strawberry-bubblef

[strawberry-bubblef]

✦ "Made with You in Mind"

Synopsis: They say the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach but for you it’s more than that. Cooking is how you care. Whether it’s a warm lunchbox tucked into their hands before a long day or pastries made to match their favorite flavor, you show your love through every detail,texture, seasoning, presentation, and intent.

Characters: Vil Schoenheit, Leona Kingscholar,Idia Shroud, Riddle Rosehearts,Lilia Vanrouge,Silver

VIL SCHOENHEIT

The late morning sun filters softly through the tall windows of the art studio wing, casting long, gentle shadows on the polished floor. Vil stands near the window, brushing invisible dust from his impeccably tailored jacket, eyes scanning a sketchbook filled with delicate designs for his next performance costume.

You approach quietly, clutching the lunchbox you packed for him earlier that morning, along with a small paper bag containing a freshly baked pastry. The scent of lavender and butter trails behind you, a quiet announcement of your presence.

Vil turns, his sharp purpule eyes locking onto you instantly. There’s a flicker of surprise before the usual cool composure settles over his face.

“For me?” he asks, voice smooth but tinged with something softer, almost curious.

You nod, handing over the lunchbox wrapped in a pale blue cloth embroidered with tiny blossoms,a small detail you added just for him. “I made it myself. Thought you might like something fresh for lunch.”

Vil lifts the cloth, revealing the compartmentalized box filled with delicate finger sandwiches,smoked salmon on rye, cucumber with cream cheese, and an edible flower tucked into the corner. There’s a small container of dressing, a perfectly boiled quail egg sliced in half, and a fresh fruit salad with perfectly sliced berries.

He inhales deeply, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Your attention to detail is unparalleled,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours with genuine appreciation.

Then, he reaches for the paper bag and carefully pulls out a lavender-infused croissant you baked early this morning. The pastry is golden, flaky, and dusted lightly with powdered sugar. Vil holds it delicately between his fingers, as if it’s a rare treasure.

“You really do put your soul into this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost to himself. “It’s more than food. It’s art.”

You shrug shyly “I just wanted to make something that makes your day a little better.”

Vil’s gaze lingers on you, warm and unexpectedly tender. “You have a rare gift,making even the smallest moments feel luxurious. I find myself looking forward to these lunches more than I expected.”

---

Vil’s pride is usually reserved for his appearance and talents, but your cooking touches a different part of him,the part that craves genuine care and comfort behind the perfection. He keeps your lunchbox close, sometimes sneaking small bites between rehearsals, always savoring the way you think about every flavor and presentation.

He doesn’t say it outright, but those pastries become a secret ritual, a daily reminder that someone sees him beyond the flawless facade. Occasionally, when you meet after school, he’ll offer small compliments not just on the food, but on the way you quietly brighten his world without demanding anything in return.

Though Vil rarely shows vulnerability, with you, he lets down his guard just enough. Sometimes, he asks about your favorite recipes or requests something new, always with the polite but genuine enthusiasm he’s mastered.

---

Back in the present moment, Vil takes a delicate bite of the croissant, eyes closing briefly as he lets the buttery, fragrant layers melt on his tongue.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he admits quietly. “If this is your way of speaking affection, consider me fluent.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the weight of the day feels lighter.

Vil straightens, slipping the lunchbox under his arm. “I suppose I must return the favor someday. Perhaps a private showing, accompanied by a dish of your choosing?”

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “It’s a date.”

With a final glance, Vil offers a small, rare smile before turning to leave,his steps confident but somehow softer, as if carrying a bit of your kindness with him.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

The botanical garden is alive with vibrant greenery and blooming flowers, the air thick with the scent of earth and petals. Shafts of sunlight filter through the high canopy, casting dappled patterns on the soft moss and fallen leaves that carpet the ground.

Leona is sprawled casually beneath a large tree, his back resting against its gnarled trunk. His striking green eyes half-close as he watches the leaves sway gently overhead, lost in the garden’s peaceful hum.

You approach quietly, careful not to disturb the tranquility, carrying a well-worn lunchbox and a small container tied with a leather string. The warm scent of cinnamon and toasted nuts drifts ahead of you on the breeze.

Leona’s ears twitch, and he opens his eyes to meet your gaze. “You’re late,” he say sitting up just enough to brush some stray leaves off his shoulder.

“Got caught up making something special,” you say with a soft smile, sitting down beside him on the cool grass. You set the lunchbox carefully between you.

He lifts the lid, revealing a hearty meal,warm meat and thick slices of herb-infused bread, and a handful of roasted nuts and dried fruit for quick energy.

Leona’s green eyes soften as you reach for the second container, pulling out freshly baked pecan cinnamon rolls, their golden swirls sticky with glaze and still warm to the touch.

Without hesitation, he takes one, sinking his teeth into the gooey pastry. His eyes close briefly as the rich flavors wash over him. “Hmph. Not bad.”

You laugh, heart warmed by the rare compliment. “That means a lot coming from you.”

---

Leona isn’t one to openly enjoy soft moments or ask for comfort, but the botanical garden is a secret haven where he lets his guard down. Your lunches and pastries become a ritual of trust and quiet companionship, a break from the wild chaos inside and outside him.

He often comes here alone, but now, with you sitting nearby, the peace feels deeper.

---

“Don’t get soft on me,” Leona warns, licking the glaze from his fingers. “But… this is better than I expected.”

You shrug, smiling gently. “Glad you like it.”

His green eyes flick to yours, sharper but somehow warmer. “You always make things I didn’t know I wanted.”

“Just trust me a little,” you say, nudging him playfully.

Leona lets out a low chuckle and leans back against the tree trunk, close enough that your shoulders brush. The garden’s gentle sounds,the rustling leaves, distant birdsong, and the soft buzzing of insects,wrap around you like a quiet embrace.

In the heart of the botanical garden, surrounded by life and stillness, you realize these moments,the lunches, the pastries, the shared silence are more than food. They are threads weaving a bond between two souls who find peace in each other’s company.

IDIA SHROUD

The Ignihyde dorm is as dim and quiet as ever, save for the gentle hum of servers

You knock lightly on Idia door, balancing a lunchbox wrapped in a fabric printed with chibi gaming mascots. In your other hand is a small container of sweets, warm and still smelling of vanilla and sugar. The knock echoes once, twice,then silence.

You wait. A long pause. Then, finally, the door creaks open by just a few inches.

A single glowing yellow eye peeks out from behind the gap, wreathed in soft blue hair.

“Y-you came. Like… IRL,” Idia mutters, blinking like a startled cat. “Wow. Achievement unlocked: Surprise Social Encounter.”

You hold out the lunchbox with a shy smile. “I brought food. You’ve probably forgotten to eat again.”

The door opens a bit wider, just enough to reveal his face flushed red, eyes flicking between you and the food like you're some kind of rare event drop. “Wait, wait, hold up. You—cooked this? For me? Why? Was this… a dare? Or like… some kind of social experiment?”

“Just because I care,” you say simply. “And because you never come to the cafeteria, and I thought you’d like something warm that wasn’t instant ramen or sad toast.”

He stares, visibly short-circuiting, then accepts the box with both hands like it’s a sacred relic.

You’ve packed simple rice balls, bite-sized teriyaki chicken skewers, rolled omelets with tiny heart toothpicks, and neatly sliced strawberries. It’s not fancy, but it’s colorful, charming, and obviously made with care.

The sweets are extra soft matcha cookies stuffed with gooey white chocolate, paired with a fluffy butter cake shaped like a controller

Idia turns and scuttles back inside like a crab, leaving the door open enough for you to follow. His room glows gently with blue light from dozens of monitors and floating holograms. He clears a space on a cluttered desk, pushing aside model kits and half-finished consoles.

“Y-you didn’t have to go all-out like this,” he mumbles, already nibbling one of the rice balls. He makes a strangled noise of delight and immediately grabs another. “Ohmygod. This is… this is better than food mods. It’s… so good it’s breaking my speech syntax.”

You laugh, watching his shoulders relax. “I figured if I couldn’t get you to leave the dorm, I’d bring something that makes you feel better in here.”

---

Idia has never been good with people, let alone gestures of care. He’s used to being avoided, feared, or misunderstood so when you show up, not only remembering his tastes but offering him homemade food, it completely disarms him.

He replays the moment over and over in his head later like a favorite cutscene, memorizing the way you smiled, the way the food smelled, the warmth in your voice. Even when he’s gaming, he pauses to look at the empty lunchbox with an almost wistful stare.

---

Back in the present, you hand him the container of sweets. Idia opens it reverently and takes a bite of the warm, gooey cookie. He freezes, mouth full, and stares at you like you just hacked into his heart’s mainframe.

“This is… like… the kind of event item that heals all your HP and buffs you for the final boss,” he whispers.

You sit beside him on the floor, surrounded by glowing cables and soft fans, watching his expression shift between disbelief and quiet happiness.

He glances your way shyly, tugging his hoodie lower. “If—if you brought me food like this every day, I’d actually… I dunno. Go outside. Once.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “You’d brave sunlight for me?”

He hesitates… then grins sheepishly. “Okay no, but I’d open the curtains.”

You laugh, and for a moment, the room feels a little warmer. A little brighter.

You didn’t expect pastries and lunchboxes to mean so much to someone like Idia but maybe that’s what makes it special. The quiet comfort, the thoughtfulness… in a world that often overwhelms him, your care cuts through the static.

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

The Heartslabyul rose garden is quiet in the early afternoon, bathed in sunlight and the soft rustle of trimmed hedges swaying in the breeze. The red and white blooms sway gently, perfectly maintained, httpevery petal, every leaf, arranged under strict rules.

Riddle sits at one of the garden’s round tea tables, a stack of books beside his teacup and a faint crease between his brows. You know that look well: he’s been studying for hours again, ignoring lunch in favor of perfection.

You step onto the stone path with practiced steps, a lunchbox tucked carefully under your arm and a smaller box of pastries nestled in your bag.

Riddle doesn’t look up at first. “If this is about the new garden rule on hedge trimming—”

“It’s not,” you interrupt with a small smile. “It’s about you not eating again.”

That gets his attention. Riddle blinks, glancing up. “I… I was going to, eventually.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Well,” he mutters, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “Maybe I forgot. Just a little.”

You sit down across from him, placing the lunchbox on the table with care. It’s wrapped in red cloth with embroidered roses and tied in a neat bow,something you chose on purpose.

When he unwraps it, his expression shifts. Inside: a dainty, balanced meal that aligns with all the dorm’s nutritional guidelines and Riddle’s sense of order. Neatly sliced sandwiches with fresh cucumbers and herbs, a small spinach quiche in a heart-shaped tin, and a side of cherry tomatoes cut into roses. Everything in perfect proportions, color-matched, and beautifully arranged.

“…You really took time to do all this,” he says, voice quieter than before.

You slide the second box toward him. “And for dessert,strawberry tart. Your favorite.”

His eyes widen, and the color in his face deepens. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

---

Riddle grew up in a household where food was strictly regulated,

and certainly never made with affection. So when you bring him these lunchboxes so thoughtfully arranged, customized for his preferences, and without being asked it completely disarms him.

He’ll act like it’s expected at first (“It’s only proper to eat at regular intervals”), but he’s lying to himself. The truth is, it makes his chest feel warm and tight. He polishes off every bite with careful manners, but also with quiet enthusiasm he’s trying very hard to hide.

Later, he’ll blush furiously if anyone mentions it.

---

Back in the garden, hold carefully the slid of tarte and takes a bite… and closes his eyes.

“This is…” he exhales, letting the flaky sweetness melt on his tongue. “Perfect.”

You watch him for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you. It’s not awkward,it’s full, like the air is heavy with something unsaid.

He sets the slice of tart down, then meets your gaze. “Thank you. I know I can be… strict. Overbearing, even. But you—” He hesitates, then clears his throat. “You’re very considerate. I notice it. Even when I don’t say anything.”

You smile, and he looks down quickly, flustered.

“And if you insist on feeding me like this,” he adds, his tone going firm as if issuing a rule, “then I insist on you joining me. From now on.”

You laugh softly. “So that’s a rule now?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a faint smile. “One I won’t enforce with collars or shouting but I will be… disappointed if you miss a lunch.”

You reach into your bag again and pull out a final surprise: a small cake in the form of a crown.

Riddle looks at it like you’ve handed him the crown of the Queen of Hearts herself.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs. “And wonderful.”

He takes a bite. You swear you see his shoulders relax for the first time all day.

LILIA VANROUGE

You find him in the old courtyard behind Ramshackle, nestled between ivy-covered walls and wild roses that long escaped their garden beds. This forgotten corner of the school is half-claimed by nature, the ground soft with moss and dandelions pushing up through the cracks.

Lilia sits cross-legged atop a half-buried marble bench, humming softly to himself, surrounded by fluttering moths and the faint scent of damp stone and blooming honeysuckle. His hair is lit gently by the slanting sun, and his eyes are closed like he’s listening to a memory.

You don’t say anything at first. Just step closer, lunchbox in hand, your steps muffled by the moss underfoot.

He opens one eye and grins without looking. “I could hear your heartbeat from the other side of the ruins, you know.”

“Then you definitely heard your stomach growling too,” you quip, sitting beside him on the warm, weathered marble.

“Touché,” he chuckles, already peeking into the lunchbox as you hand it over.

Inside: sweet rice balls shaped like tiny sakura petals, grilled eggplant brushed with miso, marinated lotus root, and a delicate tamagoyaki cut into perfect spirals. The box is old-fashioned in design, with painted cranes on the lacquered lid,a little vintage. You picked it just for him.

“You spoil me,” Lilia hums as he lifts a rice ball and inspects it like fine jewelry. “You even shaped them like flowers. I should retire as a general and become your loyal taste-tester.”

“I thought you already had retired—”

He laughs, eyes shining. “Only from the battlefield. Not from mischief.”

---

Your lunches, your handmade pastries, the way you walk across the cracked courtyard just to hand him something warm… it roots him.

He tells you stories when you eat together. Not always the full truth, but always a version that sounds like a lullaby or an old tale by the fire. He tries not to show it, but your quiet care touches something deep,something from the days when his armor was heavier, and his heart was lonelier.

He keeps the notes you sometimes leave in the lunchbox. Pretends to laugh at them. But folds them up neatly and keeps them tucked between the pages of old spellbooks.

---

After the last bite of lotus root, you pass him the dessert box: hand-rolled matcha mochi, filled with sweet red bean and garnished with dried sakura petals. Each one rests in a tiny paper cup.

He whistles. “You’ve outdone yourself again, dear. Even I couldn’t dream up something so elegant.”

You laugh. “Which is why you’re not allowed in the kitchen anymore.”

“Oh, come now,” he teases, taking a bite of tamagoyaki. “One tiny incident with the soy sauce bottle and suddenly I’m exiled.”

You lean against the cool edge of the bench, watching as he eats slowly, as if to stretch the moment out just a little longer.

“I hope,” he says suddenly, “that you’ll keep feeding me even when I’m old and grayer than I am now.”

“Lilia, you haven’t aged in hundreds of years.”

He hums thoughtfully. “All the more reason to stay alive a little longer… if only for dessert.”

You laugh, and for once, he doesn't make a joke or wink. He just smiles, quiet and peaceful.

A breeze stirs the ivy. Somewhere nearby, the crows call to each other like distant bells. You sit together as the shadows stretch over the cracked stones, and Lilia hums again something old and wordless, meant only for you.

SILVER

It was a warm, quiet afternoon.The willow tree by the pond bowed its branches low, filtering the sunlight into pale green ribbons. Beneath it, leaning against the thick trunk with his arms crossed and his breathing slow, was Silver. Asleep. Again.

You’d stopped being surprised by it long ago.

You approached slowly, lunchbox in hand, careful not to snap a twig or rustle the tall grass. A pair of butterflies fluttered around your ankles as you knelt beside him. His expression was peaceful, eyelashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, silver hair swaying slightly in the breeze. He looked like something from a fairytale, caught between two worlds. Luckily for you he seem to be already half awake as he stirred and slowly sit up. “Mmm... you smell like sugar,” he mumbled.

You blinked, then laughed quietly. “Well, I did bring dessert.”

That got a reaction. His eyes fluttered open,slow, hazy, but warm and a faint smile touched his lips. “You really came... I was dreaming about you.”

You looked away, flustered. “Did I at least bring pastries in the dream?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “But you were flying. And there were swans.”

You offered the bento box instead of a reply, and he took it gently, like it was something precious. The cloth wrap was light blue, embroidered with sleeping foxes. Inside: soft tamago sandwiches cut into neat triangles, a side of sautéed spinach with sesame seeds, delicate potato croquettes shaped like tiny bears, and slices of juicy orange arranged like sunrays.

He sat up straight and blinked at the contents, then at you. “You really went all out again…”

“You work hard,” you replied simply. “Even if you don’t stay awake for half of it.”

---

Silver is deeply touched by acts of quiet care. You don’t need grand gestures to move him,just showing up, remembering his favorite snack,

or keeping him company while he naps is enough. Your homemade lunches make him feel like someone’s waiting for him, watching over him for once.

He rarely asks for anything, but when you surprise him with a warm lunchbox or a freshly baked pastry, his ears go pink and he always thanks you in that soft, slow way. He’ll usually ask for your company while he eats, even if you say nothing at all.

On especially hard days, when training has worn him down or dreams have left him shaken, your food is the only thing that brings color back to his face. He never says it directly, but in his heart, he thinks of you as home.

---

After finishing the croquettes, he picks up the small dessert box, a pair of lemon butter cookies in the shape of stars, with a soft vanilla glaze and just a touch of edible glitter.

He holds one up toward the sunlight and tilts his head. “It sparkles,” he murmurs. “Like the dream...”

“Eat it before it melts,” you tease.

He does, carefully. Then sets the box aside, leans back against the tree again, and closes his eyes not to sleep but just to breathe beside you.

The pond glistens nearby, dragonflies skimming the surface. A single feather floats in the water. The willow branches sway in time with your thoughts.

“Thank you,” he says after a long silence. “Not just for the food. For... being here.”

And under the shade of the willow, between dream and waking, time stretches just a little longer than usual.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

hiii I was wondering if I could request headcanons for pomefiore with an orphaned fem reader, but since she was little she was like an older sister/mother to the little ones in her orphanage ^^ that would be all tenkiuuu and have a good day <3

✦ Grace in Gentle Hands

Orphaned Fem!Reader

VIL SCHOENHEIT

It wasn’t a really secret you kept, not exactly. You just didn’t go out of your way to explain where you came from,most people didn’t ask and you never thought there was much to say.

You’d mentioned it once in passing to Vil. Something small. Something like, “Back at the orphanage, the little ones used to sneak sugar cubes out of the kitchen just like that.”

He paused. Just a beat. Barely a flicker of his eyes as he turned toward you. But you were already moving on, collecting the cups from the table after a dorm event, humming quietly under your breath.

Vil didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

Because over time, he noticed. How you always took the initiative when no one else did. How you carried an invisible checklist in your head,who needed what, who hadn’t eaten yet, who was one bad day away from falling apart. You never acted like it was a burden. Just something you did, like breathing.

It was in the way you kept the dorm running when others didn’t notice what was breaking. You always knew. You always stepped in. Quietly. Intuitively.

One afternoon, in the soft golden light of the Pomefiore lounge, Vil finally asked.

"You said you were the oldest back at your orphanage. What was that like?" His voice was calm, but the question was not casual.

You paused, arms folded, gaze lingering on the window. “Busy, mostly. Loud. There were too many of us for the staff to keep track of. The little ones clung to the older kids. And I guess... I just knew someone had to step up.”

