caramel-chai

[caramel-chai]

I think requests are open? So you know that feeling of devastating elation when a person you thought was dead turns up? And I’m not talking about like an hour after whatever incident they thought took you. It’s been DAYS. They thought you were dead for DAYS. They were hardcore MOURNING when you show back up.

If you can, I’d love to see your take on this, either the point of reunion or the aftermath, where they are definitely overprotective (for good reason). Or both, I ain’t gonna limit you. You’re free to use whatever character(s) you want =^^=

LEONA X READER

Where you have been missing after an accident for days

It's been five days since a Spelldrive explosion during an unsanctioned match in Savannaclaw. You were playing with some Savanaclaw students when you decided to use a spell you'd read in a forbidden book in the library. It was supposed to have worked out. You’d gone missing in the smoke and wreckage. No one found your body. The only thing left was your broken magic pen — and Leona hadn't slept properly since then.

art credits to kura_usagi217 on twitter <3

Savanaclaw was quiet in a way that didn’t feel natural. No fights. No roars of challenge echoing from the training yard.

Leona sat, slouched low in one of the worn-out chairs, a bottle of untouched water beside him and Ruggie pacing nearby.

“You gotta sleep at some point,” Ruggie muttered. Again.

“You’re not gonna be able to do anything if you collapse.”

Leona didn’t answer. He hadn't answered that question the first time.

Or the second. Or the fiftieth.

His gaze was fixed on the shattered fragment of your pendant, the one you'd worn every day. The one they’d found in the wreckage of that cursed spelldrive field five days ago.

They had declared you missing.

After the third day, Crewel used the word "presumed."

But Leona didn’t. He didn’t say anything.

Not when Crowley offered to hold a memorial service.

Not when Azul offered condolences in that too-polite tone that always made Leona want to punch him.

Not even when Ruggie found him, head bowed in the sand behind the dorm, fists dug into the earth like he was trying to bury the grief with his own hands.

So now, on day five, he sat in the lounge. Not waiting. Just not moving. Just breathing. Barely.

At first, he didn’t look up. Just assumed it was Ruggie returning from another failed search sweep. Then he heard a voice.

“Leona?”

Everything inside him stopped. He turned.

And there you were.

Dirt-streaked and limping, one arm pressed against your ribs, your uniform torn. There were scratches on your face, blood all over, too-slow and weak breath.

But your eyes. They were bright.

Alive.

He stood so fast the chair crashed backward behind him.

You flinched.

And then he was there.

His hands grabbed your shoulders, a little too hard, like he couldn’t convince himself you weren’t a mirage.

“Where the hell—” He roared. “Where the hell have you been?”

You tried to speak, but your throat tightened.

“I— I was trapped,” you managed.

“The blast threw me into the ravine behind the field. My magic was gone, I couldn’t climb out. I screamed for days—”

He pulled you into his arms so fiercely you gasped. You didn’t even get the chance to finish your sentence.

He held you against him like he could squeeze life back into your body. Like maybe if he held you hard enough, the days would reverse, and none of this would’ve happened.

His voice was muffled against your hair.

“Five days.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I know.”

“I—” He pulled back just far enough to look at your face. His eyes were bloodshot. And wet. Leona Kingscholar was crying. Just enough to shine.

“You left me. And I couldn’t even follow.”

“But I am back.”

And he closed his eyes like that was the only thing that mattered anymore.

You fainted right then and there.

You woke up in the infirmary with the strange smell of healing potions in your nose.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, but you were alive. Safe, and warm. And Leona was there.

Curled in the chair beside your bed, his head tilted back, mouth slightly parted. One leg was propped up, and his arms were crossed over his chest —out of tension.

He hadn’t slept much, but this was the first time you’d seen him close his eyes since your return.

You shifted slightly, and instantly—

His eyes snapped open. Alert. Focused.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He sat forward.

“You’re awake. Good.” His voice was low, roughened by disuse.

“You need to drink something. You’re dehydrated.”

