles since you liked spending time with me. Which is a bit conceited to think, I guess. I didn’t realize you were forcing yourself to be something you’re not. In the beginning I really admired you. Maybe that’s why I can tell the clones apart? It's a dumb reason but really all I've got. You always caught my attention. I’m not special, or psychic, or anything - I just really liked you.”

Zing

It’s not as if no one’s ever confessed their feelings to Cater. He’s an online presence. Cay gets five confessions a day, at minimum. A dozen fawning comments at every meal.

Except he never stole their packages, or drove them up a wall trying to find a hidden dirty sock in their dorm.

He was still ‘Cay-Cay’. Blessedly cute, to his sister’s delight and his honed weaponry. Although if he could be what they all wanted, he’d be at RSA. Maybe in another life.

No use on what-ifs after all.

“Could you say that with a mouth full of uncooked noodles? Raw emotions should equate raw stomach pains to show your sincerity” Cater wiggled the styrofoam cup before bopping it on your nose.

In this life, he was a melody of sinful cuteness. Maybe you saw that, maybe you didn’t.

The want for that little ‘more’ definitely left him with ammo for what was about to come.

You could be bullshitting that too. The vulgar conclusion somehow still coming back up after all this time.

The diamond on his cheek crinkles with a cheeky grin, and one of his doubles walks in with a piping hot cup of water. Then another with two bowls and chopsticks.

“JK I won’t do that to you,” he lets them set up for some real noodles, slipping the ones you bought away for later. You don’t need to know everything.

He’ll let you in on this much though.

You were trouble. A bit annoying and oblivious.

But deep down, so was Cater. Maybe he was the one bullshitting himself this whole time.

“You’re real lucky that I’m into creepy these days….say, could we maybe do a horror collab at your place for our launch?”

Deuce often wonders where he'd be if he hadn't come home that night. Good parents try to hide their feelings for the sake of their kids, but what if he hadn't overheard that phone call? What if his mother still felt such sadness? The Insomnia is well earned - if you ask him. Shame that he'll carry for the rest of his life. Her sorrow is his greatest regret, but he'll carry it. To move forward.

Would he still be part of the gang? Likely. There's no way Night Raven College would want someone with bruised knuckles as the only trophy on their name. Who's only redeemable skill was swinging a bat while pumping a wheelie.

Or would they? Floyd Leech received a letter and wasn't turning over any shells to become less...Floyd-like.

Maybe Deuce wasn't special. Just lucky.

Perhaps Night Raven would be better off with the old him. That prideful jerk who didn't think twice before throwing a punch. Who's greatest pride was his blast-cycle and rarely spared a thought on the people who really mattered. An absolute moron stuck in the wrong crowd, in the wrong place always at the wrong time.

In an abyss of what-ifs, there is one certainty.

You would not be a friend to Deuce.

He preyed on the magic-less back then. It's so easy to picture you as those faceless kids that he taunted. He thought himself better than them. Made them preach his superiority, and if they refused? Made their life hell. As did the rest of his gang.

What might he have said to you? What would he have done?

Deuce wasn't necessarily thrilled to be thrown on thin-ice during his first week on campus. He wasn't outright cruel towards you, but Ace? Ace was an asshole. Deuce heard how your meeting went. How he preyed on your ignorance, even though you couldn't help it.

Deuce can't give your group's third shit for it either.

Not when a bit of teasing was mercy compared to the bullying he used to do.

Not when he'd have gone further than Ace could attempt, and not when you'd have taken it without knowing any better. Your trust that he now held so dearly, traded away for a bit of momentary cruelty.

He would have got high off your misery, and been none the wiser to what he was ruining.

This ache is how Deuce tames that abyss of what-ifs.

Any life where you are not a friend to Deuce, is a life that he refuses to see possible.

Deuce is not special. He is lucky.

Lucky enough that you came into his life when he embodied the dignity to learn, and sense appreciate someone so wonderful.

Just like with his mother, Deuce can't ignore the thoughts. They will come, and he faces them with an imaginative force.

At the start of this new life, Deuce set out to become better. To be honorable. Sharp. Strong. Diligent. His mother's pride and tears fueled those ambitions.

Except he forgot one important factor. When he thinks of himself in this image, the desire brightens with your face in his day-dreams amidst hard work.

Kind.

Deuce wants to be kind.

"Finished?"

You stretch lazily across the library table. In the wee hours of dawn, with the sun just barely poking in with it's grey-toned light, Deuce scratches away at one of the many 'guides' Riddle loaned him for practical magic studies.

The word 'guide' must be used loosely, since the notes require endless sifting through textbooks for proper context. Leave it to his Housewarden to give just enough for any student to learn, but they'd need to exhibit excessive effort.

Deuce felt like the village-idiot, or rather the stooge of his academic year. They did this sort of gimmick back in the gang. Every batch of new-comers would come with a dud, meant to fail during initiation as an example.

Hell even Ace passed the last exam. Even if he just brushed by with a 70, it was still miles better than Deuce's 42. At the rate Deuce is going he might as well sign his soul off to Azul agai -

No.

"Urhm...I think? Just need to read a bit more," the words blurred, was it is eyes or did he literally erase the ink off?

The packet disappears before his retinas refocus. You start skimming over the shoddy work without asking. Now he's feeling frustrated and embarrassed.

"Two's wrong," you flip the page, his fingers twitch over the table rim, "five, six, eight, twelve, and fourteen too. Nineteen's short answer is technically right? Not by Riddle's standards, but Trein would take it."

You slide the packet back towards him with minor corrections made. He shouldn't hate red, it's his dorm's pride. Although Deuce wishes that for once he could get a pristine white paper back.

Just once. A sign that all this work was paying off. That he's doing something right.

What's worse is that he's dragging you down with him. A yawn builds in the back of his throat and he shoves it so far down it meets his intestines. Tired? At a time like this? He can't be tired, not when you're giving up a precious Saturday morning so he doesn't resort to cheating like before.

He ducks low, hiding in red ink.

"Sorry, prefect. I'll - I'll just have to start over. You should go get some shut-eye before Grim needs you."

Sorry for wasting your time.

"Why would we do that? You did good."

Huh?

A red pen with the cap just barely holding on pokes the big 65 circled on his paper. It leads up to a lifted blazer cuff, which leads to a stretched arm, which leads to a knotted ribbon which barely passes as a bow.

All to you, in his space with your seat long abandoned with his determination.

All to kind eyes. Indiscriminatory, with patience.

"Good? I missed seven questions."

"Yeah, that's a 65."

Deuce strains his eyes, squinting at the mark with hatred.

"That's not good. It's not even passing."

"Yeah, duh." You sigh heavily. Not like there's a librarian or nerd on duty to hush.

The red cap thumps against his forehead.

"65 is 23 points better than a 42. C'mon, juice-box. Don't tell me we need to study maths next."

You hold the cap there until he looks up from his burial in papyrus. His deprecation - his lapse- meets you in battle and with that one look? You kick its ass to the moon and back.

No judgement. No exuberant praise. No false promises.

Just you and him against the world. Or in this case, a bad grade.

Zing.

One bad grade that he refuses to let set a precedent for his day.

There's a sting to his eyes. It must be the dust.

No. It's a heavenly glow. In this moment, you weren't a friend. You were like a saint sent down from the heavens or wherever it is you come from. It might as well be heaven to him, since he can't go there and it's sent him an angel.

He doesn't want to disappoint you. He doesn't want to spit in the face of that kindness. The hidden bitterness that a magicless student understood practical theory vanished in an instant, as did his desire to trade this pen in for a good sulk.

All he wants is for you to stay with him. To make you proud. He'll work without rest for as long as he has to, if it means he has your faith.

"D-don't call me that! If that nickname sticks then I'll never make it as a proper honor student!"

He swats the pen off him with flushed cheeks, but little strength. Your laugh invokes this newfound confidence and it's like six shots of espresso all at once.

You slip into the chair across him, snickering.

"Sure thing....if you can score 70 by noon. I believe in you, juice-box."

The heat is sweltering. What dorm doesn't have central air in the middle of summer? Ace already knows the answer, but complains anyways. The whines fall off his lips like greetings. More of an obligatory thing.

He could head back to Heartslabyul. Where it's a steady seventy-two degrees and hopefully some shaved ice in one of the freezers. He could sneak you in? Twist Riddle’s nickers even when the guy was across the sea.

Not just Riddle, but everyone else too. Ace hadn't seen another face on campus in nearly two weeks. Deuce was the last to leave, seeing as his 'new image' meant helping mommy dear out with a summer job.

There wasn’t anyone around this time of year. Just the upkeep staff. Needless to say that Night Raven morphed into one odd ghost town.

Oh. Let's not forget himself and the two lone residents of this dilapidated dormitory.

Zzzzz-

"It's not fair you always get the bed. What ever happened to basic hospitality?" he groaned, cheek pressed into the hard floorboards.

You scoff from where he can't see before going back to whatever it is you were rambling about. He wasn't fully paying attention. Something about this game franchise starring a pink gumball that eats things to get powers?

What a dumb idea. He'd say as much, if he wasn't becoming one with the ground. Banished to below after kicking you in the chin while laughing at his comics.

Sweaty, uncomfortable, clothes sticking to his skin and said comic too far out of reach. The pages spit every time the slightest gust of wind comes in from outside. Grim's knocked out-cold on the recliner, occasionally stirring awake to tell you both to shut up.

"Ace? Are you even listening anymore?"

You peer down over the bedside. Hair ready to host rats and a bit of cheese dust on your cheek. Beads of sweat smeared it into a junk food lipstick. Vil’ worst nightmare, honestly.

Zzzzzz-

Ace barely peels his body off the ground to smack his hand over your mouth. Your weight is nothing to stop him from climbing back over the crumpled duvet. That’s right. Scream under his sweaty grip. No one to save you now.

"Never was - now move over already before I become a puddle and melt all over your floor"

The bed is just as, if not more, sweltering and uncomfortable. Ace grins apathetically as you flail to escape his noogies. Only to give up and go back to rambling on. This time letting the heat suffocate you together rather than apart.

He could fall asleep like this. Will fall asleep like this. It’s his earned right for the entirety of summer. Whatever it is you’re on now, he doesn’t care. Not fully. Just keep talking and don’t get up.

Ace thinks the world doesn’t give him enough credit.

The sun, the sea, the sand - it’s all too perfect. A vacation away from endless classwork and his house-warden trying to rip him a new one? A dream.

That’s what this was.

A dream.

With you right at the center of it all. Again. This isn’t something he’s buried deep down. His mind’s eye didn’t need to work hard for his desires.

Ace knows what’s up. He knows that if he sits up on his elbows, reaches over to poke your ribs and taunts out a vengeful swat - that he’ll get more than just some sand in his eyes. He’ll be done for. He’ll be blinded.

He’ll fall into the sweetest nightmare.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz-

It’s buzzing in him. He’s walking such a fine, a dangerous line. This isn’t forever. He just wants you to be happy without the expense of his own. Is that so much to ask?

Where the hell are the adults? The professors? Why is he even in this position?

When will he wake up? How long until the fantasy is gone? He doesn’t want to give it attention.

Since he will wake up. You'll come for him. It's a matter of when, not if. If he gives in, then the fantasy will become just that until it's gone. He'll blink and it will all be gone.

Ace knows that the only way is for you to walk along in-between, but it’s impossible. Ace is well aware of the inevitable cracks better than anyone else. He doesn’t need convincing.

…

Fine.

Ace falls asleep willingly. He keeps his hands to himself, lays upon the shore, and lets the tide wet his feet.

Dreams are far more forgiving than reality, and the world can withhold its credit. He doesn’t want the knowledge.

“I thought I was changing your mind!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m in love with you, idiot!”

Ace felt his teeth crack together. He said it. It took months of trying. Months of pulling himself back as far as he could.

He said it. You heard it. He’s glad you heard it because it’s unfair that he’s the only one about to get his chest ripped out. It’s not fair.

“I’m in love with you,” he breathed out, “I’m in love with you and I want you to stay.”

It's not real. It can't be real. Since all he could see now was that person from the very beginning. The one he taunted on an off chance on his first day. He was such a dick back then. All he had to do was keep walking, but he was too cruel for that. He just had to go mess with the person who’s day was already at an all time low, stuck cleaning old statues while everyone else got on with their lives.

If he just kept walking. If he didn’t let his ego get the better of him. Then he never would have experienced any of this. He wouldn’t know you.

He wouldn’t love you.

Zzz-

And what burns the most, is that he wanted to love you. Even if it meant this frustration. This abandonment.

“I'm sorry."

I can’t do this.

“WAKE UP ALREADY -"

“Ace?“

He rest his forehead against your pulse. Nose nestled into your collar, body draped over your front like a blanket. His bones felt like pudding after running for so long.

The end of this nightmare wasn't close. Nowhere near. Even though he was ripped from one dream - no, a nightmare. A twisted, willing nightmare. It wouldn't be over until the dragon sung.

Even then. There were sill hidden cards within his deck. The ones Ace held close to his chest.

You came for him, because of course you did. He wants to say that he'd not do the same. That you're an utter dumbass for going against Malleus Draconia of all people. Except he'd be lying to himself.

"We need to get going," you tapped his shoulders urgently, "Ace? C'mon, you're freaking me out man...we need to help -"

"Just give me a minute."

He held you tighter. Not by much. His own subconscious drained life like Riddle at a party. His head was still buzzing. What was dream melted with what was reality.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" you asked, wary.

Idiot.

Ace held you at arm's length.

Zzzz-

"How much of that last part did you actually see?" he asked.

Your concern morphed into sympathy. Of course it did.

"Don't worry about any of us judging you, okay? Those dreams don't accurately reflect our hearts. If anything, more of a pleasant nightmare. Like our hearts giving us a weird case of Stockholm Syndrome with our desires"

That's not what he asked, but alright.

"So all of it," he concluded and clicked his tongue, "damn it....this is so not cool."

Whether you took his sulking as something to be pitied or not. It didn't matter. Twisted desire or not, it didn't matter.

He wouldn't let it matter. This card could hold until he made the dragon sing.

"C'mon," Ace pulled you forth to convene with the others. His head clear and the buzzing louder than ever. His fingers laced tightly with yours.

This is real. He can do this. He won't wait for another sweet nightmare or promise of power.

"You and I? We have words after this is over. I've been through seven layers of hell because of you, and there won't be an eighth."

Zing.

[liseronfle]

The only guide one needs !

TWST - Dorm Analysis: Morals and Values

What gets a person sorted into one dorm or another? What dorm might you end up in if you were to attend the illustrious Night Raven College? Well look no further than here for the answers to your struggles and questions!

Truth be told I saw somebody try and do this once, but their analysis felt rather biased and left me unsatisfied, so here’s a little something I like to call: “Soul’s Deep-Dive Analysis into the Morals and Values of the Seven Dorms of Night Raven College”!

Afficher davantage

[liseronfle]

That was lovely to read, and a very refreshing scenario. Would you consider doing this for vice-housewardens ? Either way, it's really nice, definitely hit the spot.

⋆.ೃ࿔🎐*:･ 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 ꒱ 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 ❞ －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: the housewardens ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: i started doing twst too because i love that game sm, i'll still do hsr requests as well though

heartslabyul’s garden was unusually quiet that afternoon, the soft breeze carrying the scent of freshly bloomed roses and clover. you stood alone near a rosebush - his rosebush - its blossoms trimmed and organized with the same care and precision that riddle applied to everything he touched.

with no one around, you crouched and gently touched one of the buds, cradling it like something precious. “you know, sometimes i think you’d scold me if you saw me talking to a flower. you’d probably quote some bizarre heartslabyul rule- ‘rule #233: one must not anthropomorphize flora during club hours’ or something.”

you giggled quietly to yourself. the rose didn’t respond, but in a strange way, it felt like you could almost hear him. “but i know the truth, riddle,” you said softly. “you’re not just a stickler for rules. you care so deeply it scares you sometimes. you’re always looking out for everyone. for me.”

you reached down and brushed a fallen petal from the dirt. “even if you don’t always say it. even if it comes out sharp or stern. i see you.”

“…you see me?” came a voice behind you - very real and very human.

you froze.

riddle stood only a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, a faint flush climbing his neck. his posture was stiff, but there was something fragile in his eyes. “that rose…” he said quietly. “you were pretending it was me?”

you opened your mouth to speak, to deny, to laugh it off - but instead, you nodded. “i guess… i just wanted to say things i wasn’t sure you’d want to hear.”

he walked toward you slowly, his expression unreadable. when he finally stopped in front of you, he knelt beside the rosebush. his hand joined yours, brushing against the same bloom. “you don’t need to speak to a flower to talk to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “i’m here. i’m listening.”

you glanced at him, heart pounding. “even if i say ridiculous, emotional things?”

he looked up then, red eyes steady. “especially then.”

the wind stirred again, ruffling the collar of his uniform and tossing a strand of your hair into his face. he reached up and tucked it behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. “you always surprise me,” he murmured. “but i… i think i like hearing how you see me. i don’t want to hide from that.”

you smiled, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. his breath caught - but he didn’t pull away. instead, he turned and kissed your temple in return.