“Was that someone you?” Vil asked, even though he already knew.

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. I got good at braiding hair, stitching buttons, patching knees. Breaking up fights before they got too loud. Making up stories at bedtime. They used to call me ‘Big Sis’ even when I wasn’t the oldest anymore.”

It wasn’t a boast. It wasn’t even nostalgia. Just a quiet kind of truth. You’d grown up fast because there was no other option. You didn’t know what it meant to be a child who was taken care of. So you became the one who took care of others.

Vil was quiet after that. But not distant. If anything, something in his expression had shifted,like he’d added a new piece to the puzzle of you.

He didn’t pity you. That wasn’t his style. What he did instead was more subtle, more practical.

He stopped letting other dorm members pass their responsibilities onto you under the guise of “she’s used to it.” He began asking you if you wanted help, not just assuming you’d manage alone.

And perhaps more notably, he didn’t compliment you for being “so mature” or “so selfless.” He never praised your sacrifices like they were pretty ornaments.

Instead, he treated you like someone who had carried too much for too long and didn’t need more weight,just a place to set it down.

One evening,e you were helping organize the wardrobe racks, as usual,Vil adjusted the collar of your outfit with practiced hands. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the rustle of fabric. Then, without preamble, he spoke.

"You deserve to be taken care of, you know."

You blinked, startled. "Huh?"

"You’re always looking out for everyone else," he said simply, gently brushing a loose thread from your shoulder.

You tried to laugh it off, but he held your gaze.

“You’ve done more than your share. Let someone look after you, too.”

You looked down, unsure what to say. But his hand found yours, squeezing lightly, and for once, you allowed yourself to lean into the quiet comfort of someone who saw you,not the caretaker, not the stand-in mother, but you.

And maybe, for once, it felt okay not to be the strong one.

ROOK HUNT

Rook had known many kinds of performers in the grand theater of the world. Loud, brash ones who made declarations with their voices, and quiet ones who spoke volumes in the spaces between words.

You were one of the latter.

From the moment he met you, he was intrigued. Not because you sought attention but because you never did. You flowed through life with a quiet competence,patching uniforms, comforting younger students after a bad potion class, stepping into arguments like a gentle current calming waves.

Rook, naturally, began to observe.

And one day, just as casually as a sigh in the wind, you mentioned it.

“Back at the orphanage, I used to do this all the time. The little ones would cry after nightmares. I got good at singing them back to sleep.”

He stilled. Just for a second. A pause as soft as a feather falling. Then his eyes softened not with pity but with something deeper. Recognition.

“Ah... la grande sœur. I see,” he murmured.

You didn’t explain more. You didn’t need to. Rook didn’t ask for stories you didn’t offer.

Instead, he watched more carefully.

He saw how your hands moved like you’d spent years brushing crumbs off faces and tying laces. How you automatically guided younger students away from dangerous spells. How you noticed when someone hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, hadn’t smiled.

You had the instincts of someone who’d grown up knowing what it meant to be the only adult in the room before your age reached double digits.

To Rook, it was not just admirable. It was beautiful in a tragic, powerful way.

And so, he decided to honor it not with a grand gesture, but with something only you would truly understand.

During a quiet weekend, he invited you on what he called a “charmant petit voyage.” You rolled your eyes at his flair, but you went anyway. He led you past the edge of campus, through the hills behind the school, to a small grove of trees in bloom.

Blankets were laid out. A thermos of warm spiced tea. Hand-cut fruit and a surprisingly well-packed meal. No flowers. No speeches. Just peace.

You stared at it all in disbelief. “You… did this?”

Rook nodded, watching you with gentle amusement. “Oui, mademoiselle. A simple tribute, for a queen without a crown.”

You sat down slowly, unsure what to say. He didn’t push. He poured you tea, let you take it in at your own pace.

After a moment, you mumbled, “You didn’t have to.”

He smiled, warm and quiet. “Non, but I wanted to. You have spent so long giving. Allow me to return a little of what the world owes you.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t used to being thanked. Not like this.

Rook didn’t demand gratitude. He didn’t smother you in flowery language. He simply saw you. Not as a tragic figure or a saint, but as a person. A strong, tender, resilient person who had spent so much time being the support beam that no one stopped to ask what you needed.

“Next time,” he said softly as you shared the fruit between you, “bring one of your stories. The ones you used to tell them. I’d like to hear them.”

You looked at him, surprised. “Even if they’re silly?”

His smile widened, golden in the dappled light. “Especially then.”

EPEL FELMIER

Epel had always felt like he had something to prove.

Back home, it was his strength,his ability to chop wood, ride, fight, endure. At NRC, it was his identity trying to be seen as more than “cute,” more than Pomefiore’s little apple-cheeked darling. He wanted to be recognized for who he really was.

So when he met you, it was like finding someone who understood that quiet frustration,not through words, but through presence.

You never tried to prove yourself, but Epel could tell you’d been through a lot. The way you carried yourself, calm and collected in chaos. The way your eyes scanned a room like you were always making sure everyone was okay. You were reliable,not in a flashy, showy way but in the way a foundation is strong. Unshakable.

When he found out you grew up in an orphanage, raising younger kids like a big sister,cleaning scraped knees, settling fights, tucking them in with stories you made up on the spot,something in him clicked.

You were like him, in a way. Someone who learned responsibility way too young. Someone who had to grow up before life gave them the chance to figure things out slowly.

Epel didn’t pity you. Not even for a second.

He admired you.

He started hanging around you more,not that he’d ever admit it was on purpose. At first, he tried to impress you. Offering to carry your bags, challenging you to race him through the woods behind the school. He’d say things like, “Betcha can’t keep up,” even though you always could.

But the more he was around you, the more he just wanted to listen.

You told stories in this unassuming way, as if they weren’t anything special. “Back home, we didn’t have fireplaces, so I’d light candles and pretend we were telling ghost stories like in movies,” you’d say, like it was just a funny memory. But Epel heard the parts between the words: how you made magic out of scraps, warmth out of nothing. See

So one day, when the two of you were sitting out on the dorm balcony, watching the stars in silence, he offered you a slice of his favorite apple pie. Not the store-bought kind. The real thing. Crust hand-pressed, just like his grandma made it.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You made this?”

“‘Course I did,” he said, cheeks just a little red. “Wanted you to try somethin’ from my home. Figured... maybe you could tell me one of your stories or somethin’. I dunno.”

You smiled, small but genuine. “You want a story, Epel?”

He shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. “Maybe. Just one. The kind you’d tell your little siblings.”

So you did.

And as you spoke, his shoulders slowly dropped, his smile softened. He didn’t say anything right away, just leaned against you while you spoke. When you finished, he murmured:

“I think you've been a real good sister.”

You froze a little.

He looked embarrassed the second it left his mouth. “I mean—not that ya haved to be! Just—y’know, you take care of people. You’re real gentle, even when you’re tough. It’s nice. I like that about you.”

You chuckled, the warmth settling in your chest. “Thanks, Epel.”

“Yeah. Just thought someone should say it.”

He never said it again. But after that night, he started bringing you more little pieces of his world,an apple from the greenhouse, a letter from his grandma, even a flannel shirt you could wear when you were cold. And whenever you told stories, he always listened. Always close. Always quiet.

Because to Epel, you weren’t just someone strong.

You were someone good.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hello~ Could I request a second part of my request about mc dancing flamenco, but this time for Scarabia? :')) only if possible, thanks in advance ^^

✦ "Fire in Your Steps"

Flamenco-dancer!reader

KAMIL AL ASIM

Kalim had always been captivated by your energy, your spark,the way you seemed to carry the sun in your movements, even before he knew about your flamenco background. But the first time he truly saw you dance? That was when he realized that not even the sun could match the fire in your steps.

You hadn’t been planning to dance. The Scarabia common room was alive with music and laughter that night, Kalim playing host with his usual excitement, inviting students over for a casual feast after exams. Oud music drifted through the air, blending with tambourines and clapping hands. And yet, it wasn’t until you heard the faint rhythm of palmas,sharp, percussive claps that echoed flamenco’s soul that something in your chest stirred.

“Hey, what’s that look for?” Kalim asked, coming up beside you with a sweet grin. “You look like you’re about to set the place on fire!”

“I might,” you said, smiling, already shedding your outer jacket and stepping out into the open courtyard tiles like instinct. “Careful or I’ll take over your party.”

Kalim lit up like a sparkler. “YES! Do it! Wait—wait, let me turn down the lights—Jamil, c’mon, dim the lanterns a little—it’s happening!!”

And then, you danced.

The rhythm started slow: firm stamps, sharp wrists, a gaze locked forward. Kalim couldn’t look away. His friends had seen you around, sure but now they were watching someone else entirely. You moved like the music was part of you, like the earth responded to your feet.

Kalim, of course, was fully enchanted.

“Oh, stars, I’m in love,” he whispered dramatically to no one in particular, clutching a plate of honey pastries to his chest like it was a bouquet. “That’s my partner! That’s them! Look at them go!!”

You caught his eye halfway through a turn, lips twitching. He was absolutely vibrating with pride and awe,cheering, clapping, trying not to interrupt but very visibly moved by it all. When you ended with a final firm heel strike, the entire room erupted into applause, but it was Kalim’s voice that rose above the rest.

“That was AMAZING! Why didn’t you tell me you were hiding a whole volcano under those shoes?! You’re like like a flamethrower with rhythm!!”

You laughed, a little breathless, smoothing your shirt down. “I didn’t think the timing was right before.”

Kalim took your hand with absolutely zero hesitation, beaming as if the stars had decided to fall into his lap.

“Well, the timing is perfect now,” he said. “And I swear, next time I throw a party, I’m building the whole thing around your dance. I’ll bring mariachis. Or a stage. Or camels. No—dancing camels!”

You burst out laughing, and he just smiled wider.

“You always surprise me,” he murmured later, when the music had softened and you sat beside him under the lanterns. “Even when I think I already know every single thing about you. And every time, it just makes me love you more.”

You nudged his shoulder, warm and a little shy. “Even when I bring fire to your carpets?”

“Especially then,” he winked.

JAMIL VIPER

It was rare for Jamil to be caught off guard.

He was the type to know things before they happened, to anticipate chaos before it ever touched the air. He liked control,needed it, really because that was how he kept Scarabia from crumbling under Kalim’s well-meaning energy. So when he entered the courtyard that late evening, expecting just another lively celebration to supervise, he didn’t expect to see you standing at the center of it all.

Or to feel the way his chest tightened when the music shifted.

He knew the look on your face: focused, firm, and faintly challenging. You weren’t dancing for the crowd not exactly. You were dancing with purpose. Each sharp stamp of your heels against the tile echoed like thunder in his spine. Your arms arched and snapped with grace, each step dragging flame behind it, even if no one else could see the blaze but him.

He felt it. Gods, he felt it.

At first, he stood in the shadows, arms crossed, unreadable. There was a flicker of something in your gaze when you saw him. A silent tug. A question. A dare. And instead of pretending not to care, Jamil met your eyes and stayed.

Even as his throat went dry.

You'd never danced like this in front of him. He knew you practiced, sure,he’d even teased you once for stomping too loud on the floorboards when you thought he was out. But this? This was something else.

When you finished, sweat glinting at your temples and chest heaving, the room burst into applause. Kalim clapped the loudest, cheering for an encore. But Jamil didn’t move.

You made your way to him anyway, a quiet smile pulling at your lips. “Didn’t expect me to start throwing sparks, huh?”

He exhaled through his nose, low and steady. “No,” he admitted. “But I should have.”

He didn’t say much more,not in front of everyone. But later, when the party thinned and the lanterns burned low, you found yourself walking together down the halls of Scarabia’s quiet wing. You were still warm from the dance, skin glowing, body loose and soft. He was quiet for a long time before he finally said, “It was beautiful.”

You turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “You mean it?”

He glanced away briefly, lips pressing together, before he nodded. “It was fire. Pure, controlled fire. I know what that kind of discipline looks like. It’s not easy.”

There was something heavy behind his words, something familiar. You both had your cages,your expectations, your responsibilities. And somehow, through the rhythm and the pride and the pain of it, you’d let him see you free.

“It wasn’t meant to be perfect,” you said, voice soft now. “It was meant to be mine.”

Jamil’s eyes flickered toward you, unreadable again. But this time, his hand reached for yours.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me,” he murmured. “But when you burn like that, I can’t help but watch.”

You squeezed his hand gently, grounding him the same way the music did for you. “Then keep watching,” you said, voice low and sure. “I’m not done dancing.”

And he didn’t say it out loud, but in that moment he swore:

He would never let anyone dim your fire.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Leech twins x reader where they’re fighting over their attention

The Leech fighting for your attention

It always starts off innocently.

You come to the Lounge after classes to drop off Azul’s paperwork and the twins are there,as always, lurking. One smile too wide, the other grin too sharp. They seem civil enough at first. Jade asks if you’d like a drink, Floyd calls you Shrimpy, and you settle in, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just wandered into a territorial feeding ground.

The moment you give one of them just slightly more attention, it begins.

“Jade, look! Shrimpy’s sitting closer to me again. I told you, they like me better~!”

Jade doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “Is that so? I could have sworn they laughed more at my story yesterday. You must be imagining things again, Floyd.”

“I’m not imaginin’ anything!” Floyd’s arms sling dramatically over your shoulders, half-crushing you into the seat beside him. “Right, Shrimpy? Tell him I’m your favorite eel!”

Before you can even process that request, Jade has gracefully appeared on your other side, no fanfare, no noise, just there, smiling like he didn’t just teleport.

“I wouldn’t pressure them, Floyd,” he says with calm venom. “That’s no way to earn someone’s affections.”

“I don’t need to earn anything, I’m already their favorite! Ain’t that right, Shrimpy?” He leans in, nose bumping your cheek.

You blink. “I—uh—can I not pick favorites?”

Both of them pause.

Then Jade, ever the tactician, says smoothly, “Of course. I would never put you in such a difficult position. After all, forcing someone to choose would be terribly unfair.”

Floyd scowls. “Bo~ring. That’s just what someone who’s losing would say.”

And that’s when it gets worse.

From that moment on, it’s a cold war of affection. Floyd insists on dragging you everywhere: the Lounge, the basketball court, random walks where he slings an arm over your shoulder and complains about “stupid boring classes.” He hangs off you like a weighted blanket with an attitude and gets weirdly quiet if you even look like you’re having a good time without him.

Meanwhile, Jade ups his game with charm, asking if you’ve eaten, brewing teas just the way you like them, casually dropping “Did you know?” facts that he knows will get you talking for hours. And when Floyd gets louder, Jade just gets calmer, smiling like he knows something you don’t. Which makes Floyd louder. Which makes Jade smugger. Which—

“Okay!” you finally snap one afternoon, halfway through your homework in Mostro Lounge. “I like both of you, alright?! Can you stop trying to out-sibling-rival each other every time I breathe?!”

Silence.

The twins exchange a look. A rare moment of nonverbal twin-speak passes between them like lightning.

Then—

Floyd: “Told ya they liked me.”

Jade: “Actually, they said both, dear brother.”

You groan into your hands. “I am going to start hanging out with Azul.”

“NO!”

Within seconds you’re pinned between the two Floyd clinging like a needy cat and Jade subtly boxing you in with a cup of steaming tea and a charming smile that absolutely screams manipulation.

You love them. You do. But being the object of a twin war might be the most exhausting popularity contest you’ve ever unwillingly entered.

Still, as Floyd grins and starts complaining that you haven’t called him cute today, and Jade hums thoughtfully about “adjusting the tea’s sweetness to your exact taste,” you realize…

There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

Even if it’s exhausting.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Can you do Trey,Deuce,Ace and cater with reader who has same personality as sonic the hedgehog?

✦ “Speed of Heart”

Trey Clover

You were chaos.

Not the kind that causes actual harm but the whirlwind kind, the type that kicks open the doors of Heartslabyul with wind in your hair and a cheeky grin on your face. Always late, but always with a reason. Always loud, but never with malice.

Trey swore he could hear you coming before he even saw you. Your steps were light but fast, and there was always that telltale whoosh of wind as you zipped past unsuspecting students.

“Yo, Treyyyy!” you called out one morning, sliding into the kitchen like you owned the place. “Tell me there’s still cake left!”

Trey, already holding a plate of it, sighed but couldn’t help smiling. “You could’ve knocked first.”

“C’mon, you like the drama,” you teased, poking his cheek.

He didn’t deny it.

You were everything he wasn’t, fast-talking, fast-walking, fast-everything. A free spirit, allergic to plans, always chasing the next thrill. You didn’t walk places. You ran. You didn’t ease into conversations,you dove. And yet, somehow, you were never rude. Just… honest. Energetic. Blunt in a way that made people blink, then laugh, then secretly admire you.

You challenged everyone around you,including him.

Especially him.

“You can’t just eat sweets for lunch,” he said one day as you tried to sneak a second slice of strawberry tart off the cooling rack.

You raised an eyebrow. “Watch me.”

“I’m serious, you’ll crash.”

“Then I’ll crash fast.”

He rolled his eyes. “You need real food.”

“You’re real food,” you said with a wink. “Wait. That came out weird.”

Trey flushed slightly and looked away, chuckling. You were exhausting abut he was never bored.

And somehow, even with all your speed, you always slowed down for him.

When he was tired, you walked at his pace. When he was stressed, you listened,really listened, even if your leg bounced under the table the whole time. You gave him nicknames like “Specs” and “Baker Boy,” and though he pretended to groan, he was secretly fond of them.

You reminded him that life wasn’t all about rules and routines.

He reminded you that it was okay to stop running sometimes.

“Don’t you ever rest?” he asked one lazy afternoon as you leaned over the balcony with your arms out like airplane wings.

You smirked. “Not unless I’m with you.”

“…That was smooth.”

“I know,” you grinned. “Taught myself that one just now.”

He reached over and ruffled your hair, fondly exasperated. “Try not to get banned from Heartslabyul again this week, alright?”

“No promises,” you said, laughing. “But I’ll bring you something cool if I do.”

And he didn’t doubt it for a second.

Ace Trappola

Ace Trappola considered himself pretty quick,quick with his words, quick with his wit, and definitely quick when it came to escaping Riddle’s wrath. But then you entered his life like a blue blur, all energy and grins, and suddenly Ace wasn’t the fastest kid on the block anymore.

You were a comet streaking through campus: a daredevil with wind-tossed hair, a tongue sharper than a blade, and a grin that made people wonder whether you were about to save the day or cause a scene. (The answer was usually both.) You had this ridiculous habit of doing wild stunts just for the thrill,climbing to the highest point of the mirror tower just to “see the view,” racing Deuce between class periods with no regard for rules or fences, and pulling Ace into all of it without a second thought.

“Hey, Ace! You busy?”

“...Why do you sound like you’re about to get me expelled?”

“No reason. Just meet me behind the library in five minutes and don’t ask questions.”

He always followed, of course. Complained the whole way, but followed.

At first, he thought you were just another troublemaker like him,maybe even more impulsive. A little competition, a lot of chaos. Someone he could banter with and maybe one-up for fun. But then you did something he didn’t expect.

You helped him.

Like, actually helped him. Without needing anything back.

When he was drowning under guilt after flunking a test or getting chewed out by Riddle, you didn’t mock him (well, not too much). You’d flash that cocky grin and say something like, “C’mon, I’ve seen snails move faster than your pity party. Let’s fix this.”

And then you did. Stayed up with him to study. Quizzed him with rapid-fire questions. Brought snacks and energy drinks and got genuinely mad when he doubted himself.

Ace didn’t know what to do with that kind of loyalty. Not from someone like you,someone he assumed never slowed down long enough to care.

But you did care. Fiercely.