“I’m fine, Leona—”

“You’re not.” He reached for the pitcher beside you and poured you a glass. When he handed it to you, you noticed the tremble in his fingers. Your heart hurt at the sight.

“Leona…”

He set the glass down. Didn’t meet your eyes.

“It was my fault, again. Should’ve known it wasn’t safe. Should’ve stopped you using that damn spell.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I let you out of my sight. I trusted that nothing would happen to you.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

“I should’ve,” he snapped, louder than before. His ears were pinned flat. You squeezed his hand. There was silence.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose.

“I’m not letting this happen again,” he muttered. “From now on, you don’t leave campus alone. You don’t use fucking secondhand spell tech. You don’t skip meals or run off to go ‘train in peace’ like some hero. You tell me where you are. Every time.”

“That’s a lot of rules,” you said, trying to soften the moment.

“Damn right it is.”

“A little overprotective, don’t you think?”

“I thought I was gonna have to bury you, I haven’t even told you how I feel yet.”

“...You mean—?”

“Don’t make me say it right after I thought you were dead,” he growled, looking away. “I’ll say it when you’re not half-doped up on potions.”

“Okay. Deal.”

[caramel-chai]

May ı req Leona,Jamil,leech twins and Vil with reader suddenly starts kissing them and showing their love for something they did so simple? Like they just smiled or said somethinf and bum! reader jumos on them.

(sorry for bad english)

LEONA, JAMIL, JADE, FLOYD AND VIL X READER

When you kiss them suddenly out of nonwhere

You were helping him prepare dinner, slicing vegetables while he stirred the pot. You reached for another ingredient when he gently took it from your hand.

“It’s okay. You’ve helped enough. Sit down and relax for once.”

He gave you a small smile— tired, but soft.

It caught you completely off guard. You stared for a second, then leaned in without thinking and kissed him.

Jamil froze mid-movement, the spoon clinking against the edge of the pot. “What…?”

You pulled back quickly.

“I—I’m sorry. You smiled and said something kind and I just… couldn’t help it.”

He blinked slowly, then looked away to hide the rising flush on his cheeks.

“You’re dangerous, I just wanted you to take a break. Didn’t expect that.”

You panicked a little. “Are you mad?”

“…No. But don’t go kissing me like that unless you’re ready for me to return the favor.”

Then, with a little smile. he leaned in and kissed your lips with more care than you'd ever imagined from him.

You and Floyd were walking around campus when he suddenly grabbed your hand and twirled you like you were dancing. Out of nowhere. He laughed loudly, that happy glint in his eyes.

“Shrimpy’s in a good mood today~! I like it! Let's dance!”

Then, with absolutely no warning, he stopped spinning you and just kissed your head, grinning wide.

That warmth hit your chest like a thunderbolt. Without a second thought, you pulled him down and kissed his lips.

He blinked hard. “Eh?!”

You stepped back, stunned by your own boldness.

“I—I’m sorry! You were just so happy and I—”

Floyd looked stunned for all of two seconds before a wide sharp grin spread across his face.

“Heeeeh~? Shrimpy’s getting bold! I like it~ I love it!”

He scooped you up like a plushie and spun you again, this time holding you closer. “Kiss me like that again and I might get addicted~!”

You giggled into his shoulder.

You were watching Vil from the sidelines during a rehearsal. He was directing someone with his usual poise, but when he looked your way, his expression softened.

“You’ve been watching quietly this whole time,” he said, walking over to you during a break.

“I’m proud of how you carry yourself lately. You've grown.”

It wasn’t said with fanfare. Just a sincere compliment from Vil himself. He even reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear gently.

Your heart leapt. You surged forward and kissed him. He went still for a second, then slowly returned the kiss.

When you broke away, you were flushed and flustered.

“Sorry—I just… you praised me. And I wanted to show you how much that meant.”

Vil chuckled quietly, voice smooth as silk.

“Darling… if that’s how you react to praise, I’ll be far more generous with it.”

He cupped your face in one hand, leaning in again.

“But next time, allow me the pleasure of making the first move.”