“i’ll still enforce rule #52 about wearing proper attire in the garden,” he added, deadpan.

you laughed, and he smiled - a real, honest, open one. “but… i suppose i can write an addendum for… floral confessions.”

afternoon sun streamed through the open window of the savanaclaw common room, casting gold across your lap as you knelt beside a potted desert rose. it sat proudly in its sunlit spot, vibrant despite the hard, dry soil.

you traced a finger along its thick leaf. “you know, you act so disinterested, but i think you care more than anyone. you pretend to sleep through everything, but you’re always listening. always watching.”

you chuckled. “and you pretend you hate when i call you soft, but if this flower were you, i bet it’d secretly enjoy it.”

a low voice rumbled behind you. “tch… didn’t realize i’d been replaced by a damn plant.”

you jolted and turned - there stood leona, leaning against the doorway with one brow raised, arms crossed. his sharp green eyes studied you, unreadable, but not unkind.

“you always sneak up like that?” you asked, trying to slow your racing heart.

“not sneaking,” he said. “this is my dorm. i live here. question is, why are you whispering sweet nothings to houseplants?”

you flushed but didn’t look away. “maybe because it’s easier to say some things when no one’s listening.”

he pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three slow, easy strides. crouching next to you, he picked up a leaf between two fingers. “huh. not bad. sturdy. adaptable. prickly if you don’t handle it right.”

“kind of like someone i know,” you said, nudging him.

he scoffed - but the edge of his mouth tugged up. “you’re not scared of getting poked, are you?”

you looked at him. “no. i’d rather have a few thorns if it means getting close to something real.”

the smirk faded from his face. in its place was something quieter - something almost vulnerable. his hand slid from the plant to yours, rough fingers curling gently around your wrist.

“next time you want to say something,” he said lowly, “say it to me.”

your breath caught. “even if it’s embarrassing?”

he leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours. “especially if it is.”

you barely had time to smile before his lips brushed yours - slow, sun-warm, claiming. and when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, thumb stroking your hand.

“if you’re gonna flirt,” he murmured, “do it with me, not the flower.”

octavinelle’s undersea greenhouse was a quiet refuge, bathed in soft, bioluminescent light and the low hum of magical filtration systems. you found yourself drawn there when the lounge was too loud or when azul was too closed off, retreating behind his polite business smile.

you stood in front of a sea lavender plant - faintly glowing, its edges curling like waves. it reminded you of him.

“you always act like everything’s a negotiation,” you murmured, voice barely louder than a bubble. “but i see through that. you care. you just… don't know how to show it without a contract attached.”

you ran your fingers along one of the cool, curling petals. “you’re always protecting yourself, hiding behind rules and suits and fine print. but you’ve already given me more than you think. i don’t need a deal to love you, azul.”

“...love me?”

you turned - he stood at the edge of the tank-like door, glasses slightly askew, eyes wide. his face was tinged with ocean-blue embarrassment, his hands nervously fumbling with his cuffs.

“how long were you standing there?”

“long enough,” he said, voice quiet, “to hear something no one’s ever said to me without asking for something in return.”

you looked down. “i wasn’t trying to make it awkward-”

“no,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “no, it’s not awkward. it’s… terrifying. and wonderful.”

he stopped in front of you, his gaze lowered as though he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “i’m used to people wanting what i can give. power. favors. money. but you…”

you reached up and gently adjusted his tie, smoothing the fabric between your fingers. “i just want you.”

his breath hitched. slowly, carefully, azul cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, as if afraid you’d vanish. “then… may i try something without a contract?”

you nodded, and he leaned in - unsure at first, until your lips met. his kiss was shy, reverent, like a wish that had never dared to speak itself aloud.

when he pulled away, he whispered, “i think… i’ve just made my first deal with no strings attached.”

scarabia’s balcony was bathed in golden light, the sky a burnished orange as the sun began to dip below the desert horizon. you stood near a towering sunflower plant, its face turned toward the fading warmth.

“you’re always so full of energy,” you said softly, stroking its stem. “you give so much, like the sun. it’s like you don’t even stop to wonder if you’re loved just for being you - not the money, not the parties, not the constant giving.”

you sighed, smiling faintly. “i hope you know i’d stay even if you had nothing.”

“really? nothing at all? not even snacks?”

you gasped and spun around. kalim stood there, beaming, a basket of sweet fruits in one hand. “because i brought these just in case, but i’ll toss them if it proves a point!”

you laughed. “don’t you dare throw those. but yes - really.”

he set the basket down and walked over to you, his grin softening into something more genuine. “i always wondered… would you still look at me the same way if i didn’t have anything to give?”

“you have so much to give,” you said, stepping into his space. “you give joy. warmth. love. you are the gift, kalim.”

his eyes grew glassy for a second before he broke into that big, blinding smile again. “then can i give you one more thing?”

you barely had time to nod before he kissed you - sunlight and sweetness all rolled into one, his hands warm on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

when you pulled back, he laughed, nose brushing yours. “you talked to a sunflower like it was me?”

you smirked. “well, it wasn’t smiling wide enough. had to imagine a little.”

in pomefiore’s garden, the violets were in bloom, rich and royal. you knelt beside one, touching its velvety petal.

“you always hold yourself so perfectly,” you murmured. “like you can’t slip. like if one hair’s out of place, the whole world falls apart.”

you traced the edge of a bloom. “but i’ve seen you tired. i’ve seen you when the lights go out and the mirror’s not watching. i love that you too, vil.”

“i hope you’re not comparing my complexion to a flower,” came a voice behind you, smooth and poised.

you turned. vil stood in the archway, arms crossed, lips quirked in amusement.

“maybe a little,” you admitted. “but mostly i was talking to it like it was you.”

he walked forward, kneeling beside you, one manicured hand reaching out to adjust the leaf you’d been touching. “you know… flowers need more than admiration. they need proper care. devotion. time.”

you looked at him. “i’m willing to give that. to you.”

his gaze flicked up, sharp and bright. “then let me offer you the same.”

his hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. he leaned in, his kiss soft but intentional, like a curtain being pulled back to reveal something carefully guarded.

when he pulled back, his voice was low. “next time you want to confess something… come to me first. not the flower.”

the ignihyde lab was dim and humming with servers. beside a humming tank of bioluminescent moss, you crouched and stared at the flickering light of a technicolor fungus.

“you’re weird and glowy and brilliant,” you whispered, half-laughing. “you think no one notices, but i do. and… i like you. i like you, idia.”

“...eh???”

you squeaked and turned - idia was frozen in the doorway, hoodie drawn up to his nose, hair sparking at the ends.

“i-i didn’t mean to eavesdrop! i came to check the humidity levels, not to overhear a- floral confession arc???”

you hid your face. “well… it was easier than telling you directly.”

he slowly walked in, twitchy and unsure. “i mean… it’s kinda flattering that you’d practice on moss. that’s, like, top-tier shy affection.”

you smiled shyly. “i didn’t know how you’d react.”

he stepped close - closer than you expected - and stared at your shoes like they held all the universe’s secrets. “…w-would it be weird if i liked it?”

you looked up. “you do?”

his cheeks turned neon. “…y-yeah. and i’d kinda like it even more if you practiced again… but on me.”

so you did - kissing him, soft and real, as the lights flickered around you like stars glitching on purpose.

diasomnia’s garden was quiet beneath the moonlight, the air thick with magic and the scent of night-blooming flowers. you stood before a tall, shadowy plant whose buds only opened after sundown.

“people are scared of you,” you whispered. “but you’re so gentle. so curious. you listen to me in ways no one else does.”

your voice softened. “sometimes it feels like you were made of stars and loneliness… but you’re not alone anymore. i see you. i love you.”

“and i hear you,” came a low, melodic voice behind you.

you turned slowly. malleus stood there, draped in moonlight, eyes aglow with something too vast to name.

“did i frighten you?” he asked gently.

“no,” you breathed. “never.”

he stepped closer, gaze intent. “you spoke to that flower like it was me. yet you say these words so naturally now.”

“because i meant every one,” you whispered. “even if it wasn’t brave enough to say to your face before.”

his hand lifted - elegant, claw-tipped fingers brushing your cheek, slow and reverent.

“then let me offer something in return.”

his kiss was timeless, blooming slow like dusk over mountaintops. his other hand found your waist, grounding you to the moment.

when you parted, his voice rumbled low. “next time, let the real thing hear your heart first.”

[liseronfle]

Leona's depiction made me smile.

[Flos]

Synopsis: Leona opens his eyes to see you leaning over him with a flower crown in your hands.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Leona wasn’t surprised by the presence next to him when he woke up nor did he need to open his eyes to know it was you. Your scent mixed with the general floral fragrance of the botanical garden filled his nose and he was acutely aware of your thigh brushing against his shoulder. 

But why were you here? Before he drifted off to sleep, the second prince was sure it was just him and Ruggie, actively shooing the hyena away in favor of skipping class again. Judging by how you were sitting next to him, it must be a free period or classes were completely done; you’ve always been a goody-two shoes. 

Leona’s ears swiveled slightly when he caught the lightest vibrations from you. You were humming some random tune to a song he’s never heard before—Probably some song back from your home. The melody was soft and sounded upbeat, lilting in pleasant highs and soothing lows. 

‘It sounds nice’ was Leona’s fleeting thought before smothering it so it could never see the light of day ever again. Instead, he’ll focus on how your hands were constantly shifting, causing the sleeves of your blazer to rustle. You were clearly doing something, but there was no distinct sound of paper or pencil. So you weren’t doing schoolwork, like a studious little herbivore. 

Then what could you be working on? 

“There!” Your voice rang out clearly, snuffing your little song without a second thought. Leona didn’t open his eyes, but he can already picture the wide grin blooming across your face. 

The silence that filled the air in the absence of your song was replaced by fabric shuffling. The pressure of your thigh shifts and disappears from his body. The lion could feel you begin to lean over him, yet he waited. After a moment, he felt your fingers graze against his ears, making them flick instinctively. 

Instantly, Leona’s eyes snapped open and he grasped one of your wrists in a quick and fluid motion. A primal section in his chest rumbled pleasantly at the openly shocked expression on your face. He chuckled lowly while your face twisted in an exasperated scoff, your lips pursing into a pout. Releasing his hold, the third-year lazily sat up fully and eyed the object you’ve been fiddling with for the past several minutes. 

“The hell is this?” Leona grumbled with a voice that was still a tad raspy from his nap. Sitting pretty in your hold was your little project. Stems were entwined together, crossing over one another in a simple yet stable circlet. Purple fans of splayed petals bloomed around the circumference, growing into flecks of white and yellow on the signal portion of the flowers. “What? You ever seen a flower crown before?” There was a light teasing edge in your words that matched your cheeky grin, but Leona brushed it away in favor of raising a finger to lift one of the drooping falls of the flower. 

“I know what it is,” The prince didn’t bother hiding the annoyed tone lacing his sleepy words, earning a giggle from you. At the twinkling sound, Leona just rolled his eyes before dropping his hand in his lap. “I mean, why are you trying to give it to me?”

“Flowers make good gifts. They’re pretty with so many different meanings,” You responded easily with a shrug of your shoulders as if it was the most obvious thing. “I think these suit you,”

“Why?” It was a simple question, or so Leona thought. His green eyes bored into your own hues, and for a moment, you seemed apprehensive. As to why, the lion couldn’t say. Usually, you’d be more than happy to yap in his ears about anything and everything like a little excited dog. Now, though, any words that were on the tip of your tongue were swallowed back up and kept close to your heart. “C’mon, you were so excited to give it to me before. The least you can do is tell me why,” 

“...Don’t wanna say,” You mumbled in a defiant way that had Leona raising an eyebrow at your childish manner. When you met his gaze, your eyes narrowed, probably seeing the curious amusement on his face. “You’ll make fun of me,”

“No, I won’t,” He was lying.

“Yeah, you will,” And you knew him too well.  

Both sat there, not uttering a word and mentally willing the other to concede first. Unfortunately, the two of you were stubborn, and if Ruggie was there, he would definitely bemoan about “how the bull-headed duo is at it again!” The thought of the cunning, little beastman had Leona’s tail sweeping in irritation, already visualizing the mischievous grin the hyena would send his way.

After a long stare down, you spoke again with a faux resigned sigh.

“You know what. Nevermind, I can just give this to Ruggie,” Upon hearing those words, Leona bristled in his spot. The image of Ruggie wearing the flower crown you crafted specifically for him left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

If you noticed the disgruntled expression on the third-year’s face, you didn’t mention it. Rather, you chose to retract your hands away from the grouchy prince. In a swift motion, Leona reached for your hand once more and sent you a glaring chill that would’ve caused shivers up your spine if you weren’t so used to the sight. Instead, you quirked a brow up, matching his leer with an intrigued stare. 

“Ruggie would just eat it,” Leona grumbled out, the words coming out half-heartedly. Sure, the hyena ate dandelions and whatever he could get his little shifty hands on, but it was a pitiful excuse. Both of you knew it. 

“Irises are poisonous,” You countered plainly, giving the prince a look. He just grunted in response and kept his steely glare. And you were caught in a stalemate once more. 

Not wanting to go through another lapse of silence and unnecessary staring, you silently rolled your eyes and shifted your hands higher. The corners of the lion’s lips curled upwards in a smug smirk as he leaned down to let you place the wreath onto his head. 

The weight of the crown was heavier than he expected, but it was welcomed nonetheless. Though Leona had never worn a flower crown before—Sevens know Cheka had tried numerous times—the feeling of your handcrafted one felt familiar, like it returned to its rightful place after being away for so long.

“Well…?” The lion beastman asked, sitting up a tad taller. His eyes bored into yours, and he could faintly see the reflection of himself in your wide eyes. Nothing has changed physically, aside from the silly flower crown you crafted, yet you looked at him as if he was someone to be revered.

“I was right. They do suit you,” You said softly with a syrupy smile. Honesty oozed in between your words, sickeningly sweet and genuine. Just enough to make Leona’s teeth hurt and cause something to stir in his chest, something gentle and heavy that caused warmth to trickle throughout his body. 

Leona quickly recognized what the feeling was, and he was even quicker to stamp it out and disregard it as he always does. 

Again, one half of the bull-headed duo.

Like the lazy lion he was, Leona let out an obnoxious yawn and shifted his body to lean his entire weight against you—something you were accustomed to. As he moved, Leona purposely raised his tail to flick you in the face, causing you to sputter at the appendage. He bit back a chuckle at your indignant huff before resting his head on your shoulder.

Though the prince made sure to be cautious of damaging the iris-covered crown encircling his regal head.

[liseronfle]

These characters are so cute. It’s so nice to read something as heartwarming as this and let them be “just kids”. (Not sure I adhere to explicit content with these underage boys.)

Perhaps, can I request fem reader head canon separate with wbk boys

Character : suo, sakura and kaji

Surprise them with a kiss on the lips then she just run away because feeling flustered and not a having a courage to meet the boys for a while after that incident.

"kiss, kiss, fall in love!" — ft. suo hayato, sakura haruka, kaji ren

now playing : sakura kiss (ohshc theme) - chieko ochi

prompt : fem!reader surprises them with a kiss them and runs away. the reader figure out that they like the boys back and tries to confront them. she panics and end up kissing them.

notes : I LOVE THIS REQUEST SM ANON 🥰 i hope u like itt <33 would yall believe if i said ohshc is my fave anime. well, was* (its now like,, 4th). but it reigned for more or less 3 years. hikaharu and kyoya girlie here 🙋‍♀️

it's been a few days since he confessed his feelings for you and you haven't stopped thinking about it. it was gentle when he spoke to you, voice full of affection and shyness.

"i like you." three words that forcibly repeated themselves in your head like a mantra. your mind ran a hundred kilometers per minute—how long did he like me, when did he find out, how did he find out, does he really mean it, how do i feel about it.

while facing him, you silently racked your brain trying to find answers to respond, scared that he might take it back or misunderstand if you took too long. and he noticed that on the expression on your face.

a hand slowly reached for yours', thumb reassuringly carressing your knuckles. he told you that he didn't need a response right away. and that he was willing to wait for you.

good for him because you were quite impatient yourself.

you had intended to confront him the moment you confirmed that you liked him back—already having thought of a general script and direction of the conversation.

but of course, things don't go as planned. of course, you panic. of course, you mess up. you planned to simply open your mouth to speak—why the hell were they pressed against his'?!

suo hayato

he feels you quietly sneaking up to him from behind. he doesn't do anything about it—a smile on his lips as he anticipates what you're planning. though, he never could've predicted what you did.

his eyes widen when he feels himself being pulled in your direction. he doesn't stumble and he doesn't resist, sees you shut your eyes so hard that it creases as you kiss him.

you don't kiss him long and once your lips part, you don't observe his reaction. you don't even give him time to process before you bolt away, leaving him to himself.

suo regains his composure a few seconds later, the tips of his fingers raising to his lips, as if he'd experience it again if he touched the place you kissed him. he smiles to himself again and calmly continues his errand around town, your lips still lingering the back of his mind.

he seeks you out later the same day. he doesn't text you because the way you ran away meant you'd be too embarrassed to face him. he has a small mischevious smile on his face when he finds you outside a bakery by the display window, checking the newly-baked goods.

you were so focused that you don't notice him sneak to position himself beside you. he gently pulls your face by your chin. it doesn't register until he tilts your face up to plant a peck on your lips.