“Don’t go acting like I’m some hero,” you shrugged once when he tried to thank you. “I just don’t like seeing my favorite idiot all mopey. Doesn’t suit you.”

His heart did that weird twist thing. (It happened a lot around you.)

You made everything feel like a race, a game, a spark that could turn into a wildfire. And when he pushed back with sass and attitude, you never backed down,you thrived on it. The two of you were constantly exchanging quips, racing to outsmart or out-prank each other. But underneath all the banter was something warmer. Real.

And when you finally opened up,about how you never stayed still because stillness

meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering you caught Ace off guard.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t break down. You just looked at him one night on the school rooftop, stars above and a bag of stolen donuts between you, and said, “I keep moving because if I stop, it all catches up.”

Ace was quiet for once. Then, gently, “...Then I’ll keep moving with you.”

You blinked, surprised. “That’s… kinda cheesy.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “but you love it.”

You did. More than you could admit.

So now, when people see the two of you causing mischief, they think it's just chaos. But really? It's love at light speed.

And Ace? He never minded not being the fastest.

Not when he had you running ahead, always looking back to make sure he was keeping up.

Deuce Spade

You were chaos wrapped in a grin. Always darting down the halls like the world was a race and you had to win it. You challenged rules just to see if you could bend them, and laughed every time you left Ace and Deuce in the dust after another one of your impulsive “adventures.”

At first, Deuce didn’t know what to make of you. You were loud. Bold. Shamelessly confident. Always doing something risky, reckless, or technically against the school handbook. He tried to stop you once, right after Professor Trein warned the class to avoid the upper tower while it was under repairs.

You had your hand on the window frame, about to scale it.

“Y/N, stop! That’s—That’s not safe!”

You turned with a cocky grin. “Relax, Spade. I’ve got great balance.”

“You’re gonna get expelled!”

“Nah. You’ll cover for me if it comes to that, right?”

And with a wink, you were gone,climbing up the tower like gravity didn’t apply to you.

Deuce was horrified. And impressed. Horripressed maybe. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that when you finally made it back down, dusty and grinning, he didn’t scold you again. He just handed you his water bottle and muttered, “Next time, tell me first. I’ll… hold the ladder or something."

Something about you made his straight-laced sense of justice buckle a little.

Because even if you broke rules, you never broke trust.

You were always the first one to defend the little guy. You’d stick your neck out for anyone, challenge bullies twice your size, and when Deuce got into trouble for defending someone else, you were the first to stand beside him,arms crossed, smirk in place, like you dared anyone to punish him.

“Don’t yell at him,” you told Riddle once, arms protectively spread in front of Deuce. “If you’re gonna behead someone, make it me.”

You weren’t just fast. You were fearless.

He needed real. Fierce. Loyal.

He needed you.

It took him a while to admit it,longer than it took you to notice, certainly. You teased him endlessly, calling him your “knight in slightly tarnished armor.” He’d blush every time, mutter something about being an honor student, but he never pulled away.

Then one day, you got hurt. Really hurt. One of your impulsive stunts went wrong,landing off a ledge, ankle twisted, blood on your palms. You still tried to laugh it off, but Deuce’s face said it all.

“No more pretending,” he snapped, kneeling beside you, voice shaking. “You don’t have to be tough all the time. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

You blinked. “I’m fine, Deuce. Just a scratch—”

“You could’ve fallen Y/N!”

“I care about you,” he said, softer this time. “Even when you drive me crazy. Even when you break every rule in the book. I care. And it scares me.”

You looked at him,eyes honest, no walls up for once and smiled.

“That’s why I let you catch up, y’know.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’ve always run ahead. But I waited. For you.”

It hit him like thunder, warm and electric.

And from then on, you didn’t run alone. You had Deuce right beside you. Maybe still a step behind, maybe still gasping for breath half the time but always chasing after you, always trying to match your fire with his own kind of fierce.

Because even lightning needs its storm.

Cater Diamond !

Cater’s phone buzzed. Again.

[17 new messages from Y/N]

He didn’t even need to check them to know what they said. Probably something like “race you to the Mystery Shop!!” or “I found this abandoned cart and now I’m riding it down a hill,come stop me maybe?”

He sighed fondly and slipped his phone into his pocket, already heading in the direction he knew you’d be. You were faster than any broom, had more energy than a party of first-years on sugar, and just enough chaos to leave trails of confusion and awe behind you.

He loved it.

Loved you.

Even if you made his heart race in the bad and good ways.

When he finally caught up with you, you were halfway up the side of a tower, climbing as if gravity was a light suggestion. “Y/N! Babe! You’re gonna give me gray hairs,get down here before the Headmage bans me from dating you!”

You leaned over the edge, grinning wide and smug. “Then come up and get me, slowpoke!”

Cater groaned. “Why are you like this?”

You shrugged, hanging upside-down like it was nothing. “I don’t do boring. And you like me this way.”

Cater knew it was true. There was something magnetic about your constant motion. While he thrived on attention, you thrived on momentum. You ran on instinct and courage, sometimes recklessness, but never cruelty. Even when you crashed (which was often), you always got back up with a cocky grin and a new plan.

And yet, despite everything, you made time for him. You dragged him into spontaneous adventures, held his hand as you sprinted through flower fields or chased fireworks, challenged him to keep up not just physically, but emotionally.

And somehow, even when your world moved at the speed of sound, you noticed him.

When he was tired, you’d slow down. When he was overwhelmed, you’d sit still for five minutes beside him, fingers drumming impatiently against your thigh, but there. With him. Grounding and impossible all at once.

Sometimes, Cater wondered how he even ended up with someone like you.

You, who called boredom the worst kind of death, who chased dreams like wild animals and fought off fear with stubborn confidence and grit.

And then you'd stop everything just to grin at him and go, “You’re fun, Cay~ I like when your eyes sparkle like that.”

How could he not fall?

When you finally jumped down from the tower, he caught you (barely), stumbling back with a laugh.

“Next time, warn me first, speedster.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you teased, poking his cheek.

He shook his head with a grin, still catching his breath. “One day, you’re gonna get us both in so much trouble.”

You smirked, leaning in close. “Then it’ll be fun trouble. And I know you’re into that.”

Cater sighed again, exaggerated, dramatic, adoring.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“Fastest love story in Twisted Wonderland history,” you winked. “Try and keep up.”

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hello, I hope you are going well, you know I had this Idea in my head and I can't stop thinking about, I was wondering if you could make Silver x Reader (Princess Zelda!reader, but you can do it the way you want) Where The two are reincarnated together for years and years (like Zelda and Link) falling in love with each other but something always prevents them from being together, but in this life they decide that nothing will but separate them

Basically, Knight x Princess

You can put the rest of Diasomnia's gang please 🙇

Sorry if this have any english spelling error, drink water and rest enough. 🌺

✦"In Every Lifetime, I Find You."

In every storybook etched with golden ink and ancient prophecy, there’s a tale of a princess and her knight. Of you and Silver,names changing across the centuries, but hearts always the same. You, always bound to light and destiny. He, the sword that guards you, silent and steadfast. In every life, you find each other again… only to be pulled apart.

In one life, it was war. In another, sickness. In another, your crown forced you into a loveless marriage while he, ever your shadow, disappeared into exile. You remember them all. The memories come like dreams, fleeting but vivid, and Silver dreams of you too of holding your hand, only for time to wrench it away again.

This life was different. At first.

You were born a royal again, yes. A princess in a peaceful land nestled far from Night Raven College, trained in diplomacy, magic, swordplay, and restraint. The blood of heroes pulsed through you and so did the ache of something missing.

And Silver… he was born a knight once more. Under Lilia’s careful watch, raised in Briar Valley. Dreaming of a princess with your face and voice before he’d ever met you. When Crowley invited foreign nobility for political exchange, your eyes found Silver’s across the ballroom floor. The world stilled. You recognized him before he even bowed.

“…It’s you.”

You shouldn’t have remembered him so clearly. He shouldn’t have remembered the lullabies you used to hum in a tower that no longer existed. But something ancient stirred, and neither of you ran from it.

This time, you swore, nothing would part you.

Of course, Sebek was outraged when Silver kept vanishing at odd hours to sneak into your quarters. “SILVER! You’re neglecting your duties to dote on a human noble?!”

“She’s not just any noble,” Silver would murmur calmly, eyes distant. “She’s… her.”

Sebek would grumble, stomp around, complain to Lilia, who’d just laugh knowingly and say, “Some fates don’t break, even across centuries. Let the boy follow his heart.”

And Malleus watched you both with unreadable eyes. When he finally approached you in the moonlit gardens, he spoke softly. “You’ve loved him before. I can feel it. The bond between you… it’s older than all of us.”

You nodded, voice low. “And we’ve lost each other every time.”

“Then don’t lose him now.”

You didn’t.

You trained together in the fields behind Diasomnia’s towers, sparred until the sky burned red, and collapsed into soft grass laughing, breathless and tangled. Silver held your hand tightly when you flinched at loud thunder, instinctively shielding you. You kissed his forehead when he fell asleep at your side, still in uniform. You whispered, “We’ll find peace this time,” and he held you tighter.

He never asked you to give up your duties. You never asked him to abandon his honor. But quietly, beneath the vows and oaths and titles, you made a promise.

When the world came knocking again with expectations and betrothals, with threats from beyond twisted mirrors and pressure from noble bloodlines,you stood together.

“I won’t let them take you away,” he said once, voice low against your skin. “I’ve lost you too many times. I won’t lose you again.”

You lifted his hand to your lips. “Then fight for me. And I’ll fight for you.”

Even the stars seemed to bend for you that night when you danced under moonlight at a quiet celebration. No war. No separation. Just Silver, your knight, eyes soft with tired love. Lilia and Malleus stood at a respectful distance. Even Sebek was quiet for once, muttering something about “at least she’s not too unreasonable.”

But none of it mattered. In that moment, there was no past. No future.

Just this lifetime.

Just you and Silver.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

✦ “It’s Just Another Day… Right?”

Synopsis: Your partner stumble across a surprising truth: their beloved never celebrated their birthday. No cakes. No parties. No gifts. It was always just “another day.” But not this year,not when they're here to make it special. Even if it takes a bit of coaxing, teasing, or gentle love, they’ll make sure this birthday is one to remember.

Characters: Vil Schoenheit, Leona Kingscholar,Idia Shroud, Riddle Rosehearts,Lilia Vanrouge,Silver

I meant to post this on my birthday (28/06), but between being busy and forgetting a few times, it slipped my mind,so here it is, one day late🥳

Vil Schoenheit

“It’s Not Just Another Day”

Birthdays never meant much to you. They came and went like passing clouds, barely different from any other day. Maybe once, a long time ago, you wished they were special. But time has a way of teaching people not to expect things. Eventually, you stopped looking forward to anything at all.

So you treated today just like any other. Casual, quiet. No mention of anything. You were sitting with Vil in the courtyard, sunlight soft against your skin, flipping through a book while he carefully applied lip balm, prepping for his afternoon shoot.

That’s when the words slipped out of you.

“Oh. Right. Today’s my birthday.”

It was like tossing a rock into still water. The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been.

Vil froze. He slowly turned to look at you.

“…Pardon?”

You blinked, looking up. “I said it’s my birthday. Today.”

Vil’s expression didn’t shift immediately. But you saw it. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tension in his jaw. He was processing not the fact that it was your birthday, but how you’d said it. Offhand. Emotionless. Like it meant nothing.

He closed his lip balm with a click. “And you weren’t going to say anything?”

You gave a light shrug, trying to play it off. “There’s nothing to say. I don’t really do birthdays. Haven’t since I was a kid.”

Vil was quiet for a moment longer.

Then: “I see.”

You expected him to press, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the subject drop for now. But the way he gently reached for your hand and squeezed it once told you everything: he wasn’t letting this go.

Later that evening, after your classes, he found you again.

There was no elaborate setup. Just Vil, dressed more casually and something unreadable in his expression.

“Come with me,” he said.

You hesitated. “What for?”

“Something overdue.”

He brought you to a quiet lounge in Pomefiore, one the others rarely used. On a small table was a plate of your favorite dessert and a teapot already steeping something floral and warm. Two glasses. One candle.

“I didn’t have time for anything extravagant,” he said softly, “but I couldn’t let the day end without at least this.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you.

“No. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t matter. Not with me. I don’t know who made you believe your birthday wasn’t worth celebrating, but they were wrong.”

You stared at the table, emotions welling up in your chest unexpectedly. “I just… I got used to pretending it was nothing. It hurt less.”

Vil moved closer, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Then let’s start rewriting that story. I can’t fix what came before, but I can promise you this,so long as you’re mine, you’ll never spend another birthday forgotten.”

Leona Kingscholar

“You Could’ve Said Something, Herbivore”

The sun was high over the Savannaclaw dorm, the heat dry and still. Most of the students had retreated indoors, but you were lying in the shade of a tree near the training yard, flipping through a book and sipping water like it was just another afternoon.

Leona was stretched out beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing steady. He looked half-asleep,until he lazily cracked one eye open.

“You’re quiet today,” he muttered. “More than usual.”

You hummed, flipping a page. “Just thinking.”

A long silence passed. You weren’t expecting to say anything else, but the thought slipped out of you anyway. A whisper, almost offhand.

“…Today’s my birthday.”

Leona blinked.

He sat up,actually sat up, which was enough of a red flag that you glanced at him. “Come again?”

You shrugged. “It’s my birthday. I don’t really celebrate, so... I didn’t say anything.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, golden gaze sharp. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve been walking around all day, actin’ like it’s just another day, and didn’t think to mention you were born today?”

“I’m not big on birthdays,” you replied, waving it off. “It’s just another day. I got used to that.”

Leona stared at you for a beat longer before flopping back down onto the grass. He muttered something under his breath,something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and threw his arm over his face again.

You thought he might let it go.a

You expected him to leave it at that. To mutter something sarcastic and change the subject. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed beside you the rest of the afternoon, unusually still, only talking now and then. You’d almost forgotten about your birthday again,until later that night, when you returned to Ramshackle.

Your room light was on.

Inside, waiting on your desk, was a single neatly wrapped item: a small, golden box tied with green twine. A little note sat on top in Leona’s handwriting.

> “Didn’t have time to get something flashy.

But it’s better than nothing.Don’t act like it’s no big deal.

You’re not just anyone.

—L.”

You opened it slowly, heart thudding in your chest. Inside was a sand-polished pendant carved with your birthstone in the center, shaped like a rising sun.

You hadn’t realized how quiet the world had felt until now. How much you’d learned to mute your own importance. You stared at the note, fingers trembling.

There was a knock at the door.

“…You get it?” came Leona’s voice, soft and gruff from behind the wood.

You opened the door slowly, eyes still wide. “Leona, you didn’t have to—”

He looked at you. “Yeah. I did.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Just a rush of heat behind your eyes.

Leona sighed and tugged you into his arms like it was nothing. “Next year,” he muttered into your hair, “you’re getting cake. And don’t try that ‘it’s just another day’ crap. You matter to me. So your birthday does too.”

You stayed quiet, tucked against his chest, letting that truth settle into your bones.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like just another day.

Idia Shroud

“You Can’t Drop a Bomb Like That in Casual Conversation”

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. It just kind of… slipped out.

You were both sitting in his room, as usual,just the two of you, some game playing in the background, the only light coming from his computer monitors and the glowing strands of neon-blue hair that curled softly down his shoulders.

It had been a quiet day. Peaceful, even. You’d finished your classes early and spent most of the afternoon in Ignihyde, lounging with Idia while he half-rambled about patch notes and coding and you occasionally added commentary.

He was mid-sentence,something about how a dev nerfed his favorite spell for the third time, when you yawned and muttered offhandedly, “Huh. Weird that it’s already evening. Today passed fast. Guess birthdays are just like that.”

There was a pause.

Then a slow, robotic blink from the blue-haired shut-in sitting next to you.

“…Did you just say birthday?” he asked.

You glanced at him. “Yeah. Mine. It’s today.”

You said it like you were telling him it was cloudy outside.

Idia stared.

A long, horrible silence filled the room, like your words had just sent an error message to his brain.

“YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT LIKE IT’S NOTHING—”

You flinched as he launched into a flurry of typing. Windows opened and closed faster than your eyes could follow. You could see a gift website, a recipe page, and a link to a video titled “How to Celebrate a Birthday IRL (When You’re Socially Inept)”.

You blinked. “Idia—”

“You didn’t tell me it was today?! That’s, like—” He waved his arms. “Flag on the play! You need to give a guy a minimum 48-hour warning window for this kind of emotionally significant information!”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you replied, chuckling nervously.

“Not a big—” He stopped himself with a groan and dropped his forehead to his desk with a dramatic thud. “You can’t just stealth-drop your birthday on me like that. I’m not built for this kind of pressure.”

“…It’s really not a big deal,” you repeated. “I’ve never really celebrated it, so I’m kind of used to treating it like a normal day. Honestly, I forget it sometimes too.”

Idia turned to look at you, eyes wide behind the glare of his screen. His usual anxiety was still there, but it was muffled now by something quieter,sadness, maybe. Concern.

“You’ve never celebrated it?” he asked, quieter.

You shook your head. “I just… never did. And after a while, I figured it didn’t matter. It’s just another date.”

“That’s…” He trailed off, then frowned. “No. That’s super tragic anime protagonist behavior.”

You laughed a little at that. “Well. You are dating me.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. His eyes softened, though. The glow of his hair dimmed a little, like the light was leaning toward you.

“…You matter, you know,” he murmured. “Your birthday matters. I-I mean, it’s the day you showed up in the world, and that’s, like… a big deal to me. If I’d known sooner, I would’ve—” He made a vague gesture toward the half-decorated cake recipe on screen. “Well. I would’ve panicked sooner.”

You nudged him gently. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I want to,” he said, surprisingly firm. “Just… gimme one hour. I’ll put something together. Just… sit here and look cute or whatever.”

You raised a brow. “Are you going to glitch if I try to help?”

“Absolutely.”

You chuckled again, and this time, he cracked a small smile in return,soft, shy, real.

By the end of the hour, he had thrown together a scuffed but sincere digital birthday party in one of his favorite games, complete with your favorite virtual snacks, background music, and an awkward in-game hug.

It was glitchy, silly, chaotic.

And it was perfect.

You didn’t need anything more than that.

Especially not from him.

Riddle Rosehearts

“You Should Have Told Me”

Riddle never misses a rule. But the most important one? He learns it from you.

Riddle had asked you to meet him in the rose garden during your free period, like he often did when he wanted a little quiet time away from the rest of Heartslabyul. The two of you would sit beneath the trimmed arches of rosebushes, reading together or just letting the wind pass gently between your shoulders.

He’d brought tea this time. Your favorite kind, with delicate biscuits shaped like hearts.

You held one in your hand, staring at it like it was a rare artifact.

“You’re in a thoughtful mood today.” Riddle said, pouring himself a second cup. “Did something happen?”

You blinked, then shrugged. “No, not really. It’s just… my birthday.”

Riddle’s hand froze.

The spoon in his saucer gave a sharp clink as it settled.

“…Your birthday?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He looked at you with a frown,soft, confused but unmistakably troubled. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

You set the biscuit down. “I never really celebrate it. I got used to it not being a big deal.”

“That’s not—” He paused, lips pressing into a tight line as he clearly tried to regulate his tone. “That’s not right.”

You gave him a smile, small and unbothered. “It’s okay, Riddle. I’m not sad about it. It’s just a normal day.”

“But it’s not,” he insisted, setting his teacup down more harshly than he meant to. “It’s the day you were born. The world has you in it because of this day. How could that possibly be ‘normal’?”