You and Jade were walking through the greenhouse, damp moss and rare flowers around you. He was telling you about a peculiar glowing mushroom that only bloomed at midnight.

“...It’s said to glow brighter when someone it favors is nearby,” he said, casting you a sideways glance with that smile of his.

“Does that mean this one likes me?”

“It would seem so. And perhaps, I do as well.”

His tone was soft. The smile was small, quietly affectionate.

You didn’t even think—you stepped in and kissed him, hands grabbing his uniform before your brain could catch up.

When you pulled back, Jade looked momentarily stunned.

“…Oh my,” he said, touching his lips. “That was unexpected.”

“I—sorry. You were just… really sweet.”

He laughed softly. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be sweet more often, won’t I?”

He bent forward to kiss your hand.

“And next time, let me initiate.”

You found Leona exactly where you expected: sprawled under a tree, eyes closed. You sat beside him silently, letting him doze. After a while, he cracked one eye open to glance at you.

“…You’re still here, huh? Thought you’d have gotten bored.”

Then he smiled—lazy, half-awake, but just for you.

That simple smile hit you like a tidal wave. You couldn’t stop yourself—you leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

“Hey—what the hell was that for?”

Your heart thudded, cheeks heating up.

“You smiled. It was… cute.”

A slow smirk replaced his surprise. “You’re ridiculous,” he snorted.

“You kiss me for that? You better be careful, herbivore, or I’ll start flashing you smiles just to mess with you.”

He tugged you down beside him, your head landing on his arm.

“Don’t complain if I kiss you again, then” you warned.

“Tch. I dare you.”

[caramel-chai]

all fun and games until they remember what you said

[caramel-chai]

Love your stories♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ Could I request the female reader falling asleep on their boyfriends lap with the dorm leaders and vice dorm leaders + Floyd? Thank you.

In the Comfort of You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dorm leaders . vice dorm leaders + floyd

- [𝐩:𝐬] none

Note: Aww, this prompt is actually so cute are you kidding! I came back from my dance comp early so I celebrated by writing again! (*¯︶¯*)

Riddle Rosehearts

It was a quiet afternoon in Heartslabyul, the garden unusually still after a morning of chaos. The usual string of rules, order, and unexpected mushroom inspections had tired out even the strictest members. The sun filtered through the rose bushes, scattering golden flecks across the picnic blanket laid out under the gazebo. The breeze rustled the leaves above, and the faint smell of strawberry tarts lingered in the air.

Riddle sat upright, posture perfect, a book open in his lap. He was mid-sentence when he felt a shift beside him.

You, his girlfriend, had been curled up at his side for a while, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. But now, slowly, without a word, you repositioned yourself and laid your head fully in his lap.

He stiffened.

Rules. There were rules about propriety. About maintaining posture. About not being flustered in public—even if it was just you two in the garden. His brain fired through a checklist of what he should do. He should tell you to sit up. He should maintain boundaries.

But then he looked down.

Your face was peaceful, softened by sleep. A slight smile played on your lips, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One hand loosely held the hem of his jacket, as if even in sleep, you wanted to be close to him. You trusted him enough to rest like this. On him.

His heart stuttered.

Slowly, he placed the book aside and stared down at you, watching the way your lashes fluttered when the breeze tickled your cheeks. His hand hovered in the air for a long time—unsure—before he finally brushed your hair away from your forehead, his fingers trembling slightly.

He had always been taught discipline, order, and responsibility. But with you? He felt human. Vulnerable. Safe.

His fingers lingered in your hair, stroking it gently.

“…I suppose... one nap isn’t against the rules,” he murmured to himself.

He leaned back slightly, his other hand resting lightly across your back to make sure you didn’t roll off his lap. He felt warmth in his chest, unfamiliar and wonderful, like a sun blooming behind clouds. For once, Riddle Rosehearts didn't care about rules or appearances. Not when you looked so peaceful. Not when your presence filled his every thought.

And when you murmured his name softly in your sleep, like a prayer wrapped in trust?