"payback."

sakura haruka

"what are yo—?!" his words muffle against your mouth.

sakura.exe has stopped working.

sakura's eyes widen like saucers and blood rushes to his head so fast he gets dizzy. he loses his mind whenever you're close to him—he thinks he's going to explode right now. he's overwhelmed by his senses—overwhelmed by you.

he inhales harshly, his hands twitch and suddenly they're on your shoulders, pushing you back. he catches his breath like he just ran a marathon. it takes you a few breaths before the realization hits you, your whole body tensing and your eyes mirroring his'.

he opens his mouth like he was about to stutter out a few words but you couldn't face him anymore. you gulp down the lump in your throat and slap sakura's hands off as you sprint away.

his eyebrows furrow like right angles as he watches your figure run. what happens after was instinct. he chases after you, yelling your name like you wronged him.

passersby's heads start turning, most recognizing you and sakura, and few are from furin—asking themselves why the 1st grade captain is chasing after a girl who's face is equally as red as his'.

you know about sakura's athleticism. and you heard about the risa cat chase in your neighborhood. including the lengths he had to go through—scaling houses and jumping roofs like a superhero. there's a snowflake's chance in hell that he'll give up before he catches up to you.

you let out a frustrated sigh as you feel your energy depleting. you glance back to look how far back sakura w—...

where the fuck was he.

you didn't stop running. until you bump into something.

you'd stumble back if not for the hands that hold you still, shaking around both sides of your body.

sakura's face is still flushed when you meet it, now covered in a layer of sweat and a scowl that held no malice. his eyes scan your face for what could possibly be running through your head, faltering and softening when you end up staring at each other.

"y-you're so-!.. agh!!" steam comes out from his ears.

kaji ren

he was walking around the mall with you and his friends, his headphones on. he was focused on getting to the food court that he didn't notice the boys getting distracted with a new store that just opened.

you silently hype yourself up as you watch him walking alone and unaware. he feels a tap on his shoulder, removing one side of his headphone from his ear. then, he turns his head, eyes widening a second late as his lips come in contact with yours.

you positioned your head over his shoulder—to surprise him when he turned. you thought it'd be funny to see his reaction but you weren't really thinking that far ahead. the moment your lips part, his mouth still agape, you feel heat rush to your head and you didn't even realize that you were full on sprinting away. running and texting kusumi you left because 'something came up'.

you didn't even turn around to see if kaji had processed what happened.

he didn't.

he physically lags. he doesn't move. and barely breathes.

after a while, he blinks and slowly walks to the nearest wall. he takes his head phones off and slams his head against the cement.

he hears a yelp of his name from behind him, enomoto. and another yelp when he faces them and they see his face—red, flushed cheeks and a slight bruise forming on his forehead.

he doesn't see you for a while after that. he tries to meet up with you but you keep making excuses that you're sick, busy, or not home.

even without your presence, you haunt him. his lips tingle sometimes, like yours' ghost his'. and he catches himself spacing out so often, thinking about and repeating that experience, that his classmates get suspicious and worried.

he needs to see you. for an explanation. for his sanity.

one day, he just sees you around town during patrol and he rushes to you, grabbing your forearm before you notice him and run away again.

"a-are we really not going to talk about what happened??"

[liseronfle]

One of my favourite trope. Such a fan of this blog, I keep coming back to their writings.

where loyalty lies trey clover x reader

summary: Sir Trey Clover, an ordinary commoner if not for his title, has been reassigned as your personal knight. Although he was mostly concerned with doing his job properly, certain situations lead to him liking you more than society dictates he should. However, you seem to be hiding something.

author's note: trying something new. not intended to be period accurate, though heavy inspiration from the georgian era, specifically regency

tags: gender neutral reader (only you is used), sfw, fluff, knight x nobility, commoner x nobility, 15.1k+ words

you can also read this on AO3 sequel now up!

You were not the noble he wished to serve. 

If he were to so much as speak his thoughts out loud, although he would never, he knew it would cause great offense to not only you but your entire family; would earn him a reputation as an ungrateful scoundrel; would expectedly land him a form of punishment; would most likely cause his second reassignment of the year, bringing his own family into shame. Those consequences, however, were hardly worth thinking about when he had no intention of saying what could be wrongly interpreted as treason at worst, stupidity at best. 

You were born of a respectable family, one native to the Queendom of Roses, a family which for the last four or five generations had been rising into property and gentility. You had received good education in your youth, one appropriate for your status and far better than most parents of lesser upbringing could secure for their children; and had seemed to make use of your learnings well, painting the image of the noble house’s most dutiful firstborn. By all means you were a most respectable person, favored and important. 

Trey Clover, commoner without title if not for his ascent to knighthood, equally dutiful firstborn to his mother and father, was known to be a quiet, peaceful, reliable man who simply did as he was instructed—he has been called boring too, though he was hardly in a position to care for such a reputation—and with all those qualities, he made for a good knight. Good, but not excellent, for an excellent knight would swear loyalty without hesitance, an undisputed oath of allegiance, but in his heart of hearts he knew he would not mean it. That knight’s oath had been meant for someone else.

Loyalty laid not in words so he was willing to give it up all the same; but you had interrupted him before he could so much as speak the first words, gesturing him to stop with an elegant wave of the hand. 

“I do not need you to swear upon the Queen or anything of the sort,” he was told by you, quiet as to not attract the attention of your guardians and attendants who awaited outside, but firm to indicate you wanted no protests. “Simply do your work as my knight during your time in our estate. That is all that will be asked of you.”

It is an unheard of request, thought Sir Trey, for would it not be a part of his work to swear his utmost loyalty to you and the rest of your family name?

“Do you say this with certainty, my liege?” Trey asked, despite knowing it was not of good manners to question the sovereign-to-be—or good to question most aristocrats in all matters, them with their pride and prejudice—that was to be his new charge in a few moments.

“I would not have said so if I was uncertain,” arrived your reply, lifting the ceremonial sword that rested atop his shoulders upwards and putting it away completely. “Do not be mistaken—I expect you to not betray me, but as I do not know you nor do you have a noble house to swear your name upon, your words hold little to no value.”

You speak with a dignity more often seen in men and women twice your age. Even having known of your character, it was a small wonder to Trey that he and you were supposed to be of similar age. 

He could afford to be inwardly offended at such a claim, the value placed upon him by you, but he took no offense. It was not simply his unwillingness to argue, but his readiness to simply accept your words as the truth, words a persuasion he could not help but fall victim to. He could not help but be reminded of the difference of your status once more. Your shadow towered over him.

“Your actions will be enough proof of loyalty.”

“Then I shall prove to you as much.”

You neither smiled at him nor did you offer words of gratitude, but his eyes met yours upon lifting his head, approval present in your gaze.

“Then stand and open the doors. The sun has yet to set, and we still have much work left to do.” 

As per your orders he stood up, holding open the door long enough for you to step out, following suit as you bowed to greet your own family. He watched the exchange quietly—formal and distant, but not unkind pleasantries and reminders—and Trey could not help but wonder if this act was merely for the public eye or if all aristocratic families acted like yours. That, amongst many other things, was something he could never understand about you nobles—the insistence on propriety and etiquette, even amongst those who shared their blood. He could never imagine him and his family, commoner they may be, to act so coldly towards each other.

At the very least, your guardians do not seem to loom over your shoulders. Though he envied you for the sake of the young lord that he previously served, he would prefer to not get into another altercation in regards to familial matters that he should have no concern over.

“What type of work should I be doing now?” 

“It will depend on my own schedule and my instructions for you, but mornings will be spent training with the rest of the knights. I will be there as well should I not have made any arrangements; and because I have not made any for tomorrow, I shall be the one to introduce you to them,” you had been guiding him through the hallways with much ease, only to stop in your tracks quite suddenly. “Oh, I could introduce you to two right now.”

Indeed he had spotted two young men dressed in training garments at a distance, both of which were clearly heading your way so as to greet you. 

“They seem quite young for knights,” Trey said, unable to hold back the remark. Both of them seemed younger than him, and he had been newly knighted only a little more than a year ago; but perhaps, despite their physical appearance, they were of the prodigious sort. 

“That is because they are not knights—that is to say, not quite yet—they are still apprentices being trained by their sponsors,” you murmured quietly. Ah, esquires, thought Trey, that certainly made sense. “Though do not make the mistake of underestimating them. They are capable and responsible when needed, but it is their troublesomeness that would do you good to look out for. Ace, I confess, can be clownish at times, thus I hope you do not become a target for his jokes.”

Ace. That was a familiar name, and more interesting was how familiarly you had chosen to call him. Despite you being of higher status, most nobles preferred to stay conscious of each other’s corresponding titles.

“From what houses are they from?”

“Deuce Spade is of a commoner background, and Ace is the second son of Lord Trappola, a Baron. You might know of his older brother? The firstborn Trappola is-”

“Oi! Talking about us, are we?” 

It was terribly inappropriate to interrupt you, but aside from a well-hidden sigh you hardly seemed to care. It was the redhead who chose to do so and, yes, upon further inspection he did bear resemblance to his older brother, an eye-catching but respected knight he had seen at most twice or thrice, and only talked to once. Despite being of a lower title than you, he seemed comfortable addressing you shamelessly.

“Ace, you are so uncouth as always to our liege—ahem, future liege—and it is very unknightly of you.”

“Uncouth! Who is it that taught you that word?” The young Trappola let out a laugh, and Trey was able to deduce that he would be the joking sort of man. “Besides, our liege never cared to correct us before for our transgressions.”

“I never cared to because nobody was there to listen,” you replied, a gentle reprimand to the younger boys, “but could you not have pretended to show some respectability in front of a superior?”

He would hardly call himself a superior, knowing that in a few years time the duchy’s esquires would achieve the same rank as him, especially the mildly clownish Trappola, who even had a noble family to back him up. Still, it was with amusement that he watched the blue-haired boy’s eyes widen the size of the pies his mother sometimes baked, and the other boy’s narrow like the flattening of cookies, thinly veiled skepticism in them. 

“Superior?” Deuce asked, and Trey almost felt bad for how the boy suddenly seemed uneasy.

“Sir Trey is my knight—indeed, Ace, my personal knight and aide—as of today,” you clarified. “He is previously from the Duchy of Rosehearts, so he is yet accustomed to the way around our own duchy. Remember to treat him well.”

“Anything for you, my liege,” the two promised, but Trey easily noticed the envy and suspicion that permeated the air as you guided him elsewhere; no doubt it was their eyes he felt on his back. 

“Forgive me if it is out of the line, but is my being here a disagreeable subject?” he asked, “I would understand. The circumstances that led to this happening are hardly worth mentioning—rather, would preferably not be mentioned at all—though it would be worrisome if that was the general consensus on me.”

“It seems you are mistaken by something, Sir Trey. Nobody but my family, and quite clearly myself, knows of the situation that led you to being here. It is simply Ace and Deuce who are distraught by your being assigned my knight.”

Though Trey could not see your expression, having chosen to walk straight ahead and not even look at him, you sounded troubled yourself. 

“They had been competing for that empty position for two years now, though I hardly understand why they would aim for it.”

Upon hearing the story, Trey felt pity for the two apprentice knights. Though going against you was certainly not being considered by him, he could hardly call himself loyal in heart to you or the dukedom, that much would be clear to everyone; and it would be of no surprise if they felt he had risen to his position quite unfairly.

“They must be fiercely loyal to you, then.”

“Hardly!” you proclaimed, and though you did not snort or giggle or anything of the like, this was easily the most amused he has heard you yet. “They both aim to be one of Her Majesty, the Queen’s suits—lucrative positions considering there are only four, but I support their endeavors nonetheless—thus their leaving the estate to become a royal knight is inevitable. I suppose they think personally guarding me would aid them in their goal, though I think it unnecessary, especially for Ace.”

It was clear to Trey that you had your doubts on the extent of their loyalty to you, but he had reasons to doubt your claims, too. It was neither his duty nor desire to meddle, however, so unless either one of the two esquires would force his hand, he would simply step aside and allow the situation to fester.

Trey expected the esquire duo to carefully watch over him—though he could hardly get upset when their antics reminded him a little too much of a little brother’s mischief—but to have you watch him as well was quite nerve-wracking. 

It should have been expected considering he had been in the estate for a grand total of three and a half days, but he was more expecting you to pass him off to the Knight Commander of the duchy. After all, you did not seem to particularly care for him nor detest him, so he would not be surprised if you just left him be.

It was not so bad the first two mornings, you choosing to sit back, half focused on breakfast as you were on him; but his relief was temporary as you asked, or rather instructed, him to spar with you on the third.

“Sir Trey, do you take me for a fool? Or are you simply too chivalrous?” Very nearly you had managed to land a strike against his side; you would not have missed had he not the foresight to step to his right. “I do not see a single bead of sweat on you. I have heard you were quite the peaceful knight, though that is no excuse to weaken your capabilities for the sake of my pride. If anything, my pride would be damaged more from this half-hearted fight.”

“Today is not as warm as yesterday. Had you chosen to spar yesterday, I would have broken a sweat,” he reasoned, not quite lying. 

You seemed to think highly enough of him due to his being the Lord Riddle Rosehearts’ personal knight before yours, but if you were to ask him he would claim he was rather average in most aspects, including swordsmanship. He would not deny—to himself that is—that there was some hesitance in his actions. He had taken to defending rather than swinging his sword at you, because he could not tell what outcome you, and the rest of the onlooking knights, would prefer to see. 

“You blame the sun?” Trey had nothing to say in reply, though he could have sworn you had smirked, if only briefly, at the thought. “I suppose it matters little who wins or loses. I was merely curious about what type of person my knight would be.”

“Is that something you could derive from a spar that has lasted a few minutes?” Trey asked, curious as to how you would have pinned him down as a person. Would you agree with the comments he has received, comments surely you as well have heard about him? Or would you arrive at a conclusion far different from the rest?

“Yes, to a certain degree, but not completely,” you admitted. Trey observed your movements slow, likely a trick or easy opening from your end, one he did not take. “The lack of warmth from the sun, as you claimed, would not allow you to properly spar with me; however, I believe it would not stop you from doing well against the other knights. Thus, let us end this engagement, and resume combat another time.”

Trey, in truth, would prefer not to go against you again. Battle was not something that he found excitement in, neither was it something Riddle grew interested in nor an expertise of the Rosehearts. They had their fair collection of respectable knights, but what they lacked for in militia they made up for in their sponsorship and support of scholars, doctors, and the rare magicians that would pop up on occasion. The culture in your estate was foreign to him.

“As you wish,” he said, retracting his sword and bowing, mutually forfeiting the mockery of a duel. “With whom should I go against next?”

Unexpectedly you had smiled, but it was not the pretty type of smile that men wished to receive from their lovers. It was the type of smile that schemers wore when they were caught up in their plans, one that was going their way; and belatedly, realized Trey, you might be more troublesome than the two you had warned him about.

“Ace… and Deuce,” catching the look in his eye, you affirmed his guess, “Yes, at once. They are always interesting to go against. Sometimes they will be selfish and want to win by themselves, and other times they will work together. Who knows what they will do against you?”

You were sicking your quite loyal not-quite knights onto him; but even with your claim as to not knowing what they’ll do, Trey was certain with one thing—they would take it as an opportunity to question him, for a spar was not merely a test of skills, but a test of wit. If he were to let go of his guard for a second, he was certain they would take the chance to make head or tail of him.

Still preferable to going against you.

Something he quickly realized about his opponents were the differences in their approaches. Deuce was arguably stronger, with harder swings and an aim that was sure to hurt if he was not careful, even with being equipped with only a practice sword. Ace, meanwhile, employed tricky tactics to try and catch him off guard, only striking when he saw fit. 

He could understand how you found these two so interesting—if they were uncoordinated, it would be easy to single one out, then later take out the other, and if they were coordinated… a pity for their opponent, who would struggle to figure out how to take one out without the other interfering.

Unfortunately for him, they had decided to work with each other today—for the sake of a common goal, he supposed—not only in combat, but in interrogation. Their manner of questioning him was similar to their styles of swordsmanship, with Deuce being direct; and Ace, though still unsubtle, was more careful with his wording.

“Sir Trey, from which house do you hail?”

“The Clovers are a family of bakers. Unless you plan on purchasing from a bakery in the Rosehearts Duchy, they should be of little interest to you,” Trey answered, panting slightly as he dodged a jab from a scowling Trappola.

“So you really came from Rosehearts, then?”

“Indeed. I was knighted there.”

“By a Rosehearts? Or another knight as your sponsor?”

Trey would have preferred to not reveal a direct connection, merely instilling that he was from the area but not a man of the estate, but saying otherwise would cause the implication that he was barely a recognized knight, thus ill-fitted for you. Truthfully he did think he was ill-fitted, you seemed too independent for him to be of service, but he would rather not let go of this employment.