His voice cracked a little at the end, and you blinked, startled.

“…Riddle?”

He looked away for a moment, visibly composing himself. “I know what it’s like to have parts of your life controlled. To have things feel routine, even when they should be special. But this your birthday,it’s not something that should go unacknowledged.”

“I’m not upset about it,” you said gently. “I just never had a reason to think it was important.”

“You do now,” he said, eyes flicking back to yours. “You have me now.”

He stood up abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. “We’re going back to Heartslabyul.”

“Wait—”

“You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t have time to plan,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “but I refuse to let this pass like it means nothing.”

You laughed under your breath. “It really doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

“It will be,” he said, and for once, it wasn’t a rulebook talking. It was his heart.

Riddle didn’t throw a party. Not a loud one, at least. What he did was decorate the common room with floating red-and-white roses, bake you a fresh strawberry tart himself, and gather a few close friends (with Grim loudly demanding a second slice).

When you walked in, he held your hand a little tighter than usual and whispered:

“Next year, tell me ahead of time.”

You smiled.

“Only if you promise to overreact like this again.”

He gave you that half-exasperated look you loved so much… but didn’t let go of your hand.

Lilia Vanrouge !

"You deserve to be celebrated"

The sun had barely risen over Diasomnia when you padded into the common room with half-tied laces and a yawn halfway through your sentence.

Lilia, already bright-eyed and drinking what he claimed was a “bitter blend from the Dragon Isles,” waved at you from the couch with a mischievous smile. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Mhm… Morning.” You slumped beside him, curling up in the folds of your hoodie.

“Did you dream of me?” he teased, tapping your nose.

“Not this time.” You smirked. “Dreamt I overslept and missed potionology again.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s not prophetic,” he chuckled, setting down his mug. “Any reason you’re dragging your feet more than usual this morning?”

You hummed, shrugging. “No big deal. Just my birthday.”

Lilia blinked once.

Then again.

“…Your what?”

“My birthday. You know, the thing people make cake for and all that.” You waved it off like it was nothing. “Never really celebrated it. Got used to it not mattering.”

For a long moment, Lilia just stared at you. And then, slowly, his smile faded into something quieter. Something solemn.

“You never celebrated it?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You rubbed your neck, trying to play it casual. “It’s not a sad thing. Some people just don’t do birthdays. I guess I’m one of them.”

Lilia turned toward you, one knee pulled up to face you fully. “My dear,” he murmured, “you do realize what a birthday is, don’t you?”

You quirked an eyebrow.

“It’s not just cake and singing off-key. It’s a reminder—no, a celebration—that the world was graced with you. That no matter what happened before, something beautiful entered the timeline the day you were born.”

You laughed, a little awkward. “You’re being poetic again.”

“I always get poetic when I’m upset.” He reached out to cradle your cheek with one gloved hand. “You deserve to be celebrated. Not just today, but especially today.”

“I don’t need anything,” you whispered. “I’m okay. I’m happy with you.”

“That may be so,” he said, brushing a thumb across your cheekbone, “but allow an old man his selfish wish. Let me dote on you.”

Before you could argue, Lilia had already sent a flurry of bat-shaped messages out across the dorm. You heard Sebek yelling somewhere in the distance. Silver blinked awake, confused. Malleus… well, you were sure he would find out soon.

But Lilia didn’t let you move.

He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as the morning sun slowly painted the sky beyond the window.

“You may not think your birthday matters,” he said into your hair, “but I’ve lived long enough to know the value of a single person. And you, little spark, are priceless.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time, maybe… it did feel special.

Silver

"Today is the day where our fate was linked."

Silver was already awake when you returned from your early morning walk. You hadn’t expected to find him on the bench in the Diasomnia courtyard, but there he was,eyes closed, hands folded on his lap, the first gold of the rising sun catching the edge of his silver hair.

He looked so peaceful you almost turned around to leave.

But he stirred before you could. “You’re back.”

You smiled softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep much last night.” He tilted his head, gaze fixed on you now. “I had a dream… It was about you.”

Your breath caught a little at the quiet sincerity of it. “Was it good?”

He nodded. “You were laughing.”

“…That’s rare.”

He didn’t press. He never did. Silver had always understood that silence was just as telling as words.

The two of you sat together in comfortable quiet for a while. The only sounds were birds chirping and the gentle rustle of wind through the trees.

Eventually, you pulled out your phone, scrolling casually. “Huh,” you mumbled without thinking. “Guess it’s my birthday today.”

Silver blinked. “What?”

You didn’t even glance up. “Yeah. Just realized. Forgot for a sec.”

There was a long pause.

“…You forgot your own birthday?”

“It's not really a big deal,” you shrugged. “I’ve never celebrated it, so I just got used to treating it like any other day.”

When you finally looked up, Silver was watching you with an unreadable expression,softbbut intense in that quiet way he had. Not angry. Not sad. But as if your words had touched something very deep inside him.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asked gently. “Celebrating, I mean.”

You hesitated. “No. I just… I guess I never thought it mattered. I didn’t grow up with anyone who really made a big thing out of it. So I didn’t either.”

Silver looked down at his hands for a moment, then back at you.

“I don’t think I could ever forget your birthday,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even if the rest of the world did.”

You blinked. “Silver…”

“It’s not about cake or gifts. It’s about knowing that this world was once without you… and now it isn’t. It’s the day you came into it. The day your path started. The day… my future was shaped, even if we didn’t know it yet.”

Your heart clenched, a little too full.

“I don’t need fanfare,” he continued. “But I do need you to know that you matter. Even if I have to remind you quietly, every year, in every way I can.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away.

“…You wanna sit with me longer?” you asked after a moment, voice a little thick.

Silver nodded immediately. “Of course.”

So you did. Side by side, under the sky that had seen so many of his dreams and your forgetfulness.

And maybe, just maybe, this time, your birthday didn’t feel so ordinary after all.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hi!

I’m really sorry for the long silence and for keeping you all waiting,things have been super hectic on my end, especially with school taking up most of my time lately. I haven’t had the energy or availability to sit down and write as much as I’d like to, but please know that I haven’t forgotten about this blog or your wonderful requests!

I appreciate all of your patience and support more than I can say. I’ll slowly get back into writing and do my best to answer as many asks as I can. It might take some time between updates, but I promise I’ll post whenever I have the chance.

Thanks again for sticking around and understanding it, it really means a lot.Until then, please take care of yourselves 💗

[strawberry-bubblef]

hi! this is my first time requesting to you so I hope this isn't too much to ask but can I request on the housewardens + Jamil who has a s/o telling about their past, who survived as a victim of human trafficking and has a branding tattoo on their neck that they hide and finally showed it to them(like those lines we can see on our items or products, idk why they're called) and can you pls make it angst to comfort 🙏

I hope my request isn't too much to ask you but my advance tsym if you made this 🫶

Housewardens+Jamil X human trafficking survivor!reader

Warning: Human trafficking (mentioned), trauma, survivor's guilt, implied PTSD, branding/tattooing, dissociation,dehumanization, ends in comfort and support.

Riddle Rosehearts

It started with the wind.

You were sitting outside in Heartslabyul's rose garden, long after most students had gone to bed. The wind was soft tonight, brushing over the treetops and weaving through the hedges like a whispered lullaby. Riddle had come out to find you, his coat over one arm, wearing that concerned look he got whenever you were out alone too late for his liking.

“You should be sleeping,” he said gently as he approached. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You offered him a small smile. “I know. I just… needed air.”

Without asking, he draped the coat around your shoulders and sat beside you on the bench. He didn’t push for more. Riddle had learned, over time, that when you needed to talk, you would. That silence wasn’t always something to fix.

So he just sat there with you, your knees brushing slightly. Quiet.

After a long stretch of listening to the breeze, you finally spoke.

“Can I tell you something?”

He turned toward you, already nodding. “Of course.”

You picked at the edge of his sleeve where it rested over your hand. You weren’t quite sure how to begin. So you didn’t look at him when you said it, just kept your eyes on the night sky.

“I have a tattoo,” you murmured. “On the back of my neck.”

Riddle tilted his head slightly. “Alright…”

“It’s not decorative,” you continued, voice softer now. “It wasn’t my choice.”

You felt his attention sharpen, though he stayed quiet, letting you go on.

“I don’t really show it. Most people don’t know it’s there. But sometimes I forget it is here too. I forget until someone stares, or until I see it in a mirror and-”

You stopped. Took a breath.

“You know how there are those lines on packaging? Like a barcode? That’s what it is. That’s what they gave me.”

Riddle froze.

You glanced at him then, half-expecting shock or horror but instead, he just looked… pained. Not at you. For you.

His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Who…?”

“It was years ago,” you said, not wanting to go into the details yet. “I was younger. Vulnerable. I got taken, not here, not in this world. Another one. I try not to think about it too often, but it’s always kind of there, in the back of my mind.”

You gave a soft, almost bitter chuckle.

“They treated people like items. Like things to be bought and sold. And the branding? It was a way to keep track of us. To remind us we didn’t belong to ourselves anymore.”

There was a heavy silence between you.

“I escaped eventually. Got help. Got out. I’ve come a long way since then. I’ve healed a lot, I think. But… there’s always this part of me that wonders if people would see me differently if they knew.”

You looked down.

“I guess I’m telling you because… you matter to me. And I didn’t want to keep hiding. Not from you.”

Riddle was quiet for a moment longer, then reached for your hand.

His fingers were a little cold, but steady.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said simply. “That must have taken so much strength. I can’t imagine what you went through, but I’m here now. I want to be someone you never have to hide from.”

His grip tightened gently, grounding.

“And just so you know,” he added, voice firmer now, “Nothing about that mark changes how I see you. It doesn’t make you less. If anything, knowing what you’ve survived..what you’ve endured,it makes me admire you more.”

You felt your throat close slightly, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Sometimes I still feel… stained by it. Like I’ll never be entirely clean.”

Riddle’s brows drew together, his voice soft and unwavering.

“You were never dirty to begin with.”

You blinked, not expecting that.

“You were hurt. Taken. But never wrong. The people who did that to you were wrong. And it’s over now. You’re free.”

A long pause.

“If you ever want to show it to me,” he added carefully, “you can. But you don’t have to. That’s yours, and no one else’s.”

You hesitated, then slowly reached up, brushing your hair aside.

“I’d like to,” you said. “If that’s alright.”

He nodded once, seriously, then shifted behind you slightly. You lifted your collar just enough to reveal the thin, black lines etched at the base of your neck,sharp, clinical.

For a long time, he didn’t say anything. You didn’t feel watched. You felt… witnessed.

Then his fingers gently grazed the skin beside it ,not touching the tattoo directly, just close enough to say I see you. I’m here. I’m not turning away.

“I won’t pretend this didn’t happen to you,” he said. “But I promis—no.I swear it,as long as I’m with you, you’ll never be treated like a thing again. You’re a person. You’re important. You’re mine ,not in a possessive way. Just…”

You smiled faintly. “Like family.”

He nodded.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss just beneath the mark, not claiming, not romantic, just grounding.

You closed your eyes.

The wind whispered through the garden again. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like it was passing you by. It felt like it was carrying something away.

Maybe the weight.

Maybe the fear.

Maybe a piece of the past that you were finally ready to let go.

Riddle sat with you a long time after that. He didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t rush you to move, or speak again, or be anything other than what you were in that moment.

Alive. Healing. Loved.

And for the first time in ages, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like a scar.

It just felt like skin.

Leona Kingscholar

It was a lazy afternoon in the botanical gardens, the kind where the sun filtered through the glass in gold beams, pooling warm light on the floor. Leona had claimed one of the quiet hidden corners, all mossy stone and climbing ivy.He was half-asleep with his head in your lap, his arm slung over his eyes like usual.

He always liked the silence, but you’d come to learn it wasn’t the same kind as yours.

Leona’s silence was a defense, a way to keep the world at arm’s length. Yours, sometimes, was a shadow, something that grew around the things you didn’t speak about.

You ran your fingers gently through his hair, slow and repetitive, grounding yourself as much as him. You weren’t sure why the thought came to you just then. Maybe it was how still he was. How safe it felt.

You hesitated.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked quietly.

Leona grunted, shifting his arm slightly. “Hn. You’re talkin’ already.”

“I mean… something real. Something I’ve never told anyone here.”

His hand slid down enough for one eye to peek out at you, sharp, attentive, now fully awake.

“You’re serious.”

You nodded.

He sat up slowly, stretching but not leaving. He leaned back against the wall beside you, one knee up, resting an arm on it. Waiting.

You looked at your hands. “I have a tattoo on my neck. It’s hidden, most of the time. Not many people know about it.”

Leona blinked once, then arched a brow. “You wanna show it to me?”

“Not yet. I want to explain first.”

“…Alright.”

“It’s not a choice tattoo,” you said, voice soft. “It’s a brand. Like the ones they put on products. It looks like a barcode.”

You watched his reaction carefully. He didn’t move but his eyes narrowed. Not in judgment. In calculation. In the kind of anger he saved for things he knew were wrong.

You continued, voice steady.

“Back in my old world, when I was younger, I was taken. Trafficked. Sold like a thing. Treated like something people could own. The brand… it was their way of marking me. Like I was inventory.”

Leona’s jaw tightened.

“I got out eventually. And built something new. But the mark,it never really left. It’s a part of me. Even now. Even after everything.”

There was silence. You didn’t fill it. You didn’t need to. You just waited.

Leona exhaled slowly, then leaned his head back against the ivy-covered wall.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “a lot of people look at me and see a second son. A spare. Someone who’s got everything and does nothing. They don’t see what’s under it.”

You blinked at the sudden turn, not sure where he was going.

“I’ve been called a beast. A failure. I’ve had expectations shoved down my throat and kicked off every pedestal they threw me on. But nobody ever tried to strip me of my basic right.”

He turned his head, looking you in the eye.

“What they did to you,that wasn’t just cruelty. That was erasing. Trying to turn you into something you’re not.”

You swallowed hard. The truth of that hit somewhere deep.

“I still have nightmares sometimes,” you admitted. “There are days when I forget it’s not happening anymore. And even though I know it wasn’t my fault, some part of me always feels… marked.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out,not to touch your neck, but to lift your hand gently into his own.

“I can’t undo it,” he said quietly. “And I won’t pretend I understand what that felt like. ” He turned your hand over, thumb brushing your palm. “But this stays yours. All of you does. No one else gets to claim it.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’ve been scared to show it to anyone. Not because of what they’d think… but because it still feels like something I have to hide.”

“Then don’t show it yet,” he said simply. “Or show it when you’re ready. Not for anyone else. Just for you.”

You hesitated. Then, quietly, you reached up and pulled your collar down slightly, revealing the lines at the base of your neck.

It was quick. You didn’t let it linger.

But when you looked back at Leona, his expression hadn’t changed. No horror. No pity. Just that heavy, grounded stillness he only showed when he was fully present.

He leaned forward a little, brushing your hair gently back into place. “Doesn’t scare me,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “But if anyone looks at you sideways for it? I will make them regret it.”

You laughed.Alittle surprised, a little teary. “That’s… oddly comforting.”

Leona smirked faintly. “Good.”

He leaned against your shoulder after that, warm and solid, the way he always did when words weren’t needed anymore.

And for once, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like something to hide.

It felt like something you had survived.

And someone was there to carry it with you, not take it away, but honor it. Honor you.

Azul Ashengrotto

The lounge was quiet after hours,the kind of quiet that only came when the last customer had left, the last glass was washed, and the only light was the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. Azul had let the mask drop hours ago, slumped on the velvet couch beside you, his sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. He looked like a boy instead of a businessman, which, in a strange way, always made it easier for you to breathe around him.

He had his glasses off, eyes closed, head leaning on your shoulder.

“This is nice,” he murmured. “No deals. No disguises.”

You nodded slowly. You’d been thinking. Turning something over in your chest like a stone that was almost smooth but still sharp around the edges.

“Azul?”

“Mmm?”

“There’s something I’ve never told you. And I want to… if that’s alright.”

His head lifted immediately. He looked at you, really looked at you,searching your face for anything he should brace for. “Of course. You never have to ask.”

You hesitated, then looked away toward the empty bar, your voice steady but low. “Back in my old world… I was trafficked. Human trafficking. For a long time.”

Azul’s breath caught, the kind of quiet inhale that was barely there but unmistakable. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I was young. I don’t even remember how it started- just that one day I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a product. And they branded me like one.”

Your hand lifted, touching your neck instinctively, where the brand still lay, hidden most days beneath collars or scarves. “It’s still there. Like those barcodes you scan on packages. Except this one was on me.”

Azul’s hands curled slowly into fists where they rested on his knees, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It took a long time to get out,” you continued. “And longer to accept that it was over. I still struggle with it. The nightmares, the shame, the part of me that forgets I’m safe now. That thinks if anyone sees the brand, they’ll look at me and only see that.”

You finally turned to face him again. “That’s why I hide it. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. Not because I wanted you to fix it. Just… because I trust you.”

Azul looked stricken. Not at you,never at you but at the idea of that kind of suffering, that kind of cruelty. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, and then very quietly, he said, “May I see it?”

You hesitated. Then, after a breath, nodded.

With a small movement, you tugged the collar of your shirt down just enough to reveal the brand,a faded, etched pattern of lines and numbers, still unnervingly clean and functional in design. Like it had never been meant for a human.

Azul stared at it. Not like he was disgusted. Not like he pitied you.

But like he was seeing something sacred,not the mark, but the weight of it. What you’d lived through. What you’d survived.

And then, without speaking, he reached up, carefully, and pressed two fingers to the space beside it. Not directly on the brand, just next to it. Like he didn’t want to touch the wound but wanted you to feel he was there.

“I can’t believe someone would do this to you,” he said finally, his voice trembling slightly despite how calm he tried to sound. “That they thought they could strip you down to something so… so empty. That they thought you wouldn’t fight your way back.”

You watched him quietly.

He lowered his hand, folding it with the other in his lap. “I’ve always wanted power. Influence. A name people respect. Because when I was small, I didn’t have any of that. I thought if I got strong enough, clever enough… I’d never be helpless again.”

His gaze met yours.

“But even then, I was just fighting ghosts. You… you looked them in the eye. And survived. You’re not weak. You’re not broken. And whatever that mark was meant to say.. It doesn’t get to define you anymore.”

You felt the words settle in your chest like a gentle weight. Not heavy,grounding.

“I don’t want you to see me as a victim,” you whispered.

“I don’t.” Azul said immediately. “I see you. The whole of you. And I’m grateful-so grateful that you trust me with this. That you’re here.”

You leaned into him, forehead touching his. And for a long time, neither of you moved.

Later, when the lanterns had dimmed further and Azul finally pulled a blanket around both of you, he mumbled sleepily against your shoulder, “You don’t have to hide anything from me. Not the mark. Not the memories. Not the shadows.”

And he said it like a promise.

Like a contract without conditions.

Because this time, you weren’t alone.

You were seen.

And you were safe.

Kamil Al Asim

It started with a question,innocent, like most things with Kalim.

“Hey! When we’re back from break, do you want to come to Scalding Sands with me? My family’s hosting this big celebration and I thought maybe you’d want to meet them!”

He beamed like he always did,excited, full of sunlight and life. The kind of joy that made people forget to look past it, to the parts of him that were observant, grounded, steady in ways most people missed.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Kalim…”

Something in your voice made him pause. His grin faltered not out of offense, but out of quiet concern. “Too soon?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Kind of.”

You both sat down on a shaded bench in the courtyard, away from the crowd and sunlight. A place where words could sit between you without being exposed.

Kalim leaned back, letting you take your time. He was good at that. Listening without pressing. Waiting without fidgeting. He only looked at you with that warm, open patience of his.