He knew he'd never let anyone disturb this moment.

Not even the Queen of Hearts herself.

Trey Clover

The sun was setting over the Heartslabyul courtyard, painting the sky in sherbet hues. After a long day of baking sweets for the next unbirthday party, the scent of sugar and vanilla still clung to the air.

Trey had insisted on taking a break—dragging you out into the garden with a blanket and leftover tarts. You’d tried to protest, insisting you had homework, but he just smiled with that warm, steady patience of his and said, “You’ve earned a rest.”

You sat beside him, legs stretched out, chewing lazily on a berry tart as he leaned against a tree trunk. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose as he read aloud from a half-open cookbook. You didn’t understand why he found recipe books so relaxing, but his voice was calm, familiar, grounding.

Eventually, the warmth of the setting sun and the soft cadence of his words started to lull you into a haze. Without thinking, you scooted closer and laid your head in his lap.

Trey’s voice trailed off.

He looked down at you, blinking once, then again. The way you curled into him, unguarded, so effortlessly vulnerable—it made his chest ache in the sweetest way. He smiled, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses, the other instinctively brushing along your arm.

“You okay down there?” he asked softly.

No response.

Your breathing was slow and even, lips slightly parted as you drifted deeper into sleep. Your hand rested on his thigh, fingers barely curled like you were holding onto the moment.

He chuckled under his breath. “Guess that’s a yes.”

With infinite gentleness, Trey shifted the tart plate out of the way and used his free hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. He watched the way the sunlight danced on your skin, how your eyelashes cast little shadows across your cheeks.

He didn’t move for a long while. Didn’t read. Didn’t speak. He just sat there, a steady presence while you slept on his lap. His thumb brushed lazy, affectionate circles on your shoulder.

“I hope you know,” he said eventually, voice soft and low like a whisper in a dream, “I could sit like this forever.”

His heart beat slow and full. This wasn’t the chaos of the kitchen, or the madness of Heartslabyul. This was something simpler. Sweeter. Like a quiet lull after the storm.

He leaned down slightly, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple.

“Sweet dreams, sugar.”

Leona Kingscholar

It was one of those scorching afternoons in the Savannaclaw lounge. The heat had chased most students into the shadows, and the usual clamor had died down to a low hum. Leona had claimed his favorite sun-drenched couch—stretched out with one arm behind his head, the other lazily flipping through a textbook he had no real intention of reading.

You were sitting next to him, legs curled under you, chatting idly for a bit before trailing off. He barely registered the silence at first—figured you were just zoning out. But then something shifted.

You moved closer.

His ears twitched.

Without a word, you leaned over and placed your head directly on his lap. Just—boop. Laid down. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Leona froze.

He looked down slowly, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. There you were, his girl, sleeping soundly across his lap. Lips parted slightly, cheek pressed against his thigh, hands tucked under your chin. Peaceful. Completely knocked out.

For a moment, Leona just stared.

And then—

“…Tch.” He clicked his tongue, but it lacked any real bite. “You’ve got some nerve.”

His hand hovered over you for a beat. He wanted to push you off, maybe grumble something about how he was supposed to be the lazy one, not you. But instead…

His fingers dipped into your hair.

It was light. Barely a touch. Just a lazy comb through your strands, again and again.

“Brat,” he murmured, but his voice was soft, like the desert wind at night. “You really just gonna sleep here without asking? On my lap?”

And yet he didn’t move.

Didn’t complain.

Didn’t breathe too loudly for fear of waking you.

His tail swished lazily across the floor, betraying the contentment he pretended he didn’t feel. The warmth of your body against him made his eyelids droop, but he stayed awake, keeping a silent vigil.

He wouldn’t admit it, not in a thousand years—but having you there, choosing him as your safe place to rest?

That meant more than all the crowns in the world.

He smirked, resting his head back.