“After a few years of training, yes.”

“Not born of a noble house, no notable achievements to name but good enough to be recognized by either the Duchess or Little Duke, from a duchy about five days of travel away by horse carriage despite seemingly good relations with parents,” As the information they had learned from him was listed down by Ace, Deuce decided it was his turn to question him once more.

“How did you get to become my liege’s knight, then?” Deuce cried out, his frustration clear with how his sword was thrust quite strongly at him. How plain-spoken Spade was, but far easier to deal with. “To have come from nowhere to take one of the most coveted positions among the duchy’s knights?”

“A recommendation,” Not quite a lie, in consideration that it was the story used to cover-up what had caused his banishment, but that much was unnecessary to reveal.

“Nonsense, I say. That seat’s been empty for two years, then you come and take it with ease?” Ace questioned, scoffing at the absurdity. “Could you actually be my liege’s secret lover?”

It was such an absurd claim!—not only unfounded but downright preposterous, one that would cause great offense should you have heard it, and scandal should anyone begin to believe it. Trey could not help himself from being shocked, but he should have expected that the two would use that momentary shock against him, for one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was on the ground with two blades pointed at him.

“We win,” Deuce said, funnily soft in his proclamation. There was a smile on his face, clearly happy with the shared victory. “Perhaps our liege would praise us?”

Ace, however, was not particularly enthused by the turn out as Trey initially assumed he would be. He seemed to be the more smug of the two as per his observations, but there was hardly any trace of gloating now in his oddly serious expression.

“You might be a good knight,” he began, slowly inching his sword away from his neck, “but hardly a good replacement.”

Replacement. That was the word that had stuck with him for the rest of the morning, even as you stalked over to him and offered him a piece of cloth to clean himself up, even as you made your observations on how he countered the two, even as you gave him advice on how to deal with the two esquires the next time.

Trey had not considered there being another knight before him, though he supposed it only made sense that you would not go unprotected and unguarded, even from a young age, even with your capabilities. What he found himself questioning, however, was why the position was left vacant for two years, and what led him to being allowed to take it. He was hardly special, only lucky to have encountered the right crowd the first time, and be taken in by your family the second.

Replacement. The word repeated itself once more in his head. He supposed the two of you were not so ill-fitted after all—his replacement of a liege, your replacement of a vassal.

Trey’s days in the duchy were quiet. He would go as far as to say they were too quiet. Ace and Deuce had not come to bother him or even come to ask him for a spar, though he suspected they were told off by you. Whatever it was you did, it certainly did not stop the staring, though he supposed busying himself with training was enough distraction to be able to ignore it.

Then there was the current Knight Commander who mostly let him be, oftentimes telling him to put more effort into the exercising—not that he was deliberately holding off from doing so. 

As for you, who he was expected to guard at all times, he was told you went out quite often, but these days you were holed up in your office, working away on documents of some importance—nothing he was privy to. He spent most of his time right outside your door, only opening it when someone wanted to report to you.

Trey would say he enjoyed the peace, but he would not deny being incredibly bored by what little he had to do in the afternoons. Around this time of day he would often be asked by Riddle to do some menial tasks, usually fetching something, half the time something from his parents’ bakery.

Perhaps it was his inability to shake off routine that led him to knocking on the doors of your study, a favor on his lips ready to be uttered. 

“You would like access to the kitchen?” You sounded a little intrigued at what he would be doing there, before shrugging to yourself. “Oh, of course. A baker’s son likely knows how to prepare their own meals. I believe you are responsible enough to not be wasteful, so you are free to use it for as long as they have yet to begin preparing for supper. I do not need you until my nightly stroll either, so you are free to go.”

With your permission he had made way to the blessedly empty kitchens, spending the first dozen minutes familiarizing himself with the placement of the sweeteners and spices, the utensils and cutlery, the pots and pans. It was unfortunate that the lateness in time and the general lack of ingredients made for his inability to create anything of note.

It would have been nice to have more options, and it was surprising that a family of great fortune did not possess in their pantries quality ingredients for dessert at all times—he could hardly believe a lavish family chose to not indulge in the finest of delicacies every day! Riddle, albeit without anyone knowing, certainly did—and Trey had to wonder if the estate had simply not received their shipments, or if they were more the shopping out of doors sort of folk.

Regardless, he would make do with what he had, and he would just have to hope that it would suit your tastes. What even were your tastes? It was not like he had ever gotten the chance to dine with you, and breakfast was hardly an indicator of one’s preferences. 

He was left with no choice—he would just have to make assumptions. He was already in the kitchen, and to return so suddenly would have shown he had wasted his time for nothing. He was in the kitchen to make something for you due to… boredom, perhaps, and maybe a habit he cannot quite get rid of.

Really, you had not even requested this, and there was always the chance that you would refuse the snacks for one reason or another, perhaps not wanting to eat something on the sweeter side with the evening meal coming soon, or simply not liking the food presented; but Trey thought he would like it if you enjoyed something he made, so he continued on with it regardless of the uncertainty. 

You failed to notice him when he returned back to your office, too focused on the paper you happened to be writing, but you did pay him mind when the silverware connected with the hardwood table, the noise stealing your attention away from your work.

“You have come back so soon, Sir Trey?” 

“Gone only long enough to prepare an afternoon snack, my liege,” Trey replied, “would you like me to prepare your usual drink to pair with it?”

“You will not even ask me if I would like to partake?” The question must have been rhetorical, for you sounded unaffected by it, humored at most—not that he’d gotten good at reading you, because he certainly had not. “And it is good you remember my favorite drink already. Yes, I would quite like it.”

“Then I’ll be returning to the kitchen. Please give me a-”

“Hold on,” Trey watched as you put down your pen, leaving the ink to dry as you pulled out an envelope from your desk drawer. Oh, had you been writing a letter all this time and not a report? Though he supposed a report could very well come in the form of a letter- “you would not mind passing a letter to the butler for me, would you?”

It was not as if he had much of a choice, but he had no reasons to refuse a simple task either. 

“Of course not. I will pass it on once I am done attending to you,” Trey watched as you, without haste, poured wax over the envelope, sealing the contents with a firm press of a stamp. You appeared satisfied with your work, although he found it odd how the back was empty—no indication of an address or receiver, only indication of a sender being the family crest on the seal—Trey could not help but wonder if this was a letter of confidentiality. 

“Thank you, but before you go, have you already had one of the—those are tartlets, yes?—for yourself?”

“Only while making it; I have not tasted the final product myself,” Trey said, only partially lying. He had tasted the final product, but he was unsure if it was impolite to let you know he had gotten to taste it first before you had—there should hardly be any reason to, he doubted you thought he would try to poison you, and you seemed to think he was capable enough a cook.

“Then get one for me and get one for yourself. Let us try it before you go—it would not do you good to go after the butler on an empty stomach with how much he runs around the estate.”

Trey could not help but let out a short chuckle. What would a small pastry do for his stomach? Still, this would be a good chance to gauge what you thought of his baking, so he placed one atop a small plate, placing it atop your desk. 

Trey could try to pretend all he wanted that he was not paying too much attention to you, busying himself by removing a glove so he could eat his share properly—but his eyes were most definitely on you, some anticipation for a comment, if you would give one at all. You did not disappoint.

“The first time I ate a tartlet, I heavily disliked it. It was pretty, just like this one, with the colors of the jam making them look a little bit like jewels. The taste, however, was awful—the chef must have mistaken salt for sugar—and no one dared bring me another tartlet again,” Trey stiffened in place as you spoke, wondering if it had been a mistake. 

“Upon tasting this, I found myself thinking, ‘Ah, so this is what it was supposed to taste like!’—sweet but not overwhelmingly so, small enough to not ruin one’s appetite before supper; it’s no wonder the first Queen was said to love this despite the simplicity of it. For sure, I would have begun asking for tartlets every week if I tasted yours first.” 

It was difficult not to feel some sense of pride after being complimented by you, you who complimented not very often, so he allowed himself to feel proud—that was barely even his best work!

“Thank you, my liege,” he said, sincere with his gratitude. 

“Oh? I think I should be the one thanking you, Sir Trey,” He meant to tell you that there was no need for it, but before he could so much as utter a word you had decided the pastries were good enough to smile at, and so you smiled. 

People smiled all the time, but Trey had always thought you to be quite distant—not unfriendly or unfeeling but distant—and that perception of you had suddenly wavered as you smiled at him. Your smile felt like he was being praised, like you were telling him he had done something of worth. The knight did not know what to make of it, so he said nothing at all. 

He left as soon as you had handed him the letter, wondering what he would try making for you next.

“You are choosing to take him with you? Can you not take me, or even Deuce, with you instead?” Trey did not make a habit out of eavesdropping on conversations, but he had been looking for you, and you just so happened to be talking to the redhead who did not seem to like him too much—seemingly talking about him—so he could not help but overhear.

He could also not help but be curious, but that was of secondary importance.

“It is about time Sir Trey went along with me on my trips, and a good opportunity had come up as I needed to check up on a few things in town. The trip will allow him to be acclimated to the dukedom, to what I do when I am not stuck in my study—travelling. 

Besides, both you and Deuce have duties to your mentors today; I doubt they would appreciate their esquires skipping when I have a perfectly capable knight to guard me.”

Ace still looked frustrated although he did not argue any further, perhaps out of respect for you, or perhaps because he was aware you were a firm and stubborn person. You appeared to sigh, something about the younger man’s expression likely pricking a soft spot in you. 

“Ace, I know you think him to be a good man just as the rest of the duchy does, no matter how much you like to act otherwise,” you said in a scolding tone, “And I know the reasons as to why you two are acting up, but you have to understand—I chose him to fill the seat for a reason.”

That was certainly news to Trey. He had assumed he happened to be placed as a knight directly under you by your guardians, or due to his being close in age with you, or even somehow fulfilling the qualifications for the position; but you had chosen him yourself? What for?

“My liege,” he said, interrupting whatever conversation could have continued. The young Trappola looked a little startled, but you only looked at him expectedly, “the carriage is ready.”

Following you to the estate’s entrance, he could not help but wonder if you knew he had overheard your conversation, but Trey would not risk you knowing if you did not so he stayed silent. He stayed silent as well on the ride to town, eyes flitting between you and the window next to him. Intruders who intercepted noble’s carriages were not unheard of, after all. That is all why he looks at you, and he looks at you for the same reason when you step out of the carriage and go do your duties.

It is his job to observe you and your surroundings, although he found himself observing you more than the surroundings.

The town you decided to visit… was a nice town. There was not much Trey could say, not because the town was bad in any way, but because he was never known to be able to wax poetic. It was a good town—a lot of it reminded him of the town which he himself resided in, though he would dare claim the bakeries likely paled in comparison to his parents’—but it was also nothing too out of the ordinary. 

What was out of the ordinary, at least from his experiences, was getting to see you so—he had not the right words for it, would warm be the word for it? 

You are still as polite as ever, with as much dignity as your clothes and air—he had asked why you did not bother to conceal your identity, you claimed it was useless and that everyone would recognize you either way—but you act much friendlier than he had seen you yet. 

You greet them kindly with gentle waves and pretty laughter, say their names like you’ve known them from long before; he cannot help himself from wondering if this is how you would be if you never had to worry about the propriety of nobility.

Everyone appeared equally glad to see you—he knew such was definitely not a given when it came to people of your position, the difference between respect and fear—and many of the old men and women greeting you fondly, as if you were a child they had raised from birth. 

“They seem to love you,” he said, the compliment slipping out of his mouth easily. He figured you would not mind him speaking out of turn, not that you ever seemed to scold him for much of anything, if it was for a compliment. He thought you might have accepted it humbly, or explain why it might be otherwise, but you chose to do differently.

“Is that so? Then I’m glad,” It was such a short and simple answer—glad, you were glad to hear he thought as much—and glad manifested through, once again, you giving him a sunny smile. 

Trey, once more, was ill-prepared for such a happenstance, and although he knew it to be impossible a task he would have appreciated a warning. He had not even done much of anything to warrant it!

Still, he is glad that you are glad.

Would you be doing more of that now? Smiling? He still had not quite wrapped his head around the last time you had done it; it would be difficult to keep seeing you as his distant liege if you did such a thing.

Not that you have been much of that lately—to the public eye, certainly for appearances’ sake, but not in his thoughts—quite difficult when you compliment him each time he gives you something new to snack on.

“I only speak the truth,” he said, and though he has his secrets it is certainly not a lie. He would not deny to himself that his attention has predominantly been on you, but he was doing his duties of paying attention to his surroundings—that is, paying attention to them when you choose to interact with them. 

When he spotted you picking up a trinket, apparently one from a far-away land called the Scalding Sands, he had immediately prepared the money pounch you made him hold in case you had wanted to purchase it.

When you wanted to buy a cold drink, he looked over the prices to make sure you were not getting scammed—you gave the vendor a generous tip so he supposed it hardly mattered.

When your walk was interrupted every few minutes by excitable children who wanted to say their greetings, or budding young knights who wanted to make a good first impression, he carefully watched them all—mostly the adults, he doubted the children had any sort of bad intentions.

Trey, himself, was approached every so often too. As you had not bothered hiding your identity, he had not bothered hiding his being your knight as well—his usual attire likely drawing attention to him. Then again, he supposed just being beside you was enough to do as much.

“You wear a different uniform from the others,” a middle-aged woman said, the one who was tending to a stall filled with flowers, “what I mean to say, different from the usual companions.”

That made sense. Squires like Ace and Deuce, whom he assumed were the ones to usually come join you, wore different clothing from the official knights of the duchy; he himself had a slightly different attire to the official knights due to his designation, but it was surprising that others outside the estate paid attention to it.

“I would say he is different from the others as well,” another woman added, and he tried not to seem too bothered as he was scrutinized. “Better than the last one, that troublesome redhead. Oh, I hope you’re permanent, dear.”

All Trey could do was laugh and rub the back of his neck, half-hearted gratitude for what he presumed to be flattery. He’s quick to leave them be when you call upon him, bowing for a reasonable amount of time before returning to your side.

Once more, Trey cannot help himself from thinking about the matters of your past knight. The woman had brought up a troublesome redhead—very likely Ace, for he knew not of any other troublesome redheads among the knights—but she had also mentioned his becoming a permanent fixture. That likely implied they, as well, knew of your past knight. 

It truly was none of his business, and knowing who it had been would neither negatively nor positively affect him, but it was said that the people of the Queendom of Roses were naturally curious people, so, perhaps, this was just a natural feeling.

“Sir Trey? Are you well?” 

To be asked as much by you must have meant he had spent too much time thinking about the matter, inattentive to you—though the trip to the town had been safe, nighttime lurked the more evil of beings; even with the carriage, he should have been paying more attention.

He would have to push the theorizing for another day, or perhaps hold it off indefinitely. 

“Yes, my liege,” he replied, nodding his head as well. “I was simply thinking of our trip today.”

“And what did you think of it? Do not be hesitant to tell me what you think—I would appreciate an outsider’s perspective.”

And so he tells you. He is honest enough in his observations, praising the defining features of the town and the kindness of the people, although he would not deny being awfully careful about wording his suggestions.

“Of course, as you mentioned, I’m still an outsider so I hardly know the internal situation of the town in terms of economy and education, thus I could be completely wrong in my analysis.”

“Sir Trey, there is hardly any need for that type of humility,” You appeared slightly bothered by the comment, but you do not give him any time to think about whether he should respond or stay silent. “But I appreciate your comments nonetheless. It was not too difficult keeping up with me, was it?”

“I would not be a very suitable knight if I had difficulties.”

Suitable. Previously, he had not even thought of what it meant to be a suitable knight for you, more preoccupied with simply being good. He supposed the ladies from the market had gotten to him to some degree.

“Good, then I can begin bringing you to trips a few hours farther. A town down south of the territory has a festival next week, and, oh, two days from now I’d like to visit a village that—”

You were rambling, and the knight found it somewhat endearing how you seemed excited to travel all around the territory, dare he say excited to be able to show someone who is essentially an outsider the beauty of your land—at least, he thought this was what excited looked like on you—you certainly look more chipper than when you’re working away in your office.

“My liege, I think you might be a good person.”

He had not quite realized he had said it out loud until you paused your one-sided discussion to look at him as though he had said something peculiar.

“That’s… an odd compliment,” you said slowly, “and I certainly do not need the flattery, but it would be rude to note accept it either, so I shall.”

So you said, but you did not bother to properly hide the amused smile creeping on your face, merely turning away from him to face the window—as though that would do anything to hide it. It’s different from the polite smiles you give everyone, or the other smiles that still caught him off-guard, but there must be something contagious about it because he found himself smiling too.

“I do not have the right to scold you, my liege, but I did warn you getting caught in the rain for more than a few seconds was a terrible idea.”

Trey had been the one to try and rush you indoors after yesterday’s terrible downpour, but you had insisted on not letting the trip go to waste due to a little rain. At that time, he had been reminded once more that you could be awfully stubborn when you wanted to be. You had only agreed to go to the nearest establishment once you realized that, as  your knight, he would be forced to walk in the rain with you. To think you had even tried to dismiss him and continue the walk by yourself!