“I’ve never told you this,” you said after a moment. “And it’s not because I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know how.”

Kalim’s face didn’t change. He didn’t brace or worry. He simply listened.

“In the world I came from, I was trafficked. For a long time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Still.

“People treated me like a thing. Branded me like one, even. "

You paused and hesitate slightly before speaking again. "..I still have the mark on my neck. It looks like a barcode, like I was just… inventory.”

You swallowed, heart tight. “I’ve hidden it ever since. Even here. Even around you.”

Kalim didn’t flinch. His eyes were full, soft, and very, very, very sad.Not for himself, not out of pity. But because you were someone he loved. And he hated that someone had hurt you like that.

You looked down at your hands. “I’m not telling you because I want you to fix it. I’m not broken. I just… I wanted you to know. The reason why I flinch sometimes. Why I get quiet around certain things. Why I don’t like showing skin around my neck.”

There was a beat. Then Kalim’s hand, warm and gentle, reached over and settled lightly atop yours.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

You looked at him ,surprised, maybe.

He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was smaller. Deeper. “Thank you for trusting me with something that important. I know that wasn’t easy.”

You stared at him for a moment, the emotions tightening in your chest loosening just a little.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he said softly. “It’s wrong. All of it. You deserved love and freedom and safety, not to be treated like that. But I’m really, really glad you’re here now.”

You felt your throat tighten, but his hand didn’t let go.

“I don’t care what they tried to make you feel like,” he added, more firmly now. “You’re not a thing. You’re not something that can be marked or owned or priced. You’re you. And you’re incredible.”

You breathed out slowly, and Kalim smiled again, a little brighter. “If it ever feels like too much, like the memories are creeping in, you can tell me. Or not. We can just sit and talk about stars, or play a game, or dance. But you don’t ever have to hide around me.”

A long silence passed. Then, voice quieter than before, you asked, “Would you… would you like to see it?”

“..The brand?”

You nodded.

Kalim didn’t hesitate. “Only if you want to show me.”

You slowly reached up, pulling your collar to the side, exposing the lines burned faintly into your skin. They were cruel in their precision, manufactured, sharp, deliberate.

But Kalim didn’t look at them like they were ugly. He looked at them like they were something you lived through. Not what defined you, but what you had overcome.

“Okay,” he whispered after a moment. “Okay. I see you.”

He reached forward, gently,asking permission with his eyes. When you nodded, he touched your shoulder lightly. Not the mark. Just the space near it. A grounding touch.

“Thank you,” he said again. “For being here. For surviving. For still being you.”

You closed your eyes.

For once, the mark didn’t feel like it was burning through you.

For once, you felt held, not physically, but emotionally. Anchored by someone who saw all of you and still smiled, still reached for your hand.

Not because he didn’t see the damage.

But because he saw you, whole and living, in spite of it.

Jamil Viper

It wasn’t the kind of thing you planned to say. You didn’t sit down one morning and decide Today is the day I tell Jamil.

But that’s how these things go, isn’t it?

The conversation had started casually,something about plans for the winter holidays, your answers coming slower than usual. Jamil had noticed. He always noticed.

“You’ve been… quieter than usual,” he said, setting down the dish he’d been preparing with practiced ease. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t respond right away. Your hands were clenched a little too tightly in your lap. Jamil wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face you fully, brow slightly furrowed, not with annoyance but concern.

“Is it something I did?” he asked gently.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, then laughed once, dry and small. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to tell you. Because you’ve been so… safe.”

He tilted his head, curious, waiting.

You looked down, then at him again. “Jamil… there’s something about my past I haven’t told you.”

He said nothing. He didn’t rush you, didn’t ask the wrong questions. Just waited, present and listening.

“I was trafficked,” you said softly. “When I was younger. For a long time.”

Jamil didn’t speak. But you saw his body subtly shif, tension coiling in his shoulders, not at you, but at the idea of someone hurting you. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“They branded me,” you continued. “On the back of my neck. Like I was just another object on a shelf.”

You looked down, voice tighter now. “I know it’s not who I am. But it’s still there. I’ve spent years hiding it. Even here. Even from you.”

Silence again.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, maybe discomfort, maybe sympathy that felt too heavy. But Jamil just sighed, slow and deep.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That that happened to you.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t hollow. Just steady. Grounding.

You looked at him, and he met your gaze without flinching.

“I know what it’s like to be used. To feel like your life doesn’t belong to you. It’s not the same, I know that, but… I understand more than you might think.”

Your chest felt tight. His words weren’t designed to compare pain, just to show he understood how betrayal can linger in your bones. How even when you're free, some part of you still feels like you're chained to a past version of yourself.

“I don’t want your pity,” you said after a beat. “I just want you to know. I’m telling you because you matter. Because I don’t want to keep hiding parts of myself from someone I love.”

He nodded once. “I get it.”

There was a long pause, then he asked, with absolute care in his voice, “Do you want to show me the brand?”

You nodded, slowly, cautiously. Then reached back and tugged at the collar of your shirt. The mark was still there, faint but readable, a barcode etched into flesh. Nothing about it was artistic or symbolic just clinical, cruel.

Jamil’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.

He reached up slowly and rested his hand on your shoulder, just beside the scar.

“I see you.” he said. “Not the mark. Not what they did. You.”

Your breath trembled in your chest. You blinked quickly.

“You’ve survived something most people couldn’t imagine,” Jamil continued, voice low. “And you’re here. You still love. Still laugh. Still fight to exist. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

You managed a small smile, your throat still tight.

“I won’t pretend I know how to fix it,” he said. “But I’m not going anywhere. If you ever need space, or silence, or grounding, I’ll be here. On your terms.”

You nodded, and he leaned forward just slightly, brushing his forehead lightly to yours.

“No one gets to own you ever again,” he said.

And in the quiet after his words, with the sun warm through the windows and the smell of cumin and cardamom still in the air, you realized something:

He didn’t look at you like someone broken.

He looked at you like someone whole, still healing, still burning, still fighting and worth every second of the wait.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always admired control of one’s appearance, one’s surroundings, one’s narrative. But what he admired more, secretly, were the quiet moments when someone chose vulnerability. Not performative openness, but the trembling, real kind. The kind you didn’t rehearse.

It happened on a late afternoon, the two of you tucked in his dorm room. He was seated at his vanity, removing the last remnants of stage makeup from a photoshoot. You were behind him, curled on the chaise, reading something you hadn’t actually absorbed for the past ten minutes.a

Vil glanced at your reflection in the mirror, brows lifting just slightly. “You’re somewhere else,” he said, voice gentle.

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He nodded, not pressing. You loved that about him ,he never demanded you speak. He let you arrive at your own truths, your own time.

“I want to tell you something,” you said quietly, folding the corner of the page. “Something real.”

Vil turned on the stool, his expression softening. “I’m listening.”

There was a pause. Then you took a breath. “I was trafficked.”

His spine went straight in attention.

You continued. “It happened when I was younger. I was taken and… used. Sold like something you’d find with a price tag. It lasted years.”

His face didn’t change, but his hand tightened ever so slightly where it rested on his knee. That was all you needed,not a big reaction, just to be seen.

“They branded me,” you said. “Like I was a product. The kind of lines you’d see on an item in a store.”

Vil’s voice was quiet, but sure. “Where?”

You lifted the back of your collar and tilted your head forward, revealing the faint mark burned into your skin, clinical, dehumanizing. You felt air brush against it, and then silence. He didn’t rush to touch it. He didn’t try to look too long, either. He gave you space.

“I spent a long time hiding it,” you admitted. “From everyone. Even myself. I thought if no one saw it, I could pretend it wasn’t there. But… you deserve to know. Not because I want you to fix me , but because I don’t want to keep hiding from someone I trust.”

Vil’s eyes held yours, steady and full of something you couldn’t quite place, not pity. Not sorrow. Something warmer.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Your breath hitched slightly.

“I know you didn’t tell me this to be praised,” Vil continued, his voice a soft hum. “But it does take immense strength to say what you just said. That strength… is beautiful.”

You blinked, startled by the sincerity. He didn’t say it like someone trying to be poetic. He said it like someone who saw your scars and still thought you were the most breathtaking thing in the room.

“I don’t see you as damaged,” he said. “And I don’t want to erase what you’ve been through. That’s not love. I want to walk beside you, knowing what paths you’ve taken to stand here now.”

You felt yourself soften. Like you could finally exhale. Like maybe, just maybe, this moment wasn’t something heavy anymore. Just real. Just yours.

Vil rose from the stool and crossed the room, not reaching to touch until you nodded. Then his hand cradled the side of your neck not near the mark, but near your jaw, fingers warm and sure.

“You aren’t a product,” he whispered. “You are art. Living, healing, radiant art.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he held you there, neither of you speaking for a while. The sun dipped low outside, casting long shadows over the floor and for once, those shadows felt safe.

No stage. No act. Just you.

And the one person who looked at your truth and called it beautiful.

Idia Shroud

You didn’t plan to say it. Not that day, not that way.

But it was late, the kind of late where the quiet of Idia’s room made your thoughts feel louder. Blue light casting slow shadows, and you were both sitting on the floor in the mess of blankets and pillows you'd built over weeks of sleepovers-turned-permanent.

He was rambling about something,patch notes, maybe, or a theory about a boss fight — when he glanced over and paused. “You're zoning out again,” he said gently. “Brain battery low?”

You smiled a little, tired. “Not really. Just… a lot on my mind.”

His posture curled in a little, cautious. “Uh… I mean, no pressure to info dump, but I am listening. If you want.”

You looked at him.You'd come to know his tells: the nervous tug at his sleeves, the shift in his voice when he was trying to hide how much he cared. And he did care. That was the whole reason you were ready to say something.

“I’ve never told anyone at NRC,” you said slowly, “but I think I want to tell you.”

The flicker of blue flame dimmed for a second as he straightened slightly. “Okay.”

You took a breath. “When I was younger, I was trafficked. For a long time.”

He didn't move. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed very, very still, flame softening in color.

“They treated me like I wasn’t a person,” you said. “Just something to be owned. Sold. Used.”

Idia’s expression twitch before trying to get his composure back.

“They branded me,” you added. “Here.”

You reached up slowly and pulled your collar aside, revealing the faint, barcode-like tattoo just at the curve of your neck. It had faded with time, but the shape was unmistakable. A mark made to strip you of identity.

He didn’t stare. Didn’t say a single word.

Just… reached out, hesitantly, like you were a rare artifact that deserved reverence not because you were fragile, but because you were important. He didn’t touch your neck, only let his fingers hover nearby, letting you guide him.

You smiled softly. “You can touch it.”

His fingertips brushed your skin, careful and warm despite the slight tremble. You could feel the heat of his presence more than anything else.

“I wanted you to know,” you said. “Not because I need fixing, or pity. Just… because I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”

For a long moment, there was only the hum of his computer fans and the quiet pulse of LED lights.

Then, in a voice quieter than you’d ever heard him use, Idia said, “That was real-life final boss level. What you survived. And you're still here. Still you.”

You laughed, and something wobbled in it. “Yeah.”

His voice broke a little as he added, “It makes sense now. Why you flinch at certain sounds. Why you always need to see the exit. Why you freeze when someone touches your neck without asking.”

You nodded. You’d always thought you were hiding it well. Of course he noticed.

“I’m so proud of you .” he said, and it wasn’t performative, wasn’t big,it was just honest.

Then he looked down at your neck again and added, “I hate that it happened to you. If I could backtrack time and delete the whole damn timeline, I would.”

You touched his hand, still resting near your neck. “I know. But I’m not broken. Just… healing.”

He smiled ,a rare, quiet smile. “Well, you’re way cooler than any character arc I’ve ever seen, just so you know. And if anyone tries to make you feel like less than you are… I will hack their soul. Figuratively. Unless-no, never mind. Figuratively.”

You laughed again, for real this time. “I believe you.”

You curled up beside him, forehead against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. Holding you like you were something precious, not fragile. Something meant to be protected not pitied.

That night, he didn’t say much else. Just stayed close. Quiet and warm and real.

And in that safe little pocket of the world, under flickering blue lights and piles of shared blankets, you felt like yourself, no longer a product, no longer hiding. Just you.

And for once, that was enough.

Malleus Draconia

It wasn’t planned.

You’d gone out walking with Malleus again, as you often did on nights when your thoughts wouldn’t settle. There was comfort in the quiet of the campus after dark, the flicker of fireflies, the distant rustle of trees and in the presence of the fae prince beside you. He never demanded conversation, never filled the silence with small talk. He let you exist beside him, gently curious but never invasive.

Tonight, though… your silence felt heavier.

And he noticed.

“You are quiet, child of man,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “Quieter than usual.”

You hesitated. “I’m thinking. But I guess that’s obvious.”

He smiled faintly. “You know I do not require explanations. Yet I welcome them, if you wish to offer.”

There was a pause. You looked up at the sky,a thousand stars watching silently. Malleus stood beside you, tall and still and waiting. You had always wondered how he made the world feel so slowed down, so breathable.

So you spoke.

“I was trafficked. When I was younger.”

There was no reaction of horror, no gasping intake of breath. Just stillness. The wind suddenly shifted stronger through the trees.

“For years,” you added, voice quieter. “I was passed around. Bought, sold. It wasn’t… violent all the time. But I was treated like an object. Like I didn’t have a voice or a will.”

“I see.” Malleus said quietly.You could've sens that he was trying to keep his cool but the shift in the air betrayed him.

You exhaled slowly. “They gave me a mark. A brand. Here.”

Your hand went to your neck, that spot you always kept covered, even in your sleep. “It looks like a barcode. Or a product label. Just something to keep me catalogued.”

“May I see it?” he asked, gently.

You nodded, and slowly pulled back your collar. The night air touched your skin as the mark was exposed,faint now, healed long ago, but still there. Still real.

He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t crowd you. Malleus only gazed at it, a furrow between his brows.

And then, after a long moment, he asked, “May I speak freely?”

You nodded again.

“I do not understand the cruelty of humankind,” he said, voice low and heavy. “To mark a soul as a possession… to reduce a living being to a commodity… it is beneath even the foulest of our kind.”

You smiled, a little bitter. “It took me a long time to believe I was more than that.”

“You are,” he said, with a certainty that startled you. “You are light forged from shadow. You have carved your own existence from the ruins left by others. That is power, (Y/N). And no brand can steal that.”

Your breath hitched.

Then, softly, you asked, “Do you think… they’ll ever see me as someone whole? Not just someone surviving?”

His eyes met yours, green glowing gently in the moonlight.

“They may not,” he said. “But I do.”

That was the thing with Malleus. He didn’t overpromise. He didn’t say it would all be okay, or that the pain would disappear. He offered something better: honesty, reverence, and unwavering presence.

“I am proud of you,” he added, voice almost a whisper. “Not as one might be proud of a soldier or a survivor but as one is proud of a star that endures through storm, refusing to be dimmed.”

You felt yourself shake, just a little. Not from fear but from the sudden release of tension, of years spent hiding and hoping to be seen.

He stepped closer,slowly, giving you time and cupped your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb didn’t brush the brand, didn’t touch it at all. It lingered near your temple, grounding you, letting you decide how close was safe.

“You do not have to hide any part of yourself from me,” he said. “Even the scars they left behind. I will not look away.”

You pressed your forehead to his chest, heart beating hard beneath your ribs. And for the first time in a long, long while… you believed you were more than the mark on your skin. You were not what they made you. Not anymore.

Malleus’s arms wrapped around you carefully, protectively, not to fix, but to shield.

And under the stars, you let yourself be held.

Whole.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Could you possibly make a platonic fic where Heartslabyul meets riddles little sibling (the reader) who is 8 on a 'family comes to school' day but the reader refuses any candies or foods unless their mother says they can eat the food/sweet treat? (Basically the reader is Mrs. Rosehearts perfect child who obeys all the rules and Basically only listens to their mother)

Riddle's little sister

“Stand up straight. Don’t slouch. Don’t wander. And do not eat anything inappropriate.”

Those were your mother’s parting instructions before you even stepped foot in Heartslabyul. Her tone had been tight.

You nodded solemnly. You always did. Because unlike some people, you didn’t bend rules. You didn’t even look at them sideways. That was how Mother raised you. And Mother was never wrong.

So when the gates of Heartslabyul opened wide and a pastel wave of decorations, sweets, and overly enthusiastic teenagers rushed in your direction, you clutched your brother’s sleeve tightly and blinked up at the unfamiliar chaos.

“Oh my sevens,” Cater cooed, already crouching down to your height with a phone in hand. “Riddle, you didn’t tell us your sibling was this adorable. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You looked at him. You looked at the phone. You looked at Riddle.

“Is he allowed to take my picture?” you asked seriously, brows furrowed.

Riddle opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked vaguely panicked.

“…Only if it’s for school records,” you clarified. “Mother said I shouldn’t have pictures online unless she approves them first.”

Cater’s grin faltered just a bit. “Okaaay, little Rosehearts junior’s got boundaries. Noted.”

Trey stepped in next, kindly as ever, offering you a small tart topped with fresh fruit. “Would you like one? I made these for the families visiting today.”

You stared at the tart. It looked delicious. It smelled delicious.

But you shook your head and took a step back, voice polite but firm.

“I’m not allowed to eat anything unless Mother says I can.”

Riddle made a sound like he was about to die on the spot.

“Y-you can have one,” he insisted. “I’m saying it’s alright.”

You turned toward him.

“But you’re not Mother.”

The other Heartslabyul boys looked so defeated.

“Riddle,” Ace whispered under his breath, snickering, “is that what you sounded like as a kid?”

Riddle snapped, red as a tomato. “Ace if you don't-”

You didn’t react to the teasing. You stood there, back straight, hands folded neatly in front of you like a little noble. Watching. Waiting. Obeying. You weren’t here to cause trouble. You were here because it was proper to support your brother.

Even if he looked like he might evaporate.

Eventually, Deuce tried too. He knelt down, holding out a candy in a crinkly wrapper with a sheepish smile. “I promise this one’s safe. I checked. You really can’t have just one little piece?”

Your tone didn’t waver. “No, thank you. But I’ll take one to bring home if Mother says yes later.”

The candy was returned. Deuce looked mildly defeated.

But then, you did something strange.

You tugged gently on Riddle’s sleeve, leaned close, and whispered something only he could hear.

“I’m proud of you for being Housewarden. Mother says that's a very respectable title.”

Riddle went completely still.

The tension in his shoulders faded just a little. His face softened,not just from surprise, but something warm. A little sad.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly. “That means more than you know.”

You gave him a bright smile.

Then stood straight again.

Because Mother said good posture made good impressions.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

This is my first ask from you so I hope it’s not too much but may I request Idia with jinx!yuu?

I think they would bounce off each other really well jinx!yuu is extremely smart despite her circumstances (with proper education that girl can solve world hunger, I swear) also they both lost younger sibling figures (Iesha, ortho)

and they would probably both help each other “issues” physical and mental I mean, jinx!yuu would probably drag Idia out whether he liked it or not and she’s so bold that most likely people into public situations with eyes on her and he’s right next to her so eyes on him too (honestly like with Iesha, she would probably have less hallucinations with him)

And there’s no way in hell he would let her stay malnourished

Sorry for rambling. It’s just a really cute dynamic That has infected my brain.

FEEL FREE TO IGNORE/DELETE THIS!!!

Idia with jinx!reader

I hope it doesn't bother you but I did a mix of Jinx characters in season 1 and season 2 !

It wasn’t love at first sight.

Far from it actually.Idia had tried to avoid you like the plague.