“…Guess I’ll let you off this time.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie wasn’t used to having time off. Between errands for Leona, club stuff, side hustles, and dodging various school responsibilities, “relaxation” wasn’t exactly on his schedule. But today? For some miraculous reason? He had an open hour. So he dragged you out behind the Savannaclaw dorm where the sun was warm, the grass was soft, and there were no chores to do.

He was halfway through telling you about some weird thing he saw in the cafeteria (“Swear on my granny’s life, the mashed potatoes moved!”) when he realized you weren’t laughing anymore.

He turned his head to look—and there you were.

Head in his lap. Curled up like a cat in a sunbeam. Eyes closed. Asleep.

Ruggie blinked.

Once. Twice.

“…Huh?”

He looked around like this was some kind of prank. “Oi. Y/N?”

No response.

A soft snore.

Ruggie stared down at you, your face squished slightly against his thigh, your fingers loosely gripping his hoodie. He didn’t know what to do with his hands at first. He held them up in the air like you were fragile and he might break you by accident.

He whispered, “…You serious right now?”

His face was bright red. Full-on red as a beet. But his heart? Beating like crazy. Fast and full and warm in a way that made his chest ache.

He glanced down again.

And slowly, hesitantly, the corner of his mouth tugged into a grin.

“Heh… cute.”

Very carefully, he pulled his hoodie sleeve down and tucked it under your head like a makeshift pillow. Then he leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky, his tail flicking lazily behind him.

“You better not start drooling on me,” he muttered—but there was no venom in it. Just affection.

He sat there quietly, keeping still even when his legs started to fall asleep. When you shifted a little and sighed in your sleep, he actually stopped breathing for a second.

Because no one ever really… relaxed around him like that. Not like this. Not since he was a kid in the slums of the Sunset Savanna. This—being someone’s safe place—was something new. Something precious.

And he’d fight anyone who tried to ruin it.

Even if he’d totally deny that later.

Azul Ashengrotto

The Lounge had closed for the night. The clink of glassware had faded, the last customer long gone, and the velvet curtains drawn tight. Everything was bathed in that dim oceanic glow Octavinelle was known for—deep blues and the shimmer of water against stone.

Azul had finally finished sorting through contracts, sighing in satisfaction as he slid the last document into its folder. You were already sitting on the plush couch in the VIP room, legs tucked to the side, watching him with a soft smile on your lips.

“Hard at work, as always,” you teased lightly.

Azul chuckled, brushing his bangs back. “You know how it is. A businessman’s time is never his own.”

“You’ve got time for me now though, right?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “Always.”

You patted the space next to you. He sat, slightly stiff as always—ever the perfect posture. But he relaxed once you leaned against his shoulder. You chatted for a bit, your voice slowly trailing off as the atmosphere quieted. Your head slipped downward, resting lightly against his arm at first… then lower… until suddenly, Azul felt a shift.

He looked down to find your head in his lap.

Asleep.

Breathing gently.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Azul froze. Completely. His hands hovered mid-air, his back went ramrod straight, and panic flickered in his mind like a school of darting fish.

What do I do? Is this allowed? Is she okay? What if she drools? What if Jade sees—oh seven seas—

He dared to look down at your face. Your eyelashes fluttered faintly. Your lips were parted slightly, your expression peaceful. Unburdened. Completely unafraid.

The kind of peace Azul never had in his own head.

He felt his throat tighten.

You trusted him—him, a calculating, manipulative, secret-wielding businessman enough to fall asleep on his lap.

“…You really are bold,” he whispered, voice breaking into a whisper. “But… I suppose I can’t blame you.”

Cautiously, as if worried he’d shatter the moment, Azul rested a hand against your shoulder and the other—so slowly—began to stroke your hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like sea silk. He watched you for what felt like hours, every so often brushing a strand out of your face or tracing the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

And for once… the silence wasn’t unnerving.

It was comforting.

“Maybe just a little longer,” he murmured.

When Jade poked his head in later to report something, his eyes landed on the scene. He raised a brow—but said nothing.

Azul simply met his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. For once, he didn’t care about appearances.

Not when you were in his arms.