“Yes, I suppose the circumstances aren’t in my favor,” you replied, unable to hide the raspiness of your voice, and that was all it took for him to pour you another glass of water. “Though a mild cold is hardly enough reason to stop working.”

"Excuse me for a moment,” He crouched down beside your chair, extending a hand to gauge your temperature. He was no doctor or anything of the sort, but that… was most certainly not just a mild cold. By the Queen’s name, you looked like you were even shivering a little bit—was that shawl doing anything to warm you up?

“I know I am stepping out of the line by saying as much, but are you always this… troublesome?” You laugh at his exasperation, and although he would normally find it a good thing to have you in a pleasant mood, why must it be now of all times?—and now you had to drink more water because you went from laughing to coughing. 

“And were you always someone who worried so much? Caring for the sick is not part of your knightly duties, last I have checked.”

“Normally it would not be, not to this extent, but with my being your personal knight I believe my duties extend to your well-being, even if what is ailing you is sickness.”

“Ah. Then do as you must, although I still refuse to return to my bedroom to rest, and since I doubt you would have the ability to drag me over there, I shall continue working,” Trey inwardly groaned to himself. 

If he were a more shameless man who cared little for propriety he most certainly would have attempted to do so, but the thought of so much attempting to touch you, if even just to carry or lug you to your room—and to even have to enter your room?—in truth, he would prefer not to think about it.

“Will you at least transfer to the sofa so that you may look over those documents more comfortably?”

You gave him a thoughtful glance, and Trey cannot deny the relief that he felt when you nod your head.

“Yes, that seems reasonable. I will go over there once I finish penning this letter.”

Another letter? Trey supposed nobility always had numerous letters and invitations to respond to every day, although could the recipients not be kept waiting for at least a few days longer? 

“Is it so urgent that you should sacrifice your health over it?”

“Sir Trey, were you always so talkative?” He only relaxed when you let out another laugh, letting him know you did not mind him questioning you. “Not that it is unpleasant to hear you talk. I would prefer it if you spoke more freely to me. It would make our exchanges less uncomfortable, would it not?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Trey agreed, though he would say there was hardly anything unpleasant or discomforting about talking with you, nothing but pleasant for some time already. 

“Now, what was it that you said? Sacrifice, was it? I would say it is not so big of a deal—writing a letter, that is—but I suppose it is a matter of importance. I would rather not keep this nobleman waiting for a reply.”

Despite your wishes that he would speak more freely, Trey dared not to speak the assumption that had just entered his head. Rather, assumptions. 

“I will go to the kitchen to brew you some tea, then. It will be good for your throat,” Once you let out a hum of approval, he had slowly left your study. The walk to the kitchen was one filled with thinking, assuming. Perhaps he had been overthinking it, but he had two ideas as to who you could have been writing a letter to, and what writing that letter entailed. 

The first was likely the most obvious assumption—that you had either received  a proposal, or that you were in the process of courting and being courted. It was a reasonable guess to make, thought Trey, considering you were a noble of marriageable age in a most desirable position. 

He had seen you send and receive a few presents over the past two months, although he had never wondered until today if any of them were for courtship purposes—a little difficult to check without looking through each individual card and letter.

He had also heard a few knights wondering when or if you would ever marry, with some carrying the same assumption as Ace—that perhaps you had a lover you were keeping secret.

Indeed, there was hardly any evidence of either an incoming marriage or a secret lover, though neither were out of the realm of possibilities—although he seriously doubted you would be the type to have or want the latter.

The second assumption had no evidence, more influenced by what he knew of you and what others have slipped and told him, but perhaps you were sending a letter to your past knight, the one he had replaced. Trey had thought of it for some time, but with no one having become your personal knight since the last one’s departure, for two years until he arrived, you must have been quite attached. 

Regardless of if he was right with either one of his assumptions, it should not matter to him. He would do his job of being your knight either way.

Upon returning to your study, Trey was surprised you had actually taken his advice—whatever letter it was you were writing, you were clearly finished with it as you sat down on the sofa. He still thought it would be preferable if you were resting without the documents in hand, but there was only so much pushing he could do… for now, that is. 

Trey found that he was quite good with gentle persuasion, and gentle he would be with his approach.

You greeted each other wordlessly, him watching you drink your cup of tea as you went over the documents. Things were mostly as usual for half an hour, with him offering to pour you another every now and then, but soon you began to look drowsy. You had stayed on that one piece of paper for around five minutes at this point.

“Sir Trey, you are terribly unfair,” The said man laughed at the accusation. “I thought it would be merely herbs and ginger here in the tea, but there was some chamomile as well, was there not? Or some other type of flower or tea leaf that’s intended more for the night than the day.”

“I believe you are implying something, my liege,” he replied, neither confirming nor denying it, “but if you find yourself tired, should you not retire-”

“Absolutely not,” Firm as ever in your decision, thought Trey. 

“Then, if I may be so forward—and if the contents are not too confidential for my eyes and ears—would you allow me to read you the documents out loud instead? Since you do not find my voice unpleasant,” he offered. At the very least, if you truly insist on staying awake, then he would try to make today’s work easier for you.

He would not blame you if you refused, but after a minute of thinking about it on your part you agreed quite easily, patting the space on the sofa beside you. 

“It should be alright, but sit beside me. There are a few numbers and tables I need to look over.”

He followed your orders easily, but upon sitting he realized how awkward it was to actually sit beside you. Standing beside you, sparring with you, sitting across you in the carriage—it could be argued that those were all moments of being in close proximity with you as well, but there was something more… would the word be domestic? regarding the current situation.

“Go on, I will be listening.”

So he began to read the reports aloud, stopping at every paragraph and only beginning with the next once you hum or let out some other noise of approval. Truthfully, for one reason or another, Trey could not bear to look at you, so he heavily relied on your little cues as a signal to keep going.

It was around the time he had begun reading a report about the agriculture of a village up north that he had felt it—the sudden weight atop his shoulder, quick in arrival and indefinite in departure. Trey abandoned the papers almost immediately, looking at you to see if you truly had fallen asleep—you had; with how often his siblings faked sleep he would have figured out if you were not.

Trey did not have the heart to wake you up. For you to succumb to slumber was what he had wanted all along, but he had thought you would either choose to dismiss him so you could nap in your study, or that you would admit defeat and retire to bed. Though you were hardly the most formal noble he has ever met, you still cared about propriety, even if it was in front of someone like him, so he could never have expected for you to…

The knight let out a troubled sigh, unsure of what to do with you. Just as he did not have the heart to wake you up, neither could he stay in this sitting position until you roused awake. 

First, it would be troublesome if someone chose to enter the room—he would prefer not to rekindle the short-lived rumor, one likely having to do with Ace, that he had gotten his position due to him being your secret significant other. 

Second, that position had to be uncomfortable for you; he knew your back and neck would feel terrible upon waking. He wanted you to rest specifically so you would feel rejuvenated—extra aching in your body would certainly not help with your recovery.

Third, Trey was not sure if he could handle anymore of this proximity. You look a lot softer when you are asleep—when you do not try to put a distance, or at least feign one, between you and everyone else. You were, dare he say—no, he would not dare to say what he thought of you just now. 

His heart had been beating irrationally fast for the past few minutes, panic and nervousness stirred into one, and he would very much like it if his heart stopped doing so and returned to normal.

If you were his little sibling, he would pick you up and bring you to your bedroom, tucking you to bed, but you are not that. You are not exactly a friend or a lover either, though the thought of you as the latter… he really should stop thinking of Ace’s little joke. It was not even funny, just slightly embarrassing and slightly flustering. 

Ultimately, Trey decided to lay you down on the sofa, an unheard apology as he slowly pulled you away from him, resting your head against a pillow. There was a slight fear in you waking up—mostly because he knew you would try to return to your work as you had slacked off enough—but even as he took off his coat to lay it atop you, a substitute for a blanket, your breathing had not changed even the slightest.

“My liege,” He kneeled, despite knowing you would not see it, “may you have the most pleasant of dreams. Please rest well.” 

He left the room soon after, not truly leaving as he chose to stand outside your door, guarding it so he could warn people not to enter, or at the very least give you time to prepare yourself if it was someone of importance.

Trey dug his head into the palm of his hand, feeling the contrast of his cool fingertips and warm face. He might be coming down with a cold, too.

It was normal to think your superior was attractive. His superior, in particular, was someone his age, who he had to spend hours looking at, so it was normal to find that particular noble more and more pleasing to look at as the days became weeks became months. 

What could not be explained away so easily was how he had begun gazing at your portraits. There were numerous around the estate, your likeness having been taken by numerous artists. He could pretend he was simply admiring the techniques used, but unless it was a cake or pastry he was hardly a connoisseur of the arts.

He was in the middle of observing one such painting when he had chanced upon someone he barely knew, but one he certainly knew of. The man, wearing a lavish cape atop the already eye-catching uniform of the Queen’s knights, appeared not to notice him, heading straight for the garden where he knew you to be. Trey followed him, despite knowing you would not be unsafe with the man—the realization late, but unsurprising. 

After all, that man was—

“My liege!” the knight called, greeting you the same way Trey tended to, only with more cheerfulness and humor in his voice. “Did you miss me?”

“I have not been your liege for more than two years,” you let out a laugh, one he had to strain his ears to hear, “but I suppose so.”

—was the future Baron Trappola, Ace’s older brother.

“Somehow I doubt it! When was the last time you sent me a letter? Even Ace sent more letters than you—Ace! I have had to rely on him for updates on you, and what is this about you—”

“—getting a new knight?” you guessed, and Trey had to hold in an awkward laugh. How come whenever he listened in on a conversation with you in it, it just so happened to be about him? “I see he has been complaining to you, then. Probably just upset he has to rethink his strategy on usurping you in terms of knighthood.”

“The poor man is probably getting bullied by my baby brother! And what Ace does, Deuce will probably end up doing too. I wonder who they get that attitude from?” 

“Hah! They certainly tried, more Ace than Deuce honestly, but Sir Trey has more resilience than you would think. He is—”

“Gossiping about your new knight, are we? Then could I invite you to walk around the gardens with me, like how we used to when you and Ace were still little kids? To walk is a good way to stray from prying eyes.”

That was Trey’s cue to leave the premises immediately, stalking off to… somewhere. He usually made it a point to be near wherever you were once morning training had finished, but he would rather have to deal with a troublesome younger Trappola than be called out by the older one.

He settled on the outside of your study, where he usually found himself most days. No, that was wrong, he usually found himself inside your study, but it was impolite to be there without your permission, so he stood outside. 

As if to mock him, the outside of your study conveniently had a portrait of you on the wall, so if he wanted to feel any more guilty about listening in on a private conversation, your unmoving likeness was there to stare him down.

Firstly, he knew who the knight he had replaced was. While there was no animosity or competitiveness over the reveal, he had still felt strangely about it. Second, whoever it was you had been sending letters to lately it was certainly not the older Trappola, which furthered his assumption that it had to do with courtship. He also felt strangely about that, though he would prefer not to dwell on the whys of it.

Alone with his thoughts, he could do nothing but stare at your painted likeness; soon after, what was unmoving had moved as you appeared before him, sudden as though you were a mere vision, and you stared at him as if you knew he would be there. 

“He wanted to greet you, you might want to know,” you began to say, ushering him to enter your study with you. “Had the sun set the slightest bit slower I am sure he would have sought you out.”

Ah, so you were aware of his presence—either you were told he had listened, or you had noticed and allowed him to listen. 

“If you had asked about him, I would have answered,” You sat him down beside you on the sofa, almost reminiscent of the time you had been sick—only this time you were very aware of each and every action, and he wondered if he was the only one embarrassed at the proximity. There was space on either side, so why did the two of you have to sit next to each other, only some several inches in the center separating your bodies?

“The reason you kept the position of being your personal knight empty for so long—”

“I suppose there is some merit to what people have assumed, although they are all incredibly far-fetched. I’m sure you have heard some of them,” He had, even found himself on the verge of believing some of them. Perhaps Trey was more invested with the idea of you being in love than he thought because he, too, had assumed that you might have carried affections…

Having seen what he had, however, it appeared that romantic affection was not what you felt for that knight. He ignored the pleasant feeling the thought provided.

“It just so happened that, with his departure, there was no real reason for me to take a new knight. I did not need one,” you explained, as though it was simply obvious at the time. It made enough sense, thought Trey, considering you could at least hold your own in a fight, and you had several knights and esquires willing to accompany you in rotation. 

“My liege…”

You smiled at him like you thought he had done something good, despite him having done nothing at all.

“What I want to tell you is… I chose you for a reason, and I have no regrets about that decision with how wonderfully you’ve been doing as my knight. I would keep you by my side forever, if I could!”

That had to be a joke—the latter part in particular—but it caused his heart to beat all the same, the same way it did when you fell asleep beside him the afternoon you were ill. Although your words shocked him, he had accepted your praise quickly, knowing that you did not hand it out so easily.

Still, even with his beating heart, a question was still left unanswered—why had you chosen him out of every other knight?

“So this is your family’s bakery?” 

When you had told him you wished to go to the Dukedom of Rosehearts, he had been incredibly surprised—though he tried not to make his emotions too evident. He was aware the two of you would travel longer and longer distances as time went by, though he had not expected that you would go from traveling from within the territory to a Dukedom five days away.

He had been even more surprised when you told him you wished to visit his hometown, with one of the stops being his home. 

Trey had still not quite wrapped his head around how exactly he perceived you, even though several weeks had passed since he had realized he—unable to find an eloquent word for it—liked looking at you. Was he being respectful in the sense that he admired you in every aspect, or disrespectful in the sense that he was a few steps away from being improper?

That aside, with your first out-of-territory trip being the Rosehearts Duchy, his hometown being the first destination of all places, he had to wonder… 

“Sundown is nearing so they should be closing shop about now,” Trey advised, partly anxious but mostly excited to see his family again, “You could safely remove your hood, if you wish.”

“Yes. I should greet the family of my knight properly,” Your gloved hand hovered over the handle, hesitating to open it. “I had not thought of asking you before, but I should ask now that we are here—do your parents think I treat you well?”

“You do treat me well,” he insisted, firm in his stance, “and I have made sure to let them know as much. If anything, my parents are more likely to be mad at me than you.”

“About what?”

“About not telling them we were coming,” And then he opened the door for you, the scent of bread and baked goods wafting through the air instantaneously.

Several things happened at once.

First, his siblings screamed at him in the way little brothers and sisters always screamed when they found themselves energetic and excited. Two, his parents shouted his name, clearly caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. Three, you took off your hood, and though they had never seen you before it was easy to connect the dots as to who you were. Four, all went silent, meaning his mother dropped a rolling pin on the counter and his father quickly shushed his siblings.

“Sorry for the sudden visit,” he said, throwing in an awkward laugh, “My liege wanted to drop by while we were in the duchy.”

“I apologize for the intrusion,” you bowed—you did not have to, especially with you bowing first despite your position—and his family scrambled to follow suit. “I have business here in Rosehearts; I figured Sir Trey would appreciate getting to visit his family. I hope you do not mind my coming here without warning, Mr. and Mrs. Clover… and the little Clovers.”

“Of course not. We welcome you here any time, your excellency,” his father said, who had recovered his cool quickly enough. His mother, meanwhile, threw him a look that implied he was certainly getting a talking to later. “What a shame we could not prepare anything fresh for your arrival. If only our unfilial son had warned us beforehand.”

‘Unfilial! Just who were they calling unfilial?’ thought Trey, glancing at his father with incredulity.

“That is quite alright. Your son spoils me plenty—he is not only a wonderful knight, but wonderful in the kitchen as well. Dare I say—and Sir Trey, I ask you not repeat this to him—your son might be better than our estate’s pastry chef! Clearly, he…”

Trey had not been expecting you to praise him in front of his family—or perhaps he had, but just a light praise that would be enough to reassure his parents—and you had yet to stop, speaking nothing but the best of him—and Trey, conflicted Trey with his conflicting feelings, what was he supposed to do?

He supposed he was grateful you chose to not look at him, for he was sure his face was painted a color akin the brightest of strawberries, like a jam smeared across his cheeks. His parents, however, had certainly noticed—knowing glances exchanged between them whenever they were not looking at you.

“My liege is exaggerating,” he said, coughing and clearing his throat, “I often say my creations pale in comparison to yours, but I suppose it is to taste to believe.”

“Yes… in that case, I do suppose we have something to serve, though it has yet to finish cooling. It would take at most an hour.”

A signal disguised as an offer—one from his mother, and one both you and him had caught on to easily.

“I do want to tour the area a little longer. It would be a good idea for me to head out,” Trey looked at you, some hesitance to the idea.

“My liege, I am unsure if it would be safe for you—”

“The Dukedom of Rosehearts is known for strict enforcement of laws and regulations,” you retorted easily, as if you had already prepared for this argument in your head, “so there is hardly any reason for me to be unsafe. Even in the odd chance that someone targets me, I will be able to defend myself.”

‘Do not even think of accompanying me,’ you were essentially saying.