You were a wildfire in a world of glass. Unapologetically loud, bold, and unpredictable. You wore your trauma like warpaint,bright blue, impossible to ignore. You laughed too hard, joked at all the wrong times, and stared into danger like it owed you something.

You terrified him.

And that only made him feel worse. Because it wasn’t your fault,whatever you’d been through before ending up at NRC had carved deep scars into you, and sometimes those scars split open when nobody was ready. He could see it. He knew how it felt.

But that didn’t stop the fear. It just made it quieter. More familiar.

So, he avoided you. For a while.

But you?

You found his lab. Started hanging around, poking at his tech, asking how things worked with that offhand brilliance that left him blinking. You understood mana flow and circuitry the same way you understood chaos: naturally, intimately.

Idia didn’t realize when the fear faded. One day, it was just… gone. Replaced by wary fascination. Then by tentative comfort. Then something warmer, heavier, harder to name.

You didn’t treat him like he was weirdo.

You didn’t try to fix him. Didn’t flinch when he stumbled through his words or disappeared for days. You teased him constantly,loud, relentless, merciless but always with a spark in your eyes and a gentleness when his voice failed him. You’d threaten anyone who looked at him the wrong way, joke about blowing up the cafeteria, and tell Malleus to “take a hike, thunderstorm prince” if he annoyed you.

And in return… he made sure you ate.

The first time he actually saw how thin you really were he almost deleted half his codebase in a panic. After that, he started making sure you were fed. Bento boxes (made by Ortho) appeared beside your pile of parts. Energy bars in your coat pockets. Hot soup waiting in his room, labeled with sticky notes that said “EAT. Or ELSE.” in shaky handwriting.

You rolled your eyes. Called him a grandma. Tried to throw a wrench at him once

He learned to approach slowly, especially when you were twitchy. Learned to hum softly when the hallucinations came back, so you’d have something real to follow. And when you curled up in his room in the middle of the night, too quiet, he didn’t ask what you were seeing. He just lay down beside you, and stayed.

In return, you dragged him outside.

Not always physically but sometimes, yeah. More often, you pulled him out of his shell by just existing so loudly beside him. You made him visible. You made him real. You pulled him into missions, arguments, trouble, and long nights of building things that shouldn’t exist. You dreamed recklessly. He calculated obsessively. And somehow, it worked.

You held his hand in public like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You still fought sometimes. Still misunderstood each other. You would vanish for days when the world got too loud in your head. He would shut down after overload. But you always came back. You chose to come back.

Because you both knew,healing wasn’t pretty. It didn’t happen in quiet epiphanies and glowing lights.

Sometimes healing was screaming in the kitchen because someone forgot to eat. Sometimes it was holding hands too tightly. Sometimes it was sitting on the floor in silence, holding someone who couldn’t stop shaking, and not trying to make it go away. Just being there.

Sometimes it was you, beaming through the crowd with blue braids swinging, dragging Idia into a situation he definitely didn’t want to be in until he looked at you and remembered why he followed in the first place.

Healing was messy. Loud. Chaotic.

But it was yours.

And neither of you were alone.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hi! Can you please do a twst housewardens + jamil reaction to their s/o telling them about their past before twisted wonderland(alien stage, luka)?

Houswarden+ Jamil with Luka!reader

I'm new to alien stage so sorry for any errors! I hate so much how I did Luka!reader character, I didn't know how to write correctly for Luka.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle always knew there was something different about you. You carried yourself with such grace, always calm, always composed,even when the world crumbled around you. There was a faint, practiced elegance to your smile, like someone who had learned to polish every edge of their soul until it shined.

He thought it was just your nature.

Until the night you finally told him the truth.

It wasn’t easy. You’d been holding it in for weeks, maybe months. Maybe longer. But Riddle had proven himself to be steady, patient,he’d earned your trust, piece by piece, never once rushing you to explain what he called the “mystery” of you.

And so, one evening under a sky of stars too calm to be real, you finally spoke.

You told him of a world where Earth was no longer yours. Where alien beings, strange, cold,had turned humanity into playthings. Pets.

And you?

You had been one of the “lucky ones.The pretty, poised, perfect boy loved by the camera and adored by the crowd. You had a voice they couldn’t ignore, charm they couldn’t kill, and a smile that always reached your eyes,even when it shouldn’t have.

“You had to keep smiling,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. “Because if they stopped liking you, you died.”

Riddle didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

His hands, however, trembled. Just a little.

You went on, detailing the Alien Stage,the sick, deadly spectacle that passed for entertainment. You explained how each round meant another performance. Another life taken. Another fake cheer.

You learned to act. To scheme. To dazzle.

To survive.

“I had to become someone they loved. Not just liked,loved. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

You paused. And when you looked up to see Riddle’s expression, something in you ached.

His face was pale. His lips parted. And for the first time since you'd met him, Riddle Rosehearts looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“I-” he swallowed. “You... lived like that? You had to perform just to stay alive?”

You nodded slowly.

“And you’re telling me this now, after everything we’ve been through?”

Another nod.

“I see,” he whispered.

And then he stood up, almost too fast, and turned away.

You thought he might be angry. Disgusted. That he’d see you as fake,someone built on manipulation and applause.

You rose halfway, panic creeping into your chest.

“Riddle?”

He didn’t turn around.

“I need a moment,” he said, his voice tight. “Not because I’m angry at you, never. But because I’ve never wanted to hurt someone more than I want to hurt the people who did this to you.”

You froze.

Riddle ran a hand through his hair, then turned back, his eyes burning,not with rage, but with something even deeper. Sorrow. Respect. Love.

“You smiled through that ?” he whispered. “You stood on a stage where your life was on the line, and you kept smiling?”

You nodded, your voice cracking. “It was either that… or die.”

He stepped forward then. Not with the rigidity he was known for, but with rare gentleness, cradling your face in his gloved hands.

“Then I don’t want that smile if it’s fake,” he murmured. “Not from you. Never from you.”

You blinked, and for the first time in a long time, you let your mask fall. Just a little.

“I don’t smile like that anymore,” you said, voice shaking. “Now, I smile because I’m with you.”

And Riddle,strict, perfectionist, rule-bound Riddle didn’t scold you for hiding it. Didn’t demand an explanation.

He only pulled you close and pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering against your skin:

“Then let me be the reason you never have to wear that mask again.”

After that night:

Riddle never again forces you to present yourself a certain way. He corrects others who speak over you or try to put you in a spotlight you don’t want.

He takes the time to learn your real smile, the one that appears in soft moments, not on stage.

If you ever hum a melody from your past, he listens. Closely. Reverently. Like it’s sacred.

On your worst nights,when memories come flooding back,he doesn’t try to fix it. He simply stays. Wraps a blanket around you. Makes tea. Reads aloud from his favorite book trying to distract you until you fall asleep, holding your hand.

He’s not perfect. Sometimes his overprotectiveness kicks in too hard. But he’s learning.

He doesn’t see you as broken.

He sees you as brilliant,a survivor, a person who rose from cruelty and learned how to love again.

And that, to him, is worth more than any rulebook ever written.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona had always admired your composure, though he’d never say it aloud. You were calm without being uptight, clever without being arrogant. You didn’t beg for attention, didn’t play game,yet when you smiled, it was like watching someone strike a match in a dark room.

Too perfect. Too polished.

He figured you'd gone through some things. Most people at NRC had. But he never pushed. Never asked. He respected your silence.

So when you finally told him,told him everything,he listened with an intensity you didn’t expect from the lion who always seemed to nap through his emotions.

You didn’t sugarcoat it. You spoke plainly, factually,like you’d memorized your own trauma until it became a script.

“My world was taken over,” you began, voice quiet. “By beings who saw humans as... less. Pets. Toys. Entertainment. We weren’t people to them.”

Leona’s ear twitched.

You went on. About the Alien Stage. About how “perform or die” wasn’t just a metaphor. How smiles were weapons and songs were your only shield. You told him how you became you, the bright, sparkling person no one could kill because the audience loved him too much.

“I became someone they couldn’t afford to eliminate,” you said flatly. “Someone beautiful. Memorable.”

You weren’t sure what reaction to expect. Disbelief? Pity?

What you got was silence. Heavy, dense silence. Leona wasn’t looking at you, but his jaw was tight, his golden eyes hard as flint.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

“You’re telling me... people had to sing for their lives? Like circus animals.”

You nodded.

“And the people watching… they cheered for it?”

“Loved it.”

Leona growled under his breath.

You tensed,not out of fear, but because no one had ever reacted like that. Most people just looked sad. Apologetic.

Not furious.

Then Leona looked at you,really looked at you. Not with laziness or mockery, but with the eyes of a man who understood what it was to be forced into a role you didn’t choose.

“You were a weapon,” he said. “A weapon made out of light and mirrors. And they still tried to break you.”

You blinked, heart thudding.

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair.

“They’re lucky they’re in your world and not mine. Because if I ever saw someone force you to smile like that again, I’d make damn sure they never smiled again.”

After that moment:

Leona doesn’t coddle you. That’s not his style. But he makes it very clear that he doesn’t expect perfection from you. Not here. Not with him.

“You don’t gotta shine here, herbivore. You just gotta be.”

If you have a bad night,if memories surface and you spiral,he’s a quiet, grounding presence. No talking, no questions. He’ll just let you rest beside him, his tail curling loosely around you while his fingers run through your hair.

He doesn’t praise your strength like a hero. Instead, he acknowledges the ugliness of what you survived and respects the cunning it took to make it out alive.

On rare occasions, he’ll mutter something like, “You did what you had to. Doesn’t mean you gotta carry it forever.”

He becomes incredibly attuned to your boundaries. If you don’t want to perform, don’t want to be watched, don’t want to smile,he’ll cover for you. He doesn’t ask why.

He’ll also get irrationally angry if anyone comments on your appearance or performance skills. To Leona, that past is sacred, yours, and nobody gets to touch it but you.

You once asked him if he thought less of you for using charm and manipulation to survive.

Leona just snorted.

“Are you kidding? You turned the game around on the people who made the rules. That’s not weakness, herbivore. That’s power.”

And when you smiled,really smiled,just for him, he pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple, and murmured, almost too softly to hear:

“Don’t ever lose that. But don’t ever fake it for anyone again.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul always prided himself on understanding people. Their wants. Their fears. Their desperation. That’s what made him such a good businessman: everyone needed something, and Azul knew exactly how to fill that need for a price.

But you… you were different. He could never quite read you fully. You were charismatic, but not in a flashy way. Charming, but never manipulative. It felt too natural, too effortless. Yet every time you smiled, even he,someone used to masks,could feel the weight of it.

Like it had been worn too long.

He noticed the cracks before you told him. The haunted glint in your eyes when people clapped. How your shoulders stiffened every time he praised your “stage presence.” The way you downplayed your talents like they weren’t something to be proud of but something to survive.

One rainy evening, in the quiet of the Mostro Lounge after hours, you told him.

You started with a simple sentence.

“I didn’t come from a world like this.”

Azul blinked behind his glasses, setting down his pen.

You explained: the alien invasion, the fall of Earth, the Alien Stage. The cruel competition. The performances. The suffocating pressure to be loved by the audience or be discarded,erased.

You told him about you.The human who survived round after round because he learned how to make himself indispensable.

“People died if the crowd didn't like them enough.” you said, voice hollow. “So I became their favorite.”

Azul didn’t interrupt. Not once. His knuckles were white from gripping his pen, but he didn’t speak until you were done.

When you finished,when you looked at him, vulnerable, waiting for the disgust, the rejection, the fear,he only stared. And then he stood.

“…I’m not angry at you,” he said, voice tight. “I’m angry at them.”

You watched as he moved to stand in front of you, as if shielding you from shadows that no longer existed.

“To force childre-anyone to fight for approval like that… it’s monstrous,” he muttered. “No wonder you flinched when I complimented your charisma. I…” He exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“I praised the very thing they weaponized.”

You shook your head quickly. “No. You didn’t know. And you never used it against me. That’s the difference.”

Azul lowered himself to your level. Sat beside you on the plush couch and reached for your hand. His was cold,but trembling slightly.

“I was mocked. Shamed. Cast out. But no one ever tried to kill me for not being good enough,” he murmured. “You went through so much more than I did, and yet… you smile brighter than anyone I’ve ever met.”

You tried to joke “well, smiling was a survival strategy-”but he didn’t laugh.

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours.

“You never have to perform for me,” he whispered. “Not ever again. If you want to scream, scream. If you want to fall apart, I’ll help pick up the pieces. You’re you. And I will never make you feel like you have to earn your right to exist.”

After that night:

Azul becomes fiercely protective, in his quiet, calculating way. If anyone so much as teases you for being “overly charming” or “too likable,” they’ll find themselves banned from the Lounge or facing legalese so dense they’ll forget what language they speak.

He starts showing affection in softer ways: bringing you herbal teas or giving you private space where you can just exist without lights, without attention.

When you sing or speak in your Luka voice, he listens with respect,but he never asks for it. Never demands you perform. It’s yours. Not his.

Azul does research on your world, obsessively so. He won’t say it aloud, but he’s trying to understand you better,what you survived, how you thought, how you felt. If he could dismantle the entire Alien Stage system with a contract, he would.

In your private moments, when you’re curled together in the quiet, Azul sometimes asks, “How do you feel today?” Not out of obligation but because he genuinely wants to know who you are outside the stage.

“You survived the most twisted kind of audience,” he once said, voice barely a whisper against your skin. “You don’t have to win anyone’s approval anymore. Least of all mine.”

You smiled. A soft, real smile.

And for the first time, Azul saw it:

Not a performer.

Not a survivor trying to stay pretty enough to live.

Just you.

And he fell in love all over again.

Kalim Al Asim

You always wondered how Kalim would react.

He’s pure sunlight, after all. Warm laughter, glittering eyes, arms always open wide. The kind of person who genuinely believes that kindness can fix the world. That love is enough.

And you…? You’d spent your life performing for an audience that would kill you if they got bored.

So when you told him,when you finally looked him in the eye and said, “Back in my world, I only lived because I was useful entertainment.”you expected confusion. Maybe even pity.

But what you got was something very different.

“No way…” Kalim whispered, wide-eyed.

You braced yourself.

“…That’s awful!” he exclaimed, almost outraged. “That’s so… wrong! You had to live like that? That’s not fair at all!”

And then, without any hesitation, he rushed toward you and pulled you into a crushing hug. You froze. Not out of fear,just shock. That he didn’t ask questions. That he didn’t hesitate. That he didn’t even seem to care about the “performance” part.

“You’re not there anymore,” he said into your shoulder. “You don’t have to do that ever again.”

You were silent for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“Even if that performance is why people like me?”

Kalim pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His expression was serious,rare but always sincere when it happened.

“I don’t like you because of how you perform,” he said. “I like you because you’re you. You’re funny, and brave, and honest, and okay, yeah, you’re amazing on stage but that’s just one part of you. And you don’t owe that part to anyone.”

You didn’t even realize how badly you needed to hear those words.

Kalim noticed immediately.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” he soothed, cupping your face gently. “You don’t have to be strong right now. I can be strong for you.”

After that:

Kalim insists on helping you unlearn the idea that you always have to be “on.” He doesn’t expect you to be happy all the time. If you’re quiet, he sits with you. If you’re upset, he listens,really listens.

He tries to make you laugh in the simplest, most genuine ways. Not to fix you, but to remind you that joy doesn’t have to be earned.

If you ever perform for fun, Kalim watches with stars in his eyes but he always makes sure to check in after: “Did you want to do that? Or did you feel like you had to?”

He holds you like you’re fragile,not because you’re weak, but because you’ve been broken before and deserve to be held gently.

One night, you told him that part of you still feels like your constantly on stage. Still feels like a mask you can’t quite take off.

And Kalim just smiled, resting his forehead to yours.

“Then I’ll help you find the real you underneath. I’m not in any rush.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil had always known there was more to you than you let on.

You were too careful. Too measured.

You smiled when you were supposed to. Reacted perfectly to every situation. Not too cold, not too warm. But never fully real.

He knew because he was the same.

So when you finally decided to tell him,late at night, no lights on, your voice low and mechanical like you were reading off a script he didn’t interrupt.Just listened.

You told him about the Stage. The auctions. The competition. The way you were bred, trained, raised to be an obedient performer for the aliens’ amusement. About Heperu, your "owner".

The person you became to survive.

When you stopped talking, there was a long pause.

Jamil exhaled slowly.

“…That’s why you never let your guard down.”

You didn’t respond.

“…That’s why you get uncomfortable when I compliment you. And why you mimic people sometimes, when you’re not even aware of it.”

Still silence. Your fists clenched.

“…You didn’t just survive. You were forced to become someone else. Not to live but to perform.”

The words were quiet, but sharp. Honest.

Then, softer: “That wasn’t your fault.”

You turned to him. Your expression didn’t change but your eyes were flickering. Unstable. Childlike.

Your shoulders shook and you let yourself rest your forehead against him without calculating the angle, the optics, the meaning.

Just warmth.

After that moment:

Jamil keeps your secret. Not just because it’s dangerous, but because he knows how sacred it is. He treats it with reverence.

He never rushes you. If you act cold or manipulative out of habit, he’ll quietly call you out, not to hurt you, but to remind you: You don’t need those tools here. You’re safe now.

He teaches you how to cook with no performance expectations. “Mess it up. Burn it. I don’t care. Just try it as you.”

If anyone tries to emotionally manipulate or control you, he sees it instantly and shuts it down. Mercilessly.

There’s one moment where you try to seduce him emotionally, like you did on stage,perfect smile, honeyed voice, playing a role.

And Jamil just says, “You don’t have to play a part. I already chose you.”

That’s what breaks the mask.

He sees you,the broken, sharp, guarded person trying to find peace.

And he stays. Not because he pities you. But because he understands you

“You’re not a showpiece here,” he says, lips brushing your temple.

“You’re real. That’s what I love.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil knew perfection when he saw it. And you, at first glance, were the very image of it.

Your expressions were precise. Your posture flawless. Your voice could melt a crowd or silence it. You were captivating.

But Vil was too experienced,too aware,to be fooled for long.

Because beneath the perfect mask, your eyes were empty. Not tired. Not bored. Empty. Like someone had drained the soul from them and painted on a smile.

He had asked you once, gently, “Who taught you to wear yourself like a costume?”

You didn’t answer.

Until one evening, in your room .

You told him about the “entertainer” bred like a caged bird.The way your whole life was a test, a show, a death sentence waiting to be triggered by a misstep. The way your worth was determined by how well you pretended to be human.

You spoke in cold, matter-of-fact tones, like a survivor recalling someone else’s story.

Vil didn’t say a word until you finished.

Then quietly,he said:

“They called that entertainment?”

For a moment, you thought he was angry at you. But then you saw it: the tension in his jaw, the fire behind his eyes.

Vil wasn’t disgusted with you.

He was furious for you.

“No wonder you’re so precise. Every gesture… rehearsed. Every smile, calculated. You weren’t taught to live. You were taught to survive in a theater of cruelty.”

He stepped forward and cupped your face not possessively, but firmly.

“You are not a circus animal.”

You blinked. “But that’s what I am. What I was made to be.”

“No,” he said sharply. “That’s what they forced you to be. There’s a difference.”

After that moment:

Vil changes how he speaks to you. He compliments you, not your performance. “You looked beautiful today.” not because of what you wore, but how you breathed. How you existed freely.

He becomes your fiercest defender, both emotionally and socially. Anyone who pressures you into being “on” all the time gets immediately cut off,his sharp tongue is vicious when protecting what he treasures.

He slowly re-teaches you what beauty is. Not what gains approval but what makes you feel real.