Jade Leech

The rainforest in the botanical garden was dim, warm, and filled with the sounds of dripping water and the flutter of hidden wings. Jade loved bringing you here after long days—the two of you wandering between the glowing mushrooms and thick vines, talking about strange creatures and even stranger students.

That evening, you had been unusually quiet.

Tired.

He’d noticed. Of course he had. Jade noticed everything.

So, he suggested you rest.

You both sat on a stone bench nestled under an arch of glowing moss. The lights cast a soft green hue over the clearing. Jade had started telling you a story—some obscure tale about a deep-sea creature with a song that lured people into dreams.

And maybe it was his voice—smooth as silk, low and lulling—or maybe it was the way he ran his fingers lazily through the fern beside you, but soon…

Your head slipped gently into his lap.

And you didn’t move again.

Jade blinked once, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“…Oh my.”

Your face was tilted toward him, cheek resting on the fabric of his uniform pants. Your breathing was deep, peaceful. Your body, curled like a cat, radiated warmth into his legs. You made not even the faintest sound.

And Jade?

Jade was frozen—but not out of panic.

He was fascinated.

You trusted him enough to sleep here. On him. Fully vulnerable. Open. And you didn’t even seem to hesitate.

The corners of his lips curled upward into a smile—genuine and serene.

“Well,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush your hair behind your ear, “you are more interesting than any mushroom I’ve ever encountered.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound blending into the soft symphony of the garden.

Jade’s hand lingered in your hair, slow and thoughtful. He studied the way you clutched the fabric of his jacket with one hand, like you were anchoring yourself to him. And slowly, his usually composed heart began to thrum, unfamiliar and full.

No one ever rested near him this way.

No one dared.

But you did.

“You’ve caught me off guard,” he whispered, almost reverently.

Not a trace of mischief in his tone—only awe.

He leaned down slightly, brushing a kiss to your temple with an elegant tenderness only someone like him could manage.

“I wonder what you’re dreaming of,” he said softly, his voice a promise. “Whatever it is… I hope I’m there.”

And he stayed perfectly still, watching over you like a sentinel in the jungle. Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

Because you, in that moment, were the most precious thing in his world.

Floyd Leech

The tide was low in his mood today.

Everything felt boring. Club meetings dragged, the Lounge was quiet, and even scaring first-years didn’t give him the usual rush. He was sprawled out on one of the long couches in the Octavinelle dorm lounge, legs dangling off the side, one arm draped over his eyes.

You were with him, of course—his “Shrimpy.” His favorite toy. His favorite person.

Today, though, he wasn’t teasing you or playfully squeezing you until you squirmed. He was unusually quiet, lying still in a rare moment of calm. You sat beside him, chatting softly at first, your fingers absently tracing patterns into his arm.

But then… your voice faded.

Your hand stilled.

He peeked out from under his arm just in time to feel it—your weight shifting as you gently curled up beside him, resting your head right on his stomach. A warm, sleepy sigh left your lips.

And then nothing.

You were asleep.

At first, Floyd just blinked, his mismatched eyes wide with surprise. “Huh?”

He tilted his head forward, peering at you like a curious sea creature watching a pearl roll into its den.

“You really knocked out, huh?”

No answer. Just the sound of your soft breathing, face nestled into his hoodie, arms curled in like you were hugging a plush toy.

Floyd didn’t move.

Didn’t make a sound.

Instead… his grin slowly, slowly spread across his face.

“Eheh~ Shrimpy... you really are something else.”

He gently lifted his hand and let it fall over your back, his fingers splaying like seaweed, curling into the fabric of your shirt. He didn’t squeeze this time. No chaotic thrashing, no threats of “squeeeezin’ ya ‘til ya pop.” Just the weight of his hand, steady and warm, like he was grounding himself in you.

His tailing mood melted like drift ice under sun.

You chose him.

To rest on. To trust. To fall asleep on, even knowing how temperamental he could be.

That tugged at something deep. Something primal and tender. He could feel his heartbeat slow to match yours, lulled by the rhythm of your breath.