As soon as you left the premises, he was immediately hounded by his family, all with different questions and expressions of disappointment of how he could not have warned them in advance—and, of course, familial affections he returned easily and wholeheartedly. 

Once the pleasantries and ‘I-miss-you’s had been exchanged, his father pulled aside his little siblings, instructing them to head to their room so that the adults could talk.

“You have been lucky,” his mother told him, “how Lord Riddle favored you, how your current liege clearly adores you—”

“Mother—”

“—but you ought to be careful this time,” she warned, without any animosity or anger. Her tone was kind in all the ways a mother should be, but there was a certain somberness to it as well, and Trey had a feeling he would have a difficult time with this conversation. “If things go wrong, it will hurt differently this time.”

“It is not what you think it is,” Trey said, unwilling to accept the implications of the advice given to him.

“But it is, is it not?” his father countered, all-knowing in his stare. “Something there, something not quite out of the oven.”

“Are you really making baking analogies now?”

“That is not the point,” the older man said with a laugh, a laugh that relieved him of some tension. “You have always been good at pretending everything is fine, but the mouth lies where the eyes cannot.”

“By which you mean to say?”

“That we are your parents, and we can tell the difference between looking out of mere duty and looking out of interest.”

“Interest cannot be acted on,” Trey Clover was the filial son of Mr. and Mrs. Clover, who could lie to himself but never to his parents, and thus that was all he could say. “The sun has fallen, I should look for my liege.”

Look. That was all he could do.

Even cloaked, Trey found you easily—stood outside of a tea room, at a time past the usual tea time, talking with another hooded figure. Trey looked at his sword and clasped it; when he had looked back up you stood alone, as if the being was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

But it had not been—he had been sure of it, would make sure of it.

“Did you meet with someone, my liege? Perhaps been bothered by some person?” There was some benefit to him always looking at and after you, catching on to how your eyes widened slightly, if only for a moment. That was new, and it was unsettling. 

“An old friend from the academy,” you replied easily, “He was surprised I was in Rosehearts, so we took some time to catch up with each other.”

On the surface he accepted the answer readily, but something brewed inwardly, the resurfacing of an idea he tried not to dwell on any longer.

What if… you had visited Rosehearts intentionally?

Well of course you had, but perhaps it was with a purpose not strictly for business, and maybe that purpose was to meet up with the one that you had been exchanging letters with for as long as he could recount. Perhaps the reason he could not distinguish which gifts were for courtship was because there were none; that whoever it was you chose to communicate with was a secret. 

There was no real tell on whether the exchange was a matter of romance in the first place, but the exchange of intelligence and information was hardly ever done in public tea rooms, certainly not if it was a matter so important that you would travel five days from home to receive it, thus he rules that idea out. 

An affair of secrecy. It was a troubling matter.

If he were to actually think about his problems for a moment instead of pushing them aside, he would readily accept the biggest reason as to why he found himself so troubled over it—certainly not a matter of being undeserving, for who was he to talk? You had the ability to decide who deserved to be with you or otherwise—but the reason was inherently selfish, and Sir Trey Clover was not known to ever be selfish.

You were smiling on the way to your temporary residence in the dukedom. Your smiles were not too uncommon these days, often thrown in with praise difficult to not feel flustered at, but to have you smiling for more than a minute… it would mean you were more than pleased today, and he wondered how much of that had to do with the mystery man. 

He should not care too much. If you were happy, he should be happy.

“Sir Trey, I will tell you this… I think I still prefer the desserts you make,” you whispered, almost as if it was a secret that you did not want anyone hearing, despite there being no one but you and him in the carriage. That, combined with the absurdity of the claim, was enough for him to smile like you were. 

“Thank you, although that praise is difficult to believe when they are far more talented than me.”

He was unsure if you were completely sincere, but in the back of his head he liked to pretend you were. It was enough to take his mind off of other things.

“Perhaps, though I did not call you more talented than them either. I simply said I liked yours more.”

“Yes, that would be true. I suppose with how much time I have spent beside you, I likely know your food preferences better than they do,” he replied, letting out a steady breath. There was no need to overly react when there was a reasonable explanation for everything. “Although, forgive me, I do find myself questioning your tastes, my liege.”

“Hah! Sir Trey, pray tell, what do you think of my tastes?”

You looked at him expectantly. It should have been easy to answer—all he had to do was list off his observations based on what beverages you tended to request from him, which dishes you savored most, the tastes and textures you preferred more than others; despite the simplicity of the question, he could not answer. Perhaps because he knew that was not what you were asking, not exactly.

“Never mind that,” you eventually replied, wistfully looking out of the window. “Sir Trey, would you like to be home more often? To come see your family more?”

The both of you knew the answer would have been a resounding ‘yes, most absolutely, my liege,’ thus he did not say it. Anyhow, it was evident on his face, even as the two of you were shrouded mostly in darkness, only a mere flame that lit up more of your features than his.

“My liege, are you implying something?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. From where could you have gotten that idea?” You had given Trey hardly any time to dwell on the meaning of your words—for there could not truly be nothing, could there?—as you continued to talk. 

“Truth be told, I had no initial reason for visiting your hometown. I only decided to make the stop when I remembered it was your hometown; I am glad I did so. You looked happier today than I have ever seen you.”

Trey could not help the way his breath hitched, the way his heart practically stopped, if only just for a second, before beating in full force once more. Yes, he had been happy—and, only to himself, he would not deny that in addition to seeing his family once more, seeing you enjoy their company added to that. 

Whatever downer had affected him with the situation regarding the mysterious letter, and man thereafter, had been trumped by the knowledge that you had chosen to go for him. Despite him never having asked, you did so out of your own volition. It had not even been an afterthought—you chose to make it your first stop in Rosehearts.

He knew it to not be a lie, for when had you ever? Excuses, definitely, but never lies. Was it possible for happiness, affections to increase tenfold with this new fact?

“My liege,” he began, quietly. The air inside the carriage was fragile, and he did not know what would happen if it were to break, “I wish I could do more for you sometimes.”

“You’re already more than enough,” You let out a sigh. You had allowed yourself to appear slightly more vulnerable around him since the day you caught a cold, but perhaps today had worn you out for you are even more so now. “If you do any more, it would be even harder to let you go when the time comes.”

“Unlike Ace and Deuce, my ambitions are hardly lofty,” the growing desires, yes, but not his ambitions. He was more than satisfied with him being your lone knight. “It will be some time before that.”

You licked your lips, “Yes, I suppose so. But even so…”

“But even so,” he repeated, forcing himself to finally look away from you.

Trey always thought himself average—good but never extraordinary—and he had always been content with that. He was lucky with the family he had, loving and kind; the friends he had, loyal and caring; the position he had, the opportunities he had in life.

But just this once, he thought he would have liked to be extraordinary for you.

Trey Clover could recognize that choppy purple hair anywhere. The cat ears themselves were a dead giveaway. 

“Chenya!” 

What he did not expect was for the magician to pop up in the middle of your study past supper time. The two of you had startled—he had known Chenya’s specialty had to do with disappearing from one place and appearing at another, but he had not known he could travel such far distances now. Trey had mostly been surprised, but you… you looked nervous. 

“My liege,” He approached you, as if to reassure you. Perhaps you thought his friend to be dangerous? He would not blame you, his having appeared out of nowhere. “Please do not fret, this man is—”

“Oh no, looks like I arrived at the wrong time, wrong place!” Chenya cried, glancing between him and you. “My, my, did not think Trey would be here with you at this time of night. Should I be off, or should he be off?”

“Chenya,” Trey said, not bothering to cover up his confusion, “what do you mean by that? What are you even doing here?”

He had gone ignored, you choosing to answer the magician’s question. 

“No, both of you should stay,” He turned to look at you, questions in his eyes, but you refused to even look at him. Still, he could read the look on your face well enough, discomfort and guilt visible in your expression. Why, wondered Trey, his own discomfort growing, why would you not stare him straight in the face?

“Sir Trey… I have kept this from him long enough, have I not?”

“Well, if you're sure!” Chenya appeared relatively unbothered, as if he was the only one who had not noticed the tension in the room, but he knew his childhood friend well, and that one second glance thrown in his direction had spelled out worry—but for who?

“Ah, yes, I have yet to greet you!” Chenya then bowed to you, “Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker, magician from the Dukedom of Rosehearts. I am here to represent Lord Riddle Rosehearts, who sends his apologies for having me represent him again. I hope you can understand, though I believe he has already informed you beforehand through a letter.”

“He has, yes,” Despite not looking at him, you must have felt his gaze digging into you because you then revealed information only he would not be in the know of. “Lord Riddle and I have been exchanging letters for some time now, so I am aware his mother hardly gives him any free time—and I thank you, Sir Chenya, for making sure the letters fell in the right hands… and making sure his replies fell into mine.”

“Hold on,” said Trey, the pieces finally fitting together in his head. In truth, his head was beginning to hurt, thinking suddenly a strenuous activity. The ideas, the possibilities, the likely story that was forming in his head—he could not say he liked any of it. 

“My liege, the person you had been exchanging letters with this whole time was Riddle? Since when?”

“Since the Duchess Rosehearts had you removed as Lord Riddle’s knight.”

More than a year. You and Riddle had been in correspondence for more than a year and even if you wanted to deny it, he could tell that it was deliberately hidden from him, and there had to be a reason for you to do so.

“And the person you met up with the first time we went to Rosehearts was no academy friend. It was Chenya,” It was declared rather than asked, for he knew what the answer would be.

“Yes.”

“And just what was it that you and Riddle had been discussing all this time that you felt it had to be hidden from me?”

“Trey,” answered Chenya. “They have been talking about you, Trey.”

“Sir Trey,” you finally looked at him, and although it might be hypocrisy, Trey wished you did not. “I apologize that I did not tell you. We knew you would be against it, and maybe that was a sign we never should have planned it in the first place, but… please understand that Lord Riddle and Sir Chenya just care for you, and I, too, have grown to—”

“Just say it. Please,” pressed Trey, wanting you to prove him wrong.

“From the very start… we had been planning a way to get you back to Rosehearts. As Lord Riddle’s knight.”

Wordlessly, Trey stood up and left your study, all without so much a single bow farewell to you.

It took a lot for Trey to be angry. Even now, seated at the edge of the fountain to cool off, he could not describe himself as angry. He wanted to be angry, really, because if something had to do with him, should he not be in the know of it? However, though he was not angry, he was certainly frustrated, and upset, and just… conflicted.

Yes, what you said was true—if you had told him the plan from the very start he would have been against it, would likely pen a letter to Riddle and Chenya immediately telling them to stop whatever strings they were trying to pull. However, he would not have felt nearly as conflicted then. He understood that their intentions were well and good, but now more than ever he felt those intentions unwarranted. 

Maybe he would have been more accepting of the idea back then, when he had felt nothing but respect for you, but he could hardly say the same now.

It was only after the trip to his hometown that he had come to terms with the extent of his feelings for you, the feelings that were continuing to grow with each day he spent by your side as your knight. Though no clear date had been given, the idea of him leaving the estate, leaving you had upset him more than you likely knew. 

No, Trey could be in denial all he wanted, but he was not blind. You hinted at being upset at the idea too, so then why…

Of course he missed his family, and of course he missed his friends, the town which he grew up in; you clearly knew it too, but he had thought you had merely implied you would make more trips to Rosehearts, or at least allow him some time off for a trip home. Obviously he had underestimated the limits of your graciousness, as you had been trying to gauge his receptiveness to returning home for good.

There was no exaggeration to his words—he knew what it meant to leave your side. It would mean never seeing you daily, perhaps even at all; even if he had the chance to see you again, he certainly had zero excuse to speak a word to you or exchange letters with you, unless the two of you mutually decided to converse in secrecy. 

His position as your knight is the only connection he has to you, the only way he can go and talk to you, see you as freely as was allowed by propriety in public, and as freely as you allowed behind closed doors.

There was always a way to return home, but there would never be a way to return to you.

“Sir Trey,” He had spotted you hesitate to come closer to him minutes ago; had even heard you chasing after him when he had left, the clack of your shoes and the sound of your footsteps more than familiar to him, but he had not made a move to call you out. 

“You can sit down,” He lifted his left hand and patted the stone, thus he found himself seated to your right. These days he has always been at your right.

“I have already forgiven you,” Trey began to say. He had not lied just then, knowing that in his heart it was impossible to be mad at you—he had always been the type to let things slide, although this one instance was not so simple as to just wave away, “but I wish to know just what made you choose to accept that plan? What incentivized you? And why did you choose to tell me now?”

“Lord Riddle has the exact same standing as me, so when he had asked for a favor I knew it would have been a good way to forge a connection with his family,” you replied, not sounding proud of yourself. “He knew the duchy was mostly fair and just, so if you had transferred here you would be treated well. He did not ask for it, but I made the extra step to make you my personal knight.

Perhaps that was both the best and worst thing I could have done.”

“My liege,” He stole a glance at you, only to find you already looking at him. He had an inkling as to what you had meant to say, but for his own doubts and his own heart, he had wanted to hear it from you yourself, “your decision to not receive my oath, was it because you thought—?”

“That you would eventually return to being Rosehearts’ knight once they found a way to lift your ban from the estate? Yes,” you let out a long sigh, tearing your eyes away from him to look at the moon. “The reason that I tried to keep you at an arm’s length in the first several weeks? Yes.”

“Why you spoke of my leaving you as if it was a near inevitability?” he added, “That as well?”

“Yes,” Another monosyllabic reply had escaped your lips, and Trey was beginning to tire of them. You seemed to know this as you expounded on what you truly felt.

“Perhaps it is improper to admit this so brazenly, but despite my efforts I could not help but wish you would never leave my side. I knew that with your presence gone from the estate I would miss the baked goods you so often made me, the gentle chiding and reminders when I was stubborn, the quiet but enjoyable company you provided on the trips we often embarked together. 

I am afraid that my attachment to you runs deeper than what society dictates is proper—how quickly it happened, it has just been a year—and though I know it will make you happy to be home, I do not want to let you go.”

“Then do not let me go. What do you know of what will make me happy?” Trey asked. All his life he had let things pass him by, but the knowledge that your feelings had been similar to his all this time had spurred him on to finally fight back and take instead of merely giving. 

“The first time you smiled at me, and the times thereafter, it was as if you had infected me with your joy for I, too, had felt joy. When you told me you had visited my hometown just for me, my chest bloomed like… like the blossoming flowers becoming the most delicious of fruits,” Had his face not been red before it certainly had been now, a most terrible analogy at the most terrible of times—but the laugh you let out helped waver the tension between the two of you, so he supposed it was alright.

“Tonight, even with all these different emotions you have made me feel, I cannot help but feel inexplicably exhilirated just at the sight of you—at you seated beside me, being vulnerable with me, finally telling me how you see me—what I am to you. I have always wondered what I truly am to you,” Trey had suddenly stood up, his heart fluttering as your hand—your writing hand which you kept ungloved—pulled at his sleeve to stop him.

He heeded your wish for him to not rise, instead choosing to kneel halfway, emulating the unfinished ceremony from the day he became your knight. He still had not let go of your hand; he wished he had been ungloved, too.

“I do not have the same eloquence that you possess, but for certain I possess the same attachment to you that you claim to have to me, perhaps moreso. It had just been a year, but it was every day for one year, so even with how improper this is, I hope you do not blame me or cast me aside—cherishing you was unavoidable, and my feelings now are inescapable.”

You chose to remain silent, but the way you looked at him let him know he was seen, heard by you. That was all he really wanted—to look at you and have you looking at him the same way too. He could not help himself then, adjusting his hold on your hand, pulling it closer to him. 

“My liege,” It is less him addressing you and more him asking you for permission.

“Trey,” you whispered, what he knew to be a secret between you, him, and the moon. Courage granted by you, he pressed his lips against your hand, the oath he never completed. The wait was well worth it, thought Trey, for he meant it now more than he ever would have before.

“I might not be the strongest of knights, nor am I the most skilled, but if there is something I can offer you… then let it be my loyalty, the heart that beats for you. Whatever you want me to become, I will stay beside you however way you wish.”

“It will hardly be a normal relationship,” you replied, a tinge of melancholy hidden beneath the sweetness. Still, you do not reject him—your fingers came to intertwine with his, and Trey resisted the urge to kiss each individual tip 

“I will be yours—your knight or something beyond that—for as long as you will have me,” You smiled, and oh, your smiles were always so lovely, lovelier when directed at him, but tonight might have been the loveliest it has ever been. 

“Then I will be yours as well—not just your liege, but yours.”

sequel | masterlist

[liseronfle]

Never been a huge fan of this trope but I have to hand it to yall : it's well written. Definitely deserves that reblog.