“You’re not just beautiful because you were trained to be,” Vil whispers one evening, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You’re beautiful because you endured. And now, fially… you get to choose who you become.”

Idia Shroud

Idia had always thought you were… a little too perfect.

Not in the way normies on Magicam would worship influencers, but in that eerie, uncanny, “is this person even real?” kind of way.

Your movements were always deliberate. You knew what people wanted to hear, and you gave it to them like flipping a switch. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get mad. You just smiled when appropriate, blinked when necessary, and existed like someone playing a carefully programmed NPC.

Which ironically was exactly what made Idia obsess over you.

Still, when you finally told him your truth who you really were he wasn’t ready.

You sat together in his room, knees touching. Ortho was out for a maintenance scan. The only light came from his RGB gaming setup and your gently glowing Magestone.

And in that soft, cold light, you told him everything.

The auctions.. The fact that you were property, trained to entertain or be disposed of. That your whole being was being a product. That your personality was curated. That your humanity was never acknowledged only acted out.

And that you didn’t know who you were outside of that stage.

Idia didn’t say anything at first. He just stared,his fire-hair dimming to a soft, ghostly blue.

“…You were forced to live like a livestream for monsters.”

“That’s what it sounds like,” he muttered, fidgeting with his hoodie strings. “Like your life was a 24/7 Twitch stream with zero privacy and the threat of death if you dropped in viewer count.”

He swallowed, then quietly added:

“I would’ve hated it too.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t used to people getting it. Not really.

After that moment:

Idia becomes extremely protective of your privacy. He adds triple firewalls to all your devices and insists you have total control over what you share even with him.

He never forces vulnerability. If you want to talk, he listens,no analysis, no pep talk. Just raw data processing and gentle murmurs like, “Yeah. That makes sense,” or “That’s messed up.”

He shows you his real unfiltered self often,messy hair, rambling rants, ugly sobbing over his favorite anime deaths not to make you do the same, but to prove it’s okay to exist unedited.

One night, you whisper:

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me? That I can’t… feel things properly?”

And Idia, half-asleep, mumbles:

“There’s nothing wrong with your code. It just got corrupted by trash devs. We’ll debug it together, okay?”

Malleus Draconia

You hadn’t meant to tell him. Not that night.

But there was something about the garden in Diasomnia when the fireflies came.That made you feel like maybe you could. Like you should.

Malleus had always had that effect on you,calm, patient, impossibly old yet still so curious. The way he looked at you made you feel like you were a riddle he longed to understand, not unravel. A mystery worth holding.

So you spoke.

You told him the truth. About the stages. The cameras. The audiences who watched you like you were less of a person and more of a performance to be consumed. You told him about how they stripped your name and gave you one that would sell. Luka. A fabricated persona, polished and sharpened for profit.

You told him about the pressure, the fear, the isolation. How even your emotions were manufactured. How your pain was marketed. How you were called lucky. How sometimes… you still believed that.

When you finished, there was silence. The wind had died. The trees around the garden stood still.

Malleus’s eyes glowed softly in the dim. He didn’t speak right away. But you could feel something ancient stirring in him.

“They did that to you?”

You nodded once.

His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “And you believed you were fortunate?”

You didn’t look at him. “That’s what they told me. That I had value. That I mattered. Only when I sang, of course. Only when I smiled the right way. But still… that’s more than most got.”

The tension around you thickened. Not from you,from him. His magic bled into the air like fog before a storm. The fireflies fled. The sky pulsed.

“You are not something to be bought,” he said at last, his voice low and shaking. “You are not a puppet, nor a mask. And they,those who caged you should be turned to dust for daring to take your name, your soul, your freedom.”

You blinked, startled by the rage. Not because it scared you it didn’t. But because no one had ever been angry for you before. Not like this. Not with such raw, righteous fury.

His hand reached for yours. Gentle. Open.

“If you don’t know who you are yet… then I’ll wait. I’ll walk beside you until you remember. Or reinvent yourself. Or destroy every mask they forced on you. Whatever you choose, I will be there.”

You couldn’t stop the way your breath hitched. Or the way your hand trembled as you placed it in his.

Malleus’s fingers curled around yours with reverent care. As if even now, he was afraid to break something precious.

“You are not a song on repeat,” he said. “You are not a spectacle. You are not an echo. You are real. Let me help you believe that.”

And in that moment,fragile and honest under a sky too wide for old wounds you finally started to believe it too.

After that:

After that moment, Malleus treated you differently. Not out of pity. Never that. But with a protectiveness so fierce it nearly scared you.

He never spoke about your past again unless you brought it up. And when you did, it wasn’t with guilt or curiosity,it was with quiet reverence, like he was standing at the grave of someone you’d once been, mourning what had been stolen but grateful for what still remained.

He began to memorize the little things. The way you liked your tea. The small jokes you used to make but stopped, thinking they weren’t “right.” He encouraged you to sing, not for an audience, not for approval but for yourself.

And when you had nightmares,when the lights and screams and manufactured smiles bled back into your sleep,he’d be there. Always. Silent, calm, his hand in yours, his magic like a quiet heartbeat around you. He’d whisper ancient lullabies no one else remembered, stories of dragons and lonely gods who learned to love again.

Sometimes he’d stare at you when you didn’t notice, something aching and tender in his eyes.

Once, you asked, “What is it?”

He’d smiled, soft and quiet. “I’m watching you become real.”

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hi! How's it going? I'm going through withdrawal. I need a dose of Lilia. Can you please write about a date with a reader? Something with the boys in Diasomnia, where Lilia goes somewhere without them for the first time in her life. I guess they're not used to him having a private life and are shocked for the first time, "Where are you going? To a cafe? Yay, we're getting dressed already. Why are we staying home...?"(help, I don't know how to describe the plot in English 😔)

A date With Lilia (and not them)

For most of his long life, Lilia Vanrouge had always been part of something larger. A general. A father. A guardian. A mentor. A watchful figure lingering in the corners of someone else’s story.

But lately… he’d wanted something different.

Not duty. Not tradition. Not the comforting, exhausting cycle of raising the next generation.

Just you.

So when he slipped into a neatly buttoned shirt crimson, did his most charming make up and combed through his hair neatly for once, the boys of Diasomnia took notice.

“…You’re dressed nicely,where are you going ?” Silver said with a tone neutral .

Lilia smiled, brushing a hand through his hair again. “Hmm? Oh, thank you! A café in town.”

“Where?” Sebek demanded, already rising. “Do you require an escort?!”

Malleus looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t mind some tea. It’s been a while since we’ve gone out as a dorm.”

“I’m going alone,” Lilia said simply.

They all stopped.

“…Alone?” Sebek echoed, like the word offended him.

Lilia chuckled. “Yes. I do know how to walk unaccompanied, you know.”

Silver leaned forward. “Are you meeting someone?”

There was a pause. Then:

“I am.”

Silence.

Sebek went pale. “Are you being blackmailed?”

“Sebek, please,” Lilia snorted. “Can’t an old man go on a date without someone assuming extortion?”

“You said date?” Malleus asked slowly.

Lilia smiled,not teasingly, but soft, real. “Yes. A proper one. Just… me. And them.”

He left them behind with a wave, ignoring the anxious energy in the common room like it was static dust in the wind.

The café was warm, dimly lit, and mercifully quiet. You looked radiant in the candlelight, a comforting presence that grounded him in the now.

He took your hand over the table with a reverence you weren’t quite used to seeing from the ever-joking general.

“You really left them behind?” you teased, swirling your tea.

“Mm.” He traced your knuckles lightly. “Sebek looked like he was about to faint. I almost felt guilty.”

“You’re allowed a life.”

“That’s the part I’m still getting used to,” he said quietly.

There was a weight behind the smile he gave you, something that hinted at centuries of carrying others and never once wondering if he was allowed to keep anything for himself. But he had chosen you. This quiet moment. A world not ruled by duty.

Your thumb brushed his palm. “So… what do you want now?”

He leaned forward, gaze lidded, voice low. “You.”

The rest of the world dissolved.

Lilia rarely sat still for long, but tonight, he lingered. Every moment seemed stretched in golden thread,delicate, fragile, suspended in a space where time didn’t rush or claw at him like it always had before. You watched as he lifted his teacup with his free hand, pinky ever so slightly raised, elegant even in casual settings.

“I’m surprised,” you murmured. “You didn’t bring some strange, experimental food.”

He laughed, low and warm. “I considered it. Then I realized, for once, I didn’t want tonight to be about putting on a show.”

He said it with a smile, but his gaze was focused. Unflinching. Honest in a way that startled you a little.

“It’s just tea,” you said softly, lifting your cup in return. “But I’m glad it’s with you.”

“You’ve no idea how rare that is,” he replied, voice dropping, more to himself than to you. “To sit across from someone and not feel the centuries between us like a wall.”

You leaned on the table, elbow propped and eyes locked with his. “Then tell me something true. No teasing, no riddles.”

He hesitated, which was rare. Then he said, “I was scared to ask you out tonight.”

“…You?”

“I may be old, but even I have moments where I wonder if I've earned something or if I’m simply reaching for things that were never meant to be mine.”

Your breath hitched, but your hand never left his. “Lilia… you don’t have to earn this. You already have.”

A beat passed. Then he smiled, slowly, like spring breaking over frost. “You’re dangerously good at ruining my composure.”

“You can tease again now.”

He laughed, head thrown back. The sound wrapped around you like velvet.

Dinner came and went in a rhythm that felt natural,he let you taste from his plate, you wiped sauce from his lip, he muttered something suggestive and grinned when you rolled your eyes. The waitress brought dessert with a wink, clearly invested in whatever magic had bloomed between you. Lilia, true to form, fed you the first bite of cake himself, deliberately brushing your lips with the fork.

Later, when the café had thinned out and the tea had gone lukewarm, he stood and offered you his arm with such gallant formality that it made you laugh.

“Come,” he said softly, leaning close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Let me walk you home like someone who still believes in romance.”

You took his arm without hesitation.

He didn't look back once.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

May I request some Malleus x Asian dragon reader? I just think the contrast between a western dragon and an asian dragon is neat

Asian dragon reader x Malleus

I’m not very familiar with Asian dragons, but I did my best to research about them them,sorry if I got anything wrong.Feel free to correct me!

Everyone knows who Malleus Draconia is.

A prince of thorns, shadowed by stormclouds and legacy, feared and revered in equal measure. The horned fae, the dragon of Diasomnia, heir to a kingdom most only speak of in hushed awe.

And you?

You are something older.

Not feared, not whispered of, revered. A whisper in the wind, a shimmer of scales gliding between the clouds. A celestial serpent, a creature of rain and sky, called by ancient temples and children’s prayers for rain.

You and Malleus are both dragons, yes. But you are night and dawn. Fire and river. Thunder and rain.

You meet at Night Raven College , you, summoned by strange magic you’ve never quite trusted, and Malleus, watching from the shadows with curious green eyes. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was the pull of your shared natures. But it doesn’t take long before you’re drawn to each other,not by the ferocity of your power, but by the loneliness beneath it.

And now?

Now, he rests his head on your shoulder as you both sit in the spires of Diasomnia’s tallest tower, silent save for the quiet wind brushing against your horns.

"You’re warm tonight," you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. "You always say that. You’re the one who's cold like cloudwater."

You turn your head to look at him, elegant, regal. His eyes glow faintly in the darkness, but they soften when he gazes at you.

“You burn like wildfire,” you say. “I glide like mist. You were raised to cast shadows. I was raised to clear skies.”

And he smiles at that, not the polite prince’s smile, but the one only you get to see. Soft. Secret. Full of something that borders reverence.

“Opposites,” he says. “Yet here we are.”

It’s not always easy.

There are moments when he rages,when centuries of solitude and misunderstanding claw at him like ghosts. When his temper crackles in the air and the world remembers why fae are feared.

But you, ancient and serene, don’t flinch.

Instead, you wrap yourself around him, coils and breath and calm. You press your forehead to his and whisper, “Storms pass. They always do.”

He clings to your voice like it’s a prayer.

And there are times you falter, too. When you’re lost in memories of temples long crumbled, of people who once knelt to offer offerings.You wonder if you’re still needed. Still wanted.

“Your divinity never needed belief,” Malleus says one night, when he finds you staring at the sky with distant eyes. “You shine, whether anyone is watching or not.”

He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, and you lean into it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

“You found me,” you whisper. “When I thought I’d drift forever.”

In your dragon forms, the difference is even starker.

He is massive, winged and imposing, fire and smoke and ancient wrath.

You are long and serpentine, without wings, moving through air as if it’s water, trailing stars with every movement.

When you fly together, you are yin and yang,the sky splits with thunder and clears behind you with rainbows. Watching you together is like witnessing the balance of nature itself. Malleus, fierce and quiet. You, gentle and eternal.

He tells you stories of Briar Valley. You tell him tales from the clouds, of mountains that cry, of dragons who live in the rivers and whisper to fishermen. He listens as though hearing stories from another world.

And when you return home together,to your ancestral temple, deep in a bamboo forest few mortals find,he bows before the great stone gate. Not out of obligation, but because he knows what you are.

“I do not kneel easily,” he says, voice low, “but your roots demand reverence.”

You lead him inside, your form shimmering under moonlight, and the old spirits watch. They whisper of harmony. Of balance.

Of a future forged from thunder and mist.

In quiet moments, he holds your hand and traces the long curve of your claws.

“In another universe” he says, “we might have been enemies.”

You shake your head, resting your forehead against his. “In every universe, I would have found you.”

He believes you.

Because the contrast between you is not what divides, it’s what binds.

You are not two halves of a coin, nor two sides of a blade.

You are sky and earth. River and fire.

And where you meet, something holy grows.

English is not my first language !

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hi!

Just wanted to pop in and say I’m back! I was on a little vacation (which is why things have been quiet here), but now I’ll be posting again at my usual pace. I haven’t forgotten about all of your requests,I’ll be working on all of them soon! I’m also planning to reopen my ask box shortly, so keep an eye out. Thanks so much for your patience!

[strawberry-bubblef]

the post about the great seven made me think of a lot of things, but I now only remember one ╥﹏╥

Could I request the dormleaders with a reader that's immortal, and is the great sevens child ? Like for example, reader is the child of the queen of hearts

Feel free to ignore this lol ^_^

Dormleaders with an immortal!s/o that is the child of the great seven

Riddle Rosehearts

“You may be the child of the Queen... but you are nothing like her. And thank the Great Seven for that.”

No one remembers your name.

Once, it echoed through marble halls and velvet chambers, sewn into tapestries and whispered with reverence or fear. But when the Queen of Hearts died, everything that was hers was buried with her: her name, her reign… and you.

You were never crowned. Never introduced to the world. A shadow behind red curtains, a secret hidden even from her most loyal court. Perhaps she was trying to protect you. Or perhaps she knew the world would never accept a child raised by her.

You fled the Queendom the night it fell,when her court turned on itself and the roses bled. You remember the scent of scorched velvet, the last trembling lullaby she sang when she tucked you in that final night.

And then… nothing. Just centuries. Drifting.

You don’t know why you stopped aging. Maybe it’s the magic in your blood. Maybe it’s the curse of royalty. You wandered, studied, observed. Watched Heartslabyul rise in her image,flawed, rigid, hollow.

You didn’t plan to return. You didn’t even know how.

But the mirror chose you. Dragged you into a world echoing with her legacy. And now, you walk Night Raven College’s halls like a ghost wearing flesh, your past stitched beneath your skin, every step retracing memories that no one else remembers.

When you first arrive at Night Raven College, Riddle treats you like a wildcard,mildly irritating, overly cryptic, far too relaxed for someone claiming to know the Queen of Hearts' laws so intimately. To him, you're a contradiction. How could someone speak of Heartslabyul's customs with such precision, and yet flout them with the casual grace of someone who’s memorized every loophole?

You quote ancient laws in fluent Old Queendom dialect. You tie your cravat in the royal fashion,her fashion. And one day, when you're late to a dorm meeting, you offer an apology he recognizes, word for word, from a speech the Queen herself once gave to Parliament.

He doesn’t confront you at first. No, Riddle does what he always does. He observes, watches, collects evidence like petals pressed into the pages of his memory. You’re infuriatingly poised, with that slow, knowing smile. You rarely show emotion in public, but there’s an elegance to you that feels eerily timeless.

And then one day, he sees it.

You’re alone in the rose maze. Crying, not out of sadness, but from some invisible, ancient grief. A single red petal rests in your hand, crushed between your fingers. You whisper something he can't hear, but he knows it's not meant for this era.

He steps forward too loudly, and you stiffen.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice low and trembling. “Really.”

You turn, tired. Not annoyed. Just... worn down.

“I told you,” you say, voice soft. “I’m the child of the Queen of Hearts.”

Riddle doesn’t believe you.

At least, not at first.

But the proof starts stacking: the way you predict ceremonial patterns he hasn’t even memorized yet. The way you refer to royal events like you were there. The way you slip and say “when she was alive” with too much weight behind it.

He confronts you again. This time, behind closed doors, arms folded tight.

“You expect me to believe you’re centuries old? That you were born of one of the most famous monarchs in Twisted Wonderland’s history?”

“No,” you say calmly. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”

“…But it’s the truth.”

You meet his eyes,his furious, brilliant eyes and something in you aches. He looks just like one of the Queen’s pages. The same fire. The same hunger for order. But the fear in him is new.

He’s afraid you’re right.

“…She wasn’t who they said she was,” you whisper. “Not always. She was terrifying, yes. Powerful. Cold. But she held me like I was porcelain, kissed my forehead every night before I slept. She taught me that rules were how she kept her heart from breaking again.”

Riddle stares. Unmoving.

“You knew her…” he says. Not a question. A quiet surrender.

You nod.

“But she died, Riddle. They all do. I’ve watched kingdoms rise and fall. Watched laws be rewritten. Watched people try to become her, wear her like a title. And every time, they fail.”

Then you look at him, gaze unwavering. “Even you.”

That hits him. Hard.

He’s spent years trying to be a perfect heir for his mother. To learn that he will never be enough in her eyes cuts deep. But deeper still is the quiet horror in your expression when you say it. You're not judging him. You're begging him not to become what she was.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But if I’m going to be immortal, I want to at least feel like I'm living.”

And that… is something Riddle understands more than he wants to.

From then on, he starts treating you differently.

At first, he’s hesitant. Unsure. But the more you talk, the more he sees the scars hidden beneath your stillness. You tell him stories of palace life. Of your mother’s sharpness, her loneliness, her ambition. Of the moment you realized you would outlive everyone and she was already gone.

He listens to you in the quiet hours between classes. Starts sneaking you teas he thinks you might have tasted in the court. Lets you revise the rules, not to manipulate them, but to restore the humanity lost in them.

You, who were once raised as a symbol, now walk beside him not as a relic, but as a person. A strange one. A sad one. But someone who understands what it's like to have your identity shaped by someone else's legacy.

And Riddle, for all his perfectionism, finds something freeing in your honesty. In your quiet wisdom. In your unflinching view of the past.

He asks you once:

“If she were here now… what would she think of me?”

You answer truthfully, gently, “She’d see you as a threat. Because you’re trying to do what she couldn’t,rule with kindness.”

He doesn’t cry. But he looks away.

You take his hand, fingers cool against his trembling ones.

And in that moment, immortal or not, past or future aside, Riddle Rosehearts is simply a boy.

And you are simply someone who understands.

Leona Kingscholar

"You come from the King… but you aren’t his echo. And maybe that’s the greatest blessing of all."

They called him the second son, the shadow beneath a golden crown.

But long before Falena was declared heir, before the pride lands of Sunset Savanna settled into peace under a careful rule there was you.

You weren’t born into the Kingscholar line. You were born into the original one.