⭒ㅤwhose (not) random kid

premise. crash landing from the future is apparently your kid, not that you know that anyway... in the form of a mixture between you, and your... supposed counterpart, clues are bound to pile up as to whose child this is.

parts. rosehearts, kingscholar, ashengrotto, al asim, schoenheit, shroud, draconia

cont. gender neutral reader, use of 'mada' which is just 'mama' and 'dada' cut in half for our resident shrimp (aka yuu), octavinelle's shady business deserved it's own tag, 7.0k words

note. hiii again! it took a whole month for this to come out hehe. my honest opinion, the kid here is the cutest I've had to write. I really love em' 🤎 most of the good parts of this fic is near the end where they start interacting with yuu!

azul

ashengrotto did not do things himself–it sounds bad, by extension. like he was incompetent but most of the student body of the school knew better than to assume so, much less say it out loud. associating with him came with consequences, but much larger rewards to sow if you were actually useful for him to keep close.

why should he exert much effort from the body when his mind had already done the work? he rewarded his employees well after all.

his grip was iron. figuratively, and literally. no slip through for an exit, if he let go then it was because he wanted to. he does things when he wants to and watches it all play with a critical eye. he let his actor take point center, relish the spotlight where in the end, he can bask under the light. what was rewards without hardships?

azul does things for you despite himself.

like now, he’s desperately trying to pluck out every thought of you like a needle stuck in hay from his mind because he was not at the local store for you, but for a business opportunity.

like before, when he would inevitably grace you with pointers for advanced lessons for better preparation. muttering something about him not nurturing employees that lack the essence of his dorm–intelligence, and wit. 

like after, he’s not so sure if there is one now. who would take back what he said? him? ashengrotto?

everything is so within a script he plays that he tells himself that he let you storm off because he willed it. 

“you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be special,” he shouldn’t have regretted the remarks that flew from his mouth as a defense mechanism that wrapped around himself and inevitably pushed you away. azul was special because he made himself to be (and you were special to him in a way that was irrevocably lost to him).

what did you do? how did you do it?

azul did not want to hold onto someone so sought after, he wouldn’t handle it well if you chose another warmth to run into, he only made investments that he was sure he would win.

he watched when you straightened abruptly from his words. like his voice struck you even when he made sure it was a sound that drew joy from you, you don’t look happy. you breezed past him like the wind, not unkindly but something fleeting that he can’t grasp at.

after all, no one can hold onto the wind.

a pair of eyes follow his frisky movements with amusement–since when did the perceptive, at ease azul struggle to focus picking off the most ripe ruby berries? he’d been staring at the fruit for so long that even floyd, whose attention was frayed by other aisles.

jade had only been interested in the mundane task of shopping when he spotted a tray of fungi on sale, his eyes sparkled. so azul compromised to purchase some free of charge if he was diligent in his work afterward. over time the interest faded, it was simply routine until he exited the aisle after a quick skim and found azul in the same spot.

then floyd got interested at whatever jade was standing by and idly observing.

now, they’re both looking at azul.

“he’s still sulking?” floyd scrunched up his nose as azul threw a perfectly decent ruby berry back into the basket, in his opinion anyway why was there a need to spend so much time finding perfect ones? azul was not as interesting to poke at considering he hadn’t blown up at floyd yet.

marine creatures are much more fun when they puff up. he had told his brother who agreed without any insight.

azul can only take much of floyd, and if he’s still keeping to himself by now it must have been serious.

and! more fun to see if pushed too hard. chuckled floyd in his head.

jade does not stray his eyes from azul. “it appears so.” he agreed with a light hum, he took the pack of eggs from floyd’s hands and set it in the basket before the latter got any ideas of breaking it–more so if it was related to throwing them at azul’s head specifically.

“but i would say it is brooding rather than sulking.” he added unhelpfully to azul’s case to which floyd merely shrugged in response.

“you do know i can still hear you both?” azul drawled from the stands. seemingly finding two more ruby berries adequate enough so he discards them at the basket hanging from his inner elbow. when he has forcefully moved his gaze from the fruits to the two, he is given the full extent of the amusement on their faces.

for floyd, lack thereof.

“indeed.” jade flashed him a smile.

floyd continued for him, shifting on his feet with one hand buried beneath his pocket. “that’s why we’re talking, azul.” cause you can hear us.

in response, azul merely crinkled the two of his brows. he briefly pondered to grace them with a response, but what would simply be adding more oil to the flame and he greatly disliked fire. the twins offered a brief respite from the hurricane of thoughts that was you, he supposed he could at least be grateful for that.

even if they clearly didn’t intend so and relished his disdain.

he pushes up the rim of his glasses. “all done?” azul interjected. there were far better thing to use with time rather than spend it all teasing him–or for thinking of good old you that didn’t fit into any equation he drew.

he still snuck you in.

thankfully none of the two had the ability to read minds, as it happens jade might be eerily good at reading but peering into his thoughts was out of his range. if they did, he would simply never hear the end of it, could have left them all alone just so he could have a hint of privacy.

jade nodded, azul hands him the list. “double check in case floyd,” he glared pointedly at said male. “forgets something like last time.”

the last time azul was negligent in checking twice, floyd hadn’t been able to grab a bottle of witch’s essence. mostly because of the presence of you, where floyd had found trailing after you far more interesting than browsing the aisles for what he was supposed to get.

he was supposed to be irritated, he was until he was simply just a bit grateful floyd was near to ward off a persisting customer of the shop who found your ‘less than interesting magic-less capabilities’ apparently interesting enough to poke fun at.

azul didn’t take you with them anymore. due to floyd’s distraction or the possibility you’d be bothered again he isn’t so sure.

of course, he tied off that loose end with jade.

“i don’t get why we couldn’t have done this at sam’s shop.” grumbled floyd, stopping in front of their paths and is then ushered by jade forwards once more. the voice shakes azul from his recollection, that unfortunately was once again related to you–who shall not be named.

jade momentarily eyed azul who stares ahead as if to shake off his piercing stare. “of course, azul would only stop at the best for the prefect.” 

the remark burned him. you who shall not be named burned him, and azul sort of liked it. his cheeks flared with warmth and he cleared his throat, fearful that it would come out as a scrawny, weak, affected croak. “this is for our new exclusive offer.” azul retaliated.

“so the birthday bash offer was not for the prefect whose birthday is today?” jade retorted.

the excited it’s shrimpy’s birthday? from floyd was only entertained by his brother who nodded in confirmation. he looks away from azul who made it a point to drill him a stare on the side of his head.

“that makes sense.” floyd said, stopping to lean by the register where the other two transfer their item of goods from the basket to the counter. “everyone else doesn’t deserve anything but nothing except for shrimpy.”

besides the other students that you had ‘beast tamed’ that extended to the twins, jade took you in steadily when you proved to be a fascinating specimen while floyd took more convincing when you pointedly ignored his attempts at intimidation.

now the tweel won’t even leave you alone. azul is only ever grateful a few times for it.

when thought about once, you embedded deeper in the mind. it must be what floyd as doing because he spoke again. “i haven’t seen shrimpy in a looong time,” he pouted, the cashier had rung up half the items at that point. looking sleep deprived, and their chatter was merely background noise.

“it’s only been 7 days.” azul corrected, unwilling to voice the and 2 hours that lingered in response to floyd’s quip.

“you could just say a week.” teased jade. “have you been keeping tabs?”

floyd off-handedly took jade’s phone from his pocket, having forgotten his back at the dorm. the latter does not argue considering it was better to let floyd run amok when the things he desired was innocent.

“i simply like to be informed well.” 

ignoring the other two was easy as trein’s class (which was easy because he slept through mot of it). floyd inputted the password of his other and peered as the screen flared to something other than an ominous screen of a forest fungus. he, for one was glad to be free of the sight.

his face does sour into a blach when he finds the last thing jade was on is an online cart full of plants he didn’t bother to remember, and a few he associated with the list of fungi crewel gave them with the book to study for an upcoming test. 

floyd isn’t sure if jade was trying out hands on learning or doing something weird with those… things again, like cooking them up and force feeding it to him.

he shuddered.

“about yuu?”

azul glared, floyd spared a glance to quietly laugh at the expression before returning to the device.

way too bright, he sniffed, swiping down to lower the brightness that was obnoxiously raised to the maximum setting and stopped at the myriad of notifications of missed calls.

“you buddy-buddy with oyster?” queried floyd as he found the number seven next to the red ping of a missed call.

jade tilts his head.

“or yellowfin tuna,” he read. “or flounder, or mackerel..”

floyd listed out the names as he scrolled, only pausing when he found the end to be an answered call from you four days ago. azul turns his head after handing off the newly bagged items as they made their way to the exit.

likely, he recognized those to be the species of his employees. 

“we are dorm mates.” jade answered, they weren’t friends, colleagues at most but most prominently dorm mates.

floyd held up his phone. “you got like ten million missed calls from everyone at the dorm at this point,” he snorted. “and message from tuna hours ago about the lounge being in chaos.”

“what?” azul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i left flounder in charge, he’s capable.”

“clearly not capable enough, did azul make a lapse in judgement?”

“why you–”

“floyd.”

___

the dorm was in fact.

not in chaos?

the three stood befuddled at the surprising serene peace of the lounge. azul in particular crossed his arms and wondered when his employees got off making lies about the state of his lounge. if anything the atmosphere was better simply because everyone on the shift seemed to be in a good mood right now.

oyster passed along a bottle of coral sea refresher to a table of savanaclaw students with a smile which could be the sign of the impending doom of the world because all they knew how to do was brood, and brood, and brood about their state of finance as if azul isn’t their answer to that particular problem.

“did you teleport us to the wrong place?” floyd scratched his head.

“how dare you imply i could make a mistake.” azul snapped, reigning his temper in before he could fully grant floyd the satisfaction of seeing his patience fraying.

“you exerted your magic suddenly without pausing for mistakes.” jade chided. usually a teleportation spell could have moments to spare before the final incantation to polish beforehand to ensure the body is in one piece after the travel. a spontaneous one consumed larger magic due to lack of perfection.

if the reservoirs weren’t enough the spell would simply hurt the body instead.

azul sighed. “what can i do? the lounge cannot run well, or at least i was told.” his face twists into a cold stare of annoyance, eyes skimming the room, likely looking for flounder.

to his displeasure, he does not see them. only the startling smoothness that the lounge operates in at the moment. it was a sight that should have brought him satisfaction–just another variable in his equation to separate from his worries.

instead the sourness that had lingered for days now churned in his gut. no matter how much water he drank to flush it out, it stayed and that was strange because you did not.

floyd shrugged his shoulders. “eh, looks good enough to me. since it’s operating so well, we shouldn’t disturb them.” which was the less subtle form of i don’t want to work. azul could not read jade’s expression as usual, so he was unsure if he agreed with floyd or not.

he stared longer around. looking for a crack in the pristine management to put floyd as a temporary bandage

azul slumped his shoulders. “fine.” he relented, not without a heated glare at the side of floyd’s head.

then the eel was huffing, striding to the back where the dark halls extended to the inner dormitory of octavinelle. intimidating on purpose of course, to ward off just in case any stray, wandering customer came to close.

and of course, if they still looked past that. any octavinelle hungry enough for a fool was welcome to name it their prey.

he glanced sideways. “find flounder. we have much to discuss.” jade nodded, did not pry. a more favorable trait between the two brothers if you asked azul.

azul was just about to turn to the direction of his office, sort out his plans for the following week. ensure his current plans are not falling through, ponder about the state of you or maybe he can pick himself out of his towering, fragile pride that he’d let you tip over if you came back.

maybe.

you likely would not though, once he’s chased off someone they don’t come back. he does not give them a reason to, nothing in him to stay anyway. you had nothing but had something that briefly makes his heart stammer in a way that warms him even in the frigid cold of octavinelle.

he would need several hours to shrug off afterwards, lamenting over the time his thoughts scattered and he scampered around in his mind trying to pick off fragments. azul did not waste time, didn’t make the same mistake twice but still sought you out like a symbolic voice.

he’s never heard you sing, but he wants to hear it more than your stifling silence.

frazzled, azul grasps at the edge of his hat. tilting it down to hide even the slightest of skin over his distraught expression. forget about them! he protested against his mind, now his mind won’t even listen to him lately. stop thinking about them…

“azul,”

“not now jade.” he hissed, eyes shut.

“azul,” again.

“i told you to look for flounder just a second ago.”

“i suppose you don’t want to talk about the child skimming through your contracts?”

“whatever you do is none of my–”

blue eyes snap open to jade, tracing the line of sight.

a cold chill shriveled his spine. he had not fully registered the entirety of jade’s words, the word your contracts is what he zeroed in on with lazer focus as his legs jerked to move towards the bar. where he certainly did not keep his contracts and where a child was certainly skimming through quite a few diligently.

where did they find that? his eyes twitched, eyes unrelenting on the little thing. the better question was, who let it inside of mostro lounge! do any of them know he’s not allowed to bring any in here? 

well, no one does.

still! a child? his contracts?

“excuse me,” he halted in front of their tiny frame, their legs barely even meeting the floor and hovering from the stool. if azul had to guess… they required some semblance of assistance to even reach it, begging the question who and why in the world when they are clutching onto his–! “i do believe you should not take what is not yours.”

azul could not help the frown that tugs at his face. he probably looks unfriendly, and frightening to a child now no matter how soft he forced his voice to be. he reaches out and grasps at the edge of the pristine parchment, tugging, smoothly rolling it to tuck into the inside of his coat without another word.

to make up for the sudden motion, he breaks into a smile. “you are not supposed to be here.” he states flatly, half aware of jade’s footsteps coming to a stop beside him.

the eel leans down slightly. 

curiously. the child peers up without a sense of startle, just calm observation.

“mister jade.” they murmured.

said male’s brows quirked. “i would have remembered such a… small specimen.” he says, a subtle jab to their knowledge. a nicer way of prying he typically does not spare for problems, after all, it is a kid.

his eyes drift from the child to azul. not to share a look of confusion but to compare the eerie shade of blue that reflected back at him.

in a surprising act of sincerely, the child blinked and glanced at the hand that used to hold his contracts. “I'm sorry, papa.” they murmured, bowing their head in a show of what seems to be genuine atonement. their hand reaches out and clutches onto the coat of his dorm uniform, azul is feeling more surprised to the fact he hadn't recoiled away.

papa? he's not a papa! he blanched, forcing a wobbling smile.

at their point of eye contact only does he notice the striking similarity of his eyes. it reminded him of himself when he was young, that sort of innocence before it was tainted.

gravely. he shook it off.

though they seemed to have mistaken his silence for anger. their lips purse. “don't be mad.” 

jade eyed the interaction with a glint of surprise. “you clearly shouldn't have a child in the future if you've made one so upset already.”

azul spares him a heady glare. “be quiet, jade.”

the child frowned lightly at that. “don't be mean to mister jade, papa.”

the eel in question grinned lightly. “that's right, papa. don't be so mean to the kind mister over here.”

azul is tempted to make his stare more harsh, and throw in the good old threat. it always worked for employees out of line, even if it was scarce to work on jade. so he had always pinned the punishment on floyd, who would then pester jade about being dragged about his mess.

that was how to keep jade in line.

halfway into it, he remembers the innocent child in front of him. holding onto him like he was their father. well, they certainly thought so. which was an extremely silly thought. still, azul bites his tongue before he can spew any semblance to ink on land.

once, jade had received the unfortunate end to his ink and wasn't too pleased.

safe to say he had never tried to dent his pot ever again.

azul clicked his tongue but for appearances sake, he manages another practiced smile at the kid. turning his head to hide a grimace as they tugged on his coat. “ahem… dear child, you are not supposed to be here.” he started. he wanted to back track, he did not want to sound like that crow! “how did you get here?”

“how about we inquire about this charming little one's name first?” jade cut smoothly.

the child perked up.

“i’m solon!”

azul's lips twitched–

“I haven't thought about a name yet.”

“don't tell me its another business thing? it's just to differentiate marine life!”

“hmph, I am not always so driven to success. I have time for other things, like pondering, and indulging your silly excuses for passing time like naming these creatures..”

“what would you name that little cutie there then?”

a shy little octopus in the corner? he paused. “a wise one named solon.” proudly said.

–downwards.

he wants to knock on his head this instant. how dare he betray himself again by drifting his thoughts to you? azul cleared his throat and feigned a cough. “is that so?” he croaked.

“and azul is your father, is that why you're here?” 

the former shot him a look so incredulous that it was easy to read. you’re kidding. azul’s face read, both a non-verbal message to himself and jade. do i look like a father to you?

jade was almost tempted to give azul a nod out of spite, to see if his expression twist into deeper offense but then again the two had known each other for a while enough to read more clearly than others. they did not use the term friends to describe one another, more of a lasting companionship than anything else.

as long as he continued to be amusing, jade and floyd would stick by him. be occasional thorns on his side but nonetheless still there.

azul opened his mouth to reply before he could get prodded at further.

solon already answered for him with a nod. “yes, my papa.” to which azul’s eyes bulged through the fogging lens of his glasses. jade had never seen him so discombobulated that he could not help an amused, low chuckle under his breath,

always so interesting. he thought with a simpering smile. he’ll stay by for a while it seems. shouldn’t he call floyd to share the laugh?

it was not azul that pushed up the rim of his sliding glasses up the bridge of his nose, but his seeming younger counterpart. “papa’s establishment was failing so i saved it.” they added.

that solves the why is the lounge operating so good. so that means flounder was out of azul’s red zone. for now anyway!