The First Bloodline. The one that history erased you like you were a stain on the throne.

Your father, the King of Beasts, wasn’t just a ruler,he was a storm in a lion’s skin. Cunning. Unrivaled. Feared. And you were the child he kept hidden, not out of shame, but out of protection. His enemies were many. His politics ruthless. You were a secret too valuable to let out into the open.

But then he vanished.

Some say he was killed. Others believe he was betrayed by his own council. But you? You were only a child when they tore you from the palace and declared the bloodline broken.

The nobility chose another branch to carry the throne,one less “cursed,” more “obedient.”

The Kingscholars.

You were never mentioned again.

Until now.

You cross paths with Leona after a skirmish in the Spelldrive field. Dirt still on his cheek, sand in his boots, he snarls at you as you walk past, eyes narrowing like a lion scenting a rival on his territory.

"You walk like you own the place."

You don’t even look at him when you say, “I did. Once.”

He scoffs. “Right.”

But the words lodge in him like a thorn. And later,after too many coincidences, after hearing you speak in royal dialects that no one outside palace walls should know,he corners you behind the botanical garden greenhouse.

“You’re not from here. But you know too much.”

You exhale. The silence after that is long. Heavy.

Then: “I was born before the throne ever touched your bloodline.”

He stares. “You’re saying…?”

“My bloodline ruled before the Kingscholars were chosen.”

Leona scoffs the moment the words leave your mouth.

“Child of the King of Beasts? Right.” His arms fold, tail flicking with sharp annoyance. “Next thing you’ll tell me, you’re here to reclaim the throne.”

You don’t even blink. Just tilt your head slightly, expression calm.

“I’m not here for a throne.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“To exist,” you answer simply. “I’ve done enough hiding.”

Leona narrows his eyes. He’s not stupid,he can see the way you carry yourself. Proud. Collected. Like someone who’s had centuries to learn how to wear masks. But that doesn’t mean he’ll believe you. Not without proof.

“Fine. You’ve got five seconds to make me care,” he growls. “Or I walk.”

You pause.

Then, from under your coat, you pull something on a chain,worn, but gleaming faintly in the light. A pendant.

It’s shaped like a lion’s head. Old, far older than anything in Sunset Savanna’s current monarchy. The eyes are carved from faded sunstone, and around the mane are markings,etched in a script that hasn’t been taught in generations.

Leona’s scoff dies on his lips.

“…Where’d you get that?” His voice is quiet now. Sharp.

You don’t hand it to him. Your fingers curl around it instinctively.

“It was my father’s,” you say, gently. “The last thing I have of him.”

Leona takes a slow step forward, staring.

“I’ve seen that design. Once. In the sealed royal archive. Back when I still gave a damn.”

You nod. “You’d only see it once. The crest of the First King before the Kingscholars.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“And you’ve been hiding this,why?”

“Because it’s not a crown,” you say quietly. “It’s grief. It’s centuries of watching others wear his name, rewrite his story, and erase me from it. I didn’t want to rule. I just wanted my father back.”

Leona’s jaw clenches. There’s something raw in his eyes. Familiar.

“…They erased me too,” he mutters. “The second son. Always in the background.”

You nod. “Then maybe you understand.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes flickering to the pendant again.

“…You keep that,” he says eventually, gruff. “I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you.”

“Tch. Fine.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he speaks, softer this time:

“So… what are you gonna do now?”

You exhale. “Live, I guess. For him. For me.”

Another silence.

Then, with a huff, Leona turns on his heel.

“You coming or not?”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the greenhouse. I’m not gonna sit around thinking about history all day. But if you wanna talk legacy or whatever… I’ll listen.”

You smile faintly, fingers still tight around the pendant.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he grumbles again. “Just don’t vanish.”

“I already did. Not doing it again.”

And somehow, as the sun filters down on the golden plains beyond the dorm, there’s a strange, quiet peace in the air,two ghosts of old royalty, still learning how to be people.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Born of the Sea Witch, yet so far from her shadow… and honestly, the world is better for it.

Everyone knows who you are.

There’s no secret to your identity. The Sea Witch’s heir, that title follows you like the tide, carved into every introduction, every sideways glance. Most students keep their distance, unsure whether to bow or bolt. And Azul… Azul doesn’t know what to do with you at all.

Because he revered her.

Studied every scrap of her legend, built his entire image from the pieces of her legacy. Her cunning, her ambition, her raw, terrifying brilliance, Azul built the Lounge with those values in mind. But then you arrive. You, who could command a room with a breath and haven’t. You, who could claim dominion over the sea and haven’t.

You don't need to speak loudly,people listen anyway. You don’t bargain like a predator,people offer things to you freely. You carry your heritage like a pearl: luminous, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Azul tries to treat you like anyone else.

He fails.

You step into the Lounge and every glass seems to hush. You give advice to Jade that he actually takes. Floyd calls you “Little Queenie” and follows your directions with that rare, dangerous glint of respect.

Azul is torn between admiration and envy.

Until one night, when he finally dares to ask.

“You don’t act like her,” he says quietly. “Why?”

You pause, hands stilling over a half-folded letter. “You mean like the stories?”

He nods.

You smile softly, something like nostalgia darkening your gaze. “My mother was… magnificent. The world remembers her power. I remember her songs.”

He’s silent. You continue.

“She taught me that power should be earned, not stolen. That knowledge is the real currency of the sea. She gave me her voice, not just to speak but to listen.”

You open your palm, revealing a small, polished nautilus shell,golden and glimmering, humming faintly with stored magic. “This is all I have left of her. And it’s enough.”

Azul stares at it. He’s never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. Power, ancient and soft. Not cold. Not cruel. Just vast.

“I admired her,” he whispers.

“So did I,” you reply, not missing a beat. “But I am not her. I could never be. And the ocean… doesn’t need a second Sea Witch. It needs something new.”

That’s when Azul sees it.

You could have built an empire. Could have drowned this school in your magic and crowned yourself without resistance. But instead, you chose something gentler. Something wiser. Influence without intimidation. Intelligence without cruelty.

And he realizes,painfully, humbly, that you have everything he wants to be. But you’ve already grown beyond the shadow of your legacy.

He watches you slip the shell back into its velvet pouch, tucking it away inside your coat like a promise.

“You may be the child of the Sea Witch,” he says, almost breathless.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

A beat of silence.

“And thank the Great Seven for that.”

You give him a long look. Thoughtful. Unreadable. But then your expression softens, and your voice dips low and personal, like a lullaby meant only for him.

“I’m not her,” you repeat, stepping closer, “but I still know how to make wishes come true.”

Azul's breath catches. You reach up and gently cup his cheek ,the motion graceful, tender, intentional. His glasses fog just a little from how close you are.

"And what if mine’s already come true?" he murmurs.

“Then you’d better hold on to it,” you whisper, “before I swim away.”

And this time, Azul doesn’t try to be like anyone else.

He just holds your hand.

Kalim Al Asim

"Though you carry the blood of the Sorcerer of the Sand, you are nothing like him and that, in itself, is a gift."

Everyone knows who you are.

When you arrive at Night Raven College, the whispers don’t stop. The child of Jafar, the legendary sorcerer from the sands, the one who wielded dark magic and commanded the winds, it’s a title that carries weight. Most students are cautious, staying on the sidelines, unsure whether to smile or bow in respect. After all, Jafar’s influence was legendary, his ambition was terrifying, and his downfall? Well, it’s still a cautionary tale.

But you? You’re nothing like him.

Kalim notices that immediately. It’s one of the first things he learns about you. You’re not cold like your father. You don’t speak in cryptic riddles or draw power from ancient relics. You don’t even seem interested in the wealth or the control he had. You just… exist. And Kalim, for all his brightness and enthusiasm, can’t help but be fascinated by you.

You’re mysterious, yet open. You don’t flaunt your magic, and you certainly don’t try to intimidate others. You smile when you need to. You laugh. You cry, even. And you have this air about you, a quiet elegance, as if you were made to rule, but chose not to. He can’t help but find it captivating.

On the surface, Kalim is an open book. He’s cheerful, full of life, quick to embrace people, quick to trust, quick to love. But you? You keep your emotions locked away, always playing the role of the calm, collected individual, hiding all the things you feel under a polished, neutral facade.

One day, after a particularly intense school event where everyone’s on edge, Kalim finds you alone in the desert garden, sitting cross-legged beneath the stars. You’re holding a small glass vial, the one your father once kept on his person, filled with a grain of sand that never seems to settle.

“What’s this?” Kalim asks, plopping down next to you without hesitation, his voice full of curiosity.

You glance at him, your face unreadable. Then, you slowly open the vial, letting the sand inside drift slowly, the grains twinkling in the moonlight. “A piece of something that’s gone,” you say softly. “A piece of him.”

For the first time, Kalim feels the weight in your words. He’s seen the way you carry yourself, how you’re both haunted by and detached from your father’s legacy. He knows you’re not here to claim power or revenge, but there’s something else in you,something bittersweet.

Kalim watches you closely, then gently nudges your arm with his.

“Hey,” he says with his usual enthusiasm, “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to carry all of that by yourself.”

You blink, surprised by his straightforwardness. Kalim, in his warmth and innocence, doesn’t seem to understand the weight you carry. But maybe that’s what makes him so special, he doesn’t carry that same burden. Maybe he can lighten your load, even if just for a little while.

“I’m not him,” you murmur quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be him. But people expect me to be, and sometimes, it’s just easier to let them think that.”

Kalim tilts his head, clearly not understanding. He watches you for a long moment, before his face brightens with his usual, radiant smile.

“Why not show them who you really are, then?” he suggests, his voice teasing but gentle. “I mean, you’re you, right? And that’s way more interesting than some old sorcerer’s name, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by his confidence. Kalim’s words are so simple, so pure , yet they feel like a revelation. Maybe you could live for yourself, without the shadow of your father looming over your every move.

Kalim scoots closer, his smile softening, his eyes sparkling with kindness. He gently takes your hand in his, his fingers warm, a stark contrast to the cool, distant air that’s always surrounded you.

“I know it’s tough,” he says softly, “but you don’t have to be that person anymore. You don’t have to live up to anyone else’s expectations. You get to choose who you are.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you feel the cracks in your walls start to show. Kalim isn’t afraid of your past. He doesn’t look at you like a reflection of your father. He just sees you. And in that moment, you wonder if it’s possible to finally start living on your own terms.

“I think…” you start, your voice soft but gaining strength, “I think I might just try that.”

Kalim’s smile widens, his eyes lighting up. He moves closer, and for the first time, you allow yourself to lean into someone without fear of what they might think.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m here for you, okay?”

And when he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something new to hold onto. Not the legacy of the Sorcerer of the Sand, but something far more precious: your own future.

And as Kalim’s infectious laughter fills the air, you let yourself believe that, for the first time, you might just be ready to walk away from the past and forge your own path.

Vil Schoenheit

“You may carry the blood of the Fairest Queen… but your beauty shines in ways even she could never claim.”

Everyone knows your name.

It’s spoken with reverence across Night Raven College’s halls, embroidered on silk and memory both:

the heir of the Fairest Queen.

Your presence is like walking history but not something dusty or forgotten. You are a living embodiment of grace, refinement, and an impossible, devastating beauty that the world thought it had lost when the Queen’s mirror finally cracked.

The Fairest Queen was not simply beautiful.

She was an icon. A legend. A dream.

And you, you are her continuation.

No one knows exactly where you’ve been all these years. Some say you were hidden away to protect you from jealous enemies. Others whisper that after the Queen’s death, you chose exile, unable to live in a world without her. Whatever the truth, when the Dark Mirror summoned you to Night Raven College, the world held its breath.

Especially Vil Schoenheit.

Vil, who grew up studying the Fairest Queen’s philosophies like sacred scripture.

Vil, who shaped himself in the image of perfection she defined.

For Vil, meeting you is like meeting a star plucked from the heavens. No,worse. You aren’t just a star.

You are the night sky itself.

And he will not disgrace himself before you.

The first time your paths cross, you’re standing in the courtyard, a soft breeze stirring your clothes. Everything about you is effortless, the way you hold your posture, the tilt of your head, the calm, poised patience in your eyes. You look as though you were born to be admired.

Vil approaches,his steps are silent. Controlled.

He bows,not exaggeratedly, but perfectly, with a hand over his heart.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs. “It’s an honor.”

You smile, a small thing, but it lights you from within. Vil feels a rush of warmth, a heady, dizzying awe he hasn’t experienced since the first time he saw the Fairest Queen’s portrait.

“You don't have to call me that,” you say gently.

“But I choose to,” Vil replies, his voice low and steady.

Because to him, you are royalty not merely by blood, but by right.

He studies you shamelessly. Not to find flaws,no, he knows there are none.

Rather, he drinks in your existence the way an artist would, memorizing the way sunlight halos around you, the regal way you incline your head, the serene confidence in every breath.

Vil has spent his whole life pursuing beauty, striving to become something greater, something untouchable. Yet standing before you, he realizes:

You were born as the standard he’s been chasing all along.

Over time, Vil's respect only deepens.

He listens when you speak, genuinely attentive.

He offers you only the finest,handpicked skin-care products, rare imported teas, elegant gifts that speak of thought rather than extravagance.

He doesn’t flatter you meaninglessly; he gives the kind of honest praise that means everything coming from someone like him.

“You move with grace unmatched.” he murmurs one evening after a Dorm Assembly. “It’s as if the world bends itself to your will, simply to be worthy of your touch.”

And somehow, you never let it change you.

You are kind, but not naïve. Beautiful, but not arrogant. You carry your lineage with dignity, not pride.

And so Vil watches you. Studies you. Learns from you. Not as a rival. Not even as a mentor.

As something rarer.

As an equal he desperately hopes to be worthy of standing beside.

One night, when the stars hang low and silver over the horizon, Vil finally says it aloud.

“You could command the whole world to kneel,” he says softly, when the two of you are alone on the balcony of Pomefiore. “Yet you choose to walk among us.”

You tilt your head, amused. “And would you kneel for me, Vil?”

The question is playful. Teasing.

But Vil, proud and unyielding Vil Schoenheit, sinks gracefully onto one knee without hesitation.

“For you,” he says, voice like velvet and iron, “I already have.

And somehow, the knowledge of it doesn't make you feel more powerful.

It makes you feel seen.

Truly, fully seen.

Not just as the Fairest Queen's child.

But as you.

Idia Shroud

"You may be the child of the King of the Underworld… but you don't have to follow his path."

The first time Idia hears about you, he nearly chokes on his snack.

The child of Hades?!

The actual King of the Underworld?!

A real life demigod roaming the halls of NRC like it’s NBD?!

It’s the kind of thing that sounds like the premise of a high-level RPG questline,not something that actually happens in real life. But there you are, flesh and blood (and... well, probably something even more mystical), walking through the halls with an aura of death and ancient power so thick it almost glitches the atmosphere around you.

Most students are terrified of you.

Or obsessed with you.

Idia?

He’s hiding behind a pillar, peeking at you like you're some kind of ultra-rare mob he's too scared to approach.

He’s absolutely fascinated, of course.

You don’t strut around like you own the place (even though, technically, being the heir to the Underworld, you probably could).

You're oddly down-to-earth. Quiet. Almost reserved.

And that? That makes it even worse for Idia’s poor heart.

He overthinks every possible interaction with you for weeks. He even drafts multiple conversation scripts on his tablet,ranging from “cool aloof mysterious type” to “friendly casual gamer type” but never uses a single one because just thinking about talking to you makes him want to disintegrate into pixel dust.

You, however, notice him almost immediately.

Not because he’s super subtle (he’s not ,bright flaming hair behind a corner isn’t exactly stealthy) but because you can sense things most mortals can’t.

And Idia? Idia’s aura is like a beacon ,pulsing with intense, chaotic energy barely held together by layers of anxiety.

One day, when he’s hiding (badly) in the library, you finally corner him.

"You’re good at sneaking around the living," you say casually, leaning over the back of his chair.

Idia nearly dies on the spot (pun intended). His hair flares up bright pink, his tablet clatters to the ground, and he whirls around like a caught anime protagonist.

"ACK—!! I-I-I wasn’t staring!! I was just—researching!! Buffs intelligence +10!!! It’s not creepy, I swear!!" he stammers, practically vibrating with panic.

You just blink at him, expression unreadable, then... smile.

"Relax," you say, voice low and a little amused. "I don’t bite."

Idia freezes like a lagging game character.

He’s convinced he’s hallucinating.

You, literal royalty of the underworld are TALKING to him. Casually. Like it’s normal. Like he's normal.

From there, it’s a slow, awkward, chaotic friendship that blossoms into something deeper.

You’re one of the few people who understand when Idia talks about souls, afterlife theories, and obscure mythos.

And when you finally confess, it's clumsy, adorable, and very, very Idia:

"I-I know you could like... have literally anyone... or summon a loyal legion of, like, skeleton admirers or whatever... b-but uh... if you ever wanna, like, uh, game with me or whatever, I promise to only lose most of the time and...and maybe, uh, not die of happiness if you smiled at me again...?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head, reaching out to gently tap his forehead with your finger.

"You’re an idiot," you say affectionately. "But you're my idiot now."

If Idia could, he’d be on the floor, blue-screened from sheer joy.

Instead, he just short-circuits with a shy, wide, stunned grin,the kind only you get to see.

Malleus Draconia

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy… but you don't want to be like her.”

Everyone knows who you are.

Whispers trail behind you like mist: The heir to the Thorn Fairy. The last legacy of the fairest queen. In Diasomnia, you are regarded almost with reverence. In the halls of Night Raven College, where lineage means everything and legends walk in flesh and bone, you are already immortalized.

And to Malleus Draconia,you are more than that.

You are a living bridge to the one he reveres most.

The Thorn Fairy, the untouchable queen, the mistress of thorns and dreams and undying majesty.

The one whose wisdom shaped kingdoms.

The one whose power commanded storms and silence alike.

Malleus is enthralled by you from the start.

He watches you with an intensity few dare withstand, caught between awe and aching loneliness. You do not command attention,you draw it, effortlessly, as if the air itself leans toward you.

And you, for all your lineage, carry none of the cruelty history once feared.

You walk gently where others would conquer.

You speak thoughtfully where others would decree.

You smile softly where others would sneer.

It confounds him.

And yet, it delights him.

One evening, beneath a withering tree in the Diasomnia gardens, he finally approaches you, green eyes catching the silver of the stars in their depths.

“You are different from her,” Malleus says, not accusing,almost... wondering.

You look at him then, and your expression is so full of something ancient and mournful that it stills the breath in his lungs.

“My mother,” you say, voice quiet, “was majesty incarnate. Her beauty, her wrath, her sorrow… they shaped the very lands you and I walk upon.”

You reach into the folds of your cloak, and Malleus watches with sharp, expectant eyes as you withdraw a simple object, a thorn, long and blackened, gleaming like obsidian. You hold it as one would hold a relic, reverently.

“This is all I have left of her," you whisper. "One thorn. One fragment of the forest she once called her own."

The thorn hums faintly in your palm, old magic stirring like a sleeping dragon.

Malleus lowers his gaze, his heart a storm of emotion.

He had idolized her, the stories, the grandeur, the tragedy but you had known her. You had been loved by her.

“I am not her," you say at last. "I will never be her. I was not made to rule through fear or flame. I was made to remember."

The thorn vanishes back into the folds of your cloak, your hand brushing over your chest like a silent vow.

Malleus steps closer, the gravity between you almost suffocating.

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy…” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

He bows his head slightly, a rare gesture of deep, genuine respect.

He finds a companion.

A kindred soul.

Someone who remembers the past,and dares to walk beyond it.

English is not my first language !