“excuse you?” azul stammered. “mostro lounge is many things, but it is not a failing establishment!”

solon blinked. “oh, it's a mostro lounge? i thought it was an aquarium.”

“azul was always thinking of having something other than a restaurant for business.” jade mused in reply.

azul could not believe the audacity of this child. coincidentally looking the same as him or not… sharing the same name he shared only with you or not… mostro lounge could only be his only real child, something he raised from ground up with his own blood, sweat and tears yet here was this strange child…

he glanced up, watching the lounge around. azul will not deny that if solon really took care of mostro lounge in his absence, and flounder’s apparent incompetence…

his eyes glimmered. a business opportunity! his mind swooned. “would you like to work for me?” azul grinned lightly, voice tinged with sweetness.

again, jade unhelpfully cut in. “you’ll be arrested for child labor.”

oh, right that was a thing.

azul’s smile faded immediately as he sighed. if only chances came to him like this little one on a silver platter everyday, his business would simply be booming. he would even entertain jade’s idea of variety in his line. 

it wouldn’t be too bad.

that way the names you bestowed upon those oblivious fish would be put to use.

ah! internally, he slapped himself.

on the other hand. jade was having the highlight of his day. he would say time of his life but that was only ever reserved for the time azul was scampering around to find a suitable gift for you for… well, no reason that he can remember at all.

after all, he had not been given the pleasure of seeing a pink octopus until then.

in hindsight. he noticed azul was quite down under the works, and even that description was too far off to describe the spiral of a mood that azul seemed to be going through. funny for a while but now quite boring. thankfully, this random child that spoke of odd things made azul interesting once more.

that interest transferred over to them in an instant as he surveyed their form. he had never met this one so he was not so sure how they knew of him, or even spoke so politely with respect for that matter. jade is used to seeing being held in high regard out of fear, not such positive emotion.

a grin breaks his lips apart as he spots the dangling shell initially hidden by their little sweater.

once upon a time he spied on azul giving you the exact same thing…

seems like my theory is correct. 

wouldn’t it be hilarious to slap azul with that kind of truth?

“azuuuuul!”

the said male immediately groaned.

solon eyes brightened, letting go of azul’s coat instinctively as the latter quickly straightened his uniform. azul sighed deeply, bracing his remaining brain cells to stick together as he turned. “floyd, how many times do i have to tell you that yelling is unbecoming in the–”

he shuts his mouth at the sight of a blank faced you.

floyd, proudly it seemed, shook his arms in your direction as if you were a surprise. a surprise yes, but certainly not a pleasant one–! “tada!” cackled floyd, sliding an arm around your shoulders and tilting to the side. you wordlessly followed. “i got a tilting shrimpy with me!”

“kidnapped.” you corrected. not too pleased with the sight of azul either which only seemed to fuel floyd’s amusement. 

oh. is that what it was? floyd was bored and in dire need of a drama to watch?

at first. you did not notice the little kid. neither did floyd considering he only ever paid attention to his area of ‘people’ which happened to be very few right now. so solon slipped from his radar, only paid attention to when he barrelled to your side.

startled. you hold a hand to their head in case they toppled over from the speed and force they ran over to you with.

floyd shamelessly pointed. “an fry shrimplet sticking to the shrimpy!”

all three of you send him incredulous glances.

“mada!” solon exclaimed with bright eyes, briefly glancing at floyd. “and mister floyd!”

the male in question tilts his head, looks at you, looks at solon, looks at azul then back at solon. “the fry talks!” he blinked.

“of course i talk. you’re always weird, mister floyd.” solon replied, not an ounce of intimidation on their chubby little face at floyd hovering until he leaned down to curiously peer at them. he pokes their chubby cheeks with a grin.

“you’re weird.” floyd retorted like it was obvious, another poke to their cheek has his teeth widening. “and round, hey, hey… you kinda look like az–”

“floyd!” azul snapped with rapidly warming cheeks.

when the male frantically waved floyd over–several times until the latter relented and swaggered forwards, you take the chance to adjust your grip on the child. feeling a sort of responsibility to treat youth with care came naturally as you settled one of your hands on the back of their head, letting them nuzzle all they liked on your stomach.

the other smoothed down the curve of their solider. you felt movement against your front, no doubt a delighted quirk of their lips. it brought a light smile of your own despite your initial wariness to be in the same presence as the intruder of your thoughts.

thoughts that came in either harsh hurricanes, memories less than pleasant swirling around in your head like a storm you can only brace yourself from or a gentle breeze, lighter memories that you couldn’t hold onto as they passed.

nor did you want to remember it again.

“hello there,” you greeted politely at the child who tightened their arms in response. when they looked up their lids were blown open, staring upwards at you with what you presume to be marvel. being the object of such a sentiment has you warming, absentmindedly patting their head. “i’m yuu.”

you also miss the look of offense flashing through azul’s face before he schools it into stubborn neutrality.

“i know!” bubbled the increasingly excited child who promptly bit the inside of their cheek lest they overflow. control what you show. solon thought to themselves but that was so incredibly hard when they could only focus on what they feel!

and what they felt was incredible admiration. even if you were unmistakably younger, more expressive due to the passage of time not caressing your soul long enough for you to be a cultivated version of yourself… this was still the same person that made your house a home alongside their father, who took a more prominent role in managing the smooth flow of the home.

you smiled wider, pinching their cheek. you could melt into a puddle with how the adorable fat stretches as you tugged lightly. would it be possible to shake this little one into oblivion out of cuteness? “i’m solon.” newly introduced solon adds, clearing their throat. “but mada, and papa calls me sol.”

mada? your smile doesn’t falter but you do blink slowly. papa?

you sniffed, glancing up the trio who appeared to be watching you with deep fascination. jade, more so, floyd, less so. azul… was staring pointedly at solon. 

“is there a teen father at night raven or did you kidnap some child?” you snorted, tone laced with skepticism. 

jade in particular side eyed azul and you followed his sight and could not help your train of thought as you peered back at solon, noting their similar features. huh.

“not at all.” the eel replied smoothly. “azul was just about to recruit a new hire though.”

you blanched. “that’s illegal!” or at least in your world it was… hopefully in this world it is? azul in question immediately straightened up at the feel of your disappointment rolling in waves and he could not help but sputter in defense of his already shattered reputation by you.

“i knew that!” he cried. too aggressive in the manner he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose to actually know that. “why wouldn’t i?”

“probably only seeing madol rather than the law.”

floyd snickers from his side–having grown bored of remaining idle, and instead striding towards you. he grasps at solon’s arm, about to pull them up and you frantically correct his manner of holding a child before letting him lift them up.

he holds him up under his arms and tilting his head. “you’re even smaller than shrimpy.” 

floyd ignores you boldly smacking his side when he feigns dropping solon, who surprisingly does not even yelp in surprise. only blinking when they were temporarily suspended in air, and caught again. this time closer to your side as you tugged on floyd’s arm with a simmering glare.

“that’s a child, floyd!”

“eh? i just see a sticky fry.”

“you need to handle solon with more care. they’re not like me who you can throw around for a bit, i won’t stand for it.”

“shrimpy survived all the rough stuff and now, look. you’re tougher than all those other kids.”

the heat of your stare heightened until floyd pouted and deposited solon to your side. you shuffled several steps backwards. “that’s not how it works.” you pinched the bridge of your nose, refusing to open your eyes when floyd barked out an sure it is! 

you also ignore floyd now attempting to rile you up once more–looking for entertainment, which is apparently you brawling with him.

“how did you even end up here?” you sighed defeatedly. at least you weren’t roped into reconciling with azul, which was what you initially thought when floyd popped out from the octavinelle’s mirror in the chamber. he had spotted you chatting with your heartslabyul companions and when they departed back to the space of their dorms he pounced on you.

no polite requests of letting you go loosened his grip as he hauled you to the lounge.

now you were, not talking to azul but instead holding a smaller version of him it seemed. well, good thing this one was cuter than that idiot.

you were spiralling back to azul and your face must have darkened because solon had paused to eye your microexpressions carefully. the squinting of your eyes, the displeased curl of your lips that only pulled down further the more you unconsciously glanced at azul…

he muttered something under his breath.

again, you sighed. “sorry–what was that?”

strangely enough, floyd stopped speaking.

… so did jade who joined floyd to pester solon with endless questions. do you only stick to shrimps? what do you do for your past time? why are you an algae? would you inform authorities if we took you under our wing? 

you didn’t even want to question the last part.

when you look up floyd’s mouth was open in an intermittent yawn–one of his eyes was shut and there was moisture gathered on the corners. he was still staring quite interestedly at solon while jade seemed to just… stand still as a statue.

neither of them blinked.

feeling just like the day you found out magic was apparently real and people here could just levitate a remote back to them across a room, you snapped your gaze around. even the customers remained unmoving. you spotted a group of savanaclaw, one pointedly having hurled a glass towards a half dead server of octavinelle who had their back turned.

you contemplate walking over to save that guy from a possible injury before identifying said student to be one of your previous perpetrators–getting your stuff (especially when it was from professor crewel. back then you went to classes without much simply because you were too shameful to ask once more for a replacement) dumped in the fountain was indeed no fun.

goodluck with that. you mused in your head. call it your petty way of payback.

you glanced around for moments longer, lingering on kalim’s midst at some table. 

“what in the world…”

apparently azul could move, like you. you’re not sure why and even dreading your predicament. in what world would time freeze and the only one unaffected is you, oh, yeah. your enemy that you self proclaimed in your head? twisted wonderland apparently…

besides your increasingly disgruntled face that you no longer try to mask in the presence of others considering azul is only ever the one you’d show such blatant dislike to now, he looks positively floored. while the turn of his head is slow as he stared around, his eyes are wide through his rims.

the arms encircled around your waist slid off, bringing your attention to solon who frowns lightly. their previous look of sparkling warmth was still present in their eyes, simply dwindled to highlight their look of seriousness. they crossed their arms.

“you’re my before mada,” solon pointed at you, then to azul. “you’re my before papa so now you have to go back to being lovey so i can go back to my mada and papa.”

both of your jaws drop. 

“what?!”

“wait a second–this is going too fast.” you blurted, feeling a bit flustered. who would drop a big bomb like that so suddenly? this kid was saying you and azul have a kid in the far time ahead!

didn’t that mean you chose to stay here? or perhaps you never really did find a way back… 

implications aside, it was certainly… an experience to hear it being said so outright. azul seems to think the same due to him gasping out an: “y-you mean…” he gaped, eyes darting to you and solon with reddening ears. “they’re my… we… have a…?”

gosh he was going to faint.

it was at least a pleasure to witness the eloquent azul struggling to conjure a coherent sentence. the more he glanced at you the more prominent his change of color was. it didn’t help that his attire helped it contrast from his complexion.

solon giggled, momentarily dropping their face of seriousness. “you said i’m the product of your love.” 

azul squawked. “i said that?!” but, that was just so… embarrassing to say! why would his future self say that?!

you frowned. “is this a joke?” you asked seriously only deadpanning when solon nods.

“please make up,” they said sincerely. sensing both of your skeptism, they reached under the collar of their shirt pulling out a shell necklace that eerily seemed similar to– 

your hand instinctively flew over your collarbone. panic giving way to unwanted relief. azul watched the motion.

he thought you threw it away since he did not see it.

“i want to go home.”

you simpered bitterly. you did too.

“mada please forgive my weird papa.” solon beamed, ignoring azul’s look of offense.

“if you do you’ll go home too.” 

your throat twisted.

“you said me and papa is your home.”

before solon can spot the look of frozen shock from your face, they whirled around, smacking azul on the leg. the latter winces but didn’t look as reluctant as before. he’s even staring at you in the eye with something unreadable and heavy in his. 

azul seemed to be weighing his pride the size of a mountain and the depth of his feelings for you that could probably only be measured by the neverending sea. it wasn’t infinite like some cheesy someone would proclaim, but it was calm at some parts, rough at the other but certainly deep.

something he can’t pinpoint a how but he knows.

he sighed deeply. “i apologize.” he said finally, voice low like he only wanted it to flow between the space of the three of you despite the time frozen. azul felt like that was how he spoke to his business transaction partners so he rephrased himself, there was a lot of them and only one of you. “i’m sorry.”

you squinted.

“my mind was clouded before.” he pursed his lips. “i… don’t want you to be special. that only meant you would be something others would be reaching for, i don’t want that. i’m selfish. you’re so special in a way that i can never take ahold of and keep to myself. i dislike it.”

“you’re terrible at communicating.” you pointed out gruffly. albeit less hostile than before, more inclined to hear him out. was being terrible with emotions an admission requirement here? is the concept of affection illegal?

azul chuckled at that. he did not smile–tried to but it fell. “with you it seems so.” 

“yeah.”

“i don’t know how to atone.” he admitted and you only furrowed your brows.

“being mean to me isn’t a sin but it sure was unfair.”

you only heard a quiet agreement from him and pointed accusingly. “you’re going to listen to my demands until i say so, okay?”

iffed but carrying a plank to bridge the distance between two mountains, azul nods. “we should discuss it over a contract. i won’t change any terms.”

which was his sad version of an apology. you’ve come to learn that individuals here deviated from the normal and morally right way of doing things. the most you could do was to recognize that this was this world’s version of grovelling on the knees.

you only focused your attention on the brightening solon–literally bright like he was about to get sent to heaven or something. he was only smiling lighty, no teeth. something you’d see on azul’s face but solon did well in expressing something so little sincerely. his expression was brighter than the light he was encased in.

“you’re going home?” you sniffed, aware of azul quietly shuffling to the side where you were in your peripheral vision as if his small steps weren’t noticeable. you didn’t comment on it.

solon nodded enthusiastically. “mhm. thank you.”

they did not bother with a goodbye, it wasn’t a goodbye. they’d see you soon.

“bye, sol.” 

you elbowed azul who had somehow managed to awkwardly stand by your left in the span of a few seconds.

he coughed, side eyeing you. “farewell, sol. keep that necklace safe. it is very precious.”

the child laughed. “don’t worry. papa has all the stuff he gave to mada in a box under your bed.”

azul’s eye twitched. “off you go.” it was more of to finally drag you off somewhere himself and a little bit of not letting any of his future secrets be jeopardized.

when the last proof of solon’s existence fades before your eyes, the world starts again.

“-our wing–?” jade finished, frowning when the spot where solon used to be, in front of you, was replaced by nothing. 

he blinked. directing his gaze to azul, noticeably lighter who seemed to be quietly exchanging words with you.

“the heck?” guffawed floyd, rearing his head to squint at the two of you. “when did they make up!”

“go back to work.” azul snapped, grasping at your wrist and dragging you off to the direction of the back.

“are you two getting started on solon already?”

“jade!”

trivia

if you guessed, the time stop was solon’s unique magic: “a chilling stop” very boring name, i know. i kind of just spew the children’s UM names off the top of my head! like you have observed it is simply pausing time within a decimated space for a period of time. in this case, solon only paused time inside the lounge. everything outside remained in motion. the larger the range, the harder it is to keep up.

solon is written to be a ten year old cutie pie male! the necklace he was wearing is what past azul gave to past yuu, and future yuu will eventually give it to solon (yes, azul actually does have a box of trinkets he collected. some things from you, the other reminds him of you. it accumulated over the years and he couldn’t stop)

like the other kids who had specified conditions to return, in solon’s time, future yuu and future azul was in a fight, and he coincidentally (or intentionally?) got warped to a time where past yuu and past azul was also in a fight. their conditions to return home was to reconcile their before parents.

when they came back future parents also made up <3 (idk i am just yapping at this point)

yeah. azul was out here trying to recruit a kid just because they ended up doing pretty well with managing the lounge lol.

i accidentally deviated from my outline lol! originally azul was supposed to start interrogating the employees currently on shift as to why they’re letting a kid run the lounge. it was chaos before and solon made it run smoothly so they kind of just accepted it. better than azul coming back to chaos, right?

floyd’s nickname for solon “fry shrimplet” deviates from the babies of shrimps. 

as you can see i didn’t see that particular line and i was writing the ending when i saw it!

the names of the employees are not their actual names lol but rather their species, just like what i did for leona’s part with the side characters. 

🔖: @lostsomewhereinthegarden @staplertwst @rinis-reality @rhyzoma @iamprodigious @irzali-imagines @glitterandgoldfinds @luna-looniesblog @wokasiv @readrecieptoff @miyaswmire @dakissomewhere @yourfavouritecitizen @rei-vii @colombia-chan @ceramic-raven @leitor-sonolento @night-shadowblood-writes2 @ms-shroud @bju3c0re @usernamesarehardtomake @wonderlandcrown @los3rtown | @squishychongyun @brights-place @mochiclouds @sol3chu @runu-chan @random-fandoms7 @minkyungseokie

[liseronfle]

Profil picture used : vqnrouged on pinterest.

+18 reading account. This post is for any writers trying to verify my age and ensure rules compliance : i am over 20 years old. Please don’t hesitate to reach me if you have any questions.

Characters i appreciate : eren yeager. ciel phantomhive. byleth. ken kaneki. hanako.

Universes i appreciate : fe3h, kuroshitsuji, ff, twst…