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” he murmured, voice unusually low and gentle. “If it were anybody else, I’d have chomped ‘em by now for touchin’ me like this.”

But he didn’t move. Not an inch.

He just laid there, arm wrapped around you, letting you use his body like a pillow made of seafoam and muscle.

And when you murmured his name in your sleep—barely audible, just a breath?

Floyd melted entirely.

His grin softened, his head tilted back.

“…Guess I’ll nap too, then. But if I drool on ya, it’s your fault~”

Kalim Al-asim

The palace-like halls of Scarabia were quiet in the golden haze of late afternoon. The sun poured through the arching windows, lighting the silken pillows in warm amber. It had been a long day—flying carpets, music practice, and Kalim pulling you into at least three spontaneous dance circles.

Now, you were both on the balcony, surrounded by flower pots and colorful lanterns swaying in the breeze. Kalim had been talking excitedly about a festival his family hosted once—a night where they lit a thousand paper lanterns and let them float into the sky.

You were curled beside him, resting against his side, nodding along as his hands animated every story.

But eventually… your replies stopped.

He glanced down mid-sentence to find you still. Eyes closed. Breathing soft.

Your head had somehow found its way into his lap, resting there like it belonged. Your hands tucked under your cheek, your face tilted up toward him like you were dreaming of the stars he’d just described.

Kalim’s eyes widened.

“Oh!”

He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately, realizing how loud he was about to be.

“She fell asleep,” he whispered to himself, awed.

He looked down at you like you were made of starlight and gold.

You trusted him. You felt safe with him. So safe, in fact, that you’d fallen asleep in his lap under the open sky.

His heart soared.

“Wow…” he breathed.

He reached out, ever so gently, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead, his fingers trembling just slightly. Not from nerves—Kalim was never shy—but from the sheer overwhelming joy of the moment.

He wanted to laugh, to cheer, to kiss your forehead a hundred times.

But he didn’t.

He sat still, barely breathing, his smile wide and wonder-filled.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, his voice full of love. “Like a dream.”

He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds drift by, and then down again at you. His fingers found yours, lacing them together gently.

Kalim’s world was fast, bright, full of noise and song. But this?

This was a quiet kind of joy.

One that filled his chest like sweet air and didn’t need to be shouted.

He leaned down, kissed the crown of your head, and rested his cheek gently against your hair.

“If I had a thousand stars,” he whispered, “I’d give them all to you.”

And there, under the setting sun, with the breeze carrying hints of jasmine and warmth, Kalim stayed absolutely still—just a boy in love, holding his world in his lap.

Jamil Viper

It was late—well past the quiet hours in Scarabia. The sun had long since dipped behind the dunes, and the dorm was bathed in a soft, warm glow from hanging lanterns. The courtyard had emptied after a long day of activities, and only the hush of wind through palm trees and the distant trickle of water from the fountain remained.

Jamil sat beneath the archway overlooking the open courtyard, dressed down in his lounge clothes—simple, dark, loose-fitting, no frills. His shoulders were slouched, rare for someone always so tightly wound. You were beside him, curled up with your legs tucked under you, slowly leaning more and more his way.

The conversation had started casually—stories about Kalim’s antics, about classes, about the endless list of responsibilities Jamil was juggling. But as you listened, your replies grew quieter, slower…

And before he could even finish a sentence, he felt it.

Your head, gentle and warm, settled right into his lap.

Jamil went completely still.

He looked down, blinking, utterly silent.

“…You fell asleep?”

He could hardly believe it. There you were—his girlfriend—just… sleeping on him like it was natural. No hesitation. No fear. Just soft breath against his stomach and one hand lightly curled in his hoodie.

And him?

He didn’t move a muscle.

Jamil wasn’t used to this kind of closeness without strings. He wasn’t used to someone resting on him, not needing anything, not demanding he do something, fix something, prove something.

You were just there.

Sleeping.

Trusting him.

He swallowed hard, his heartbeat loud in his ears. One of his hands hovered above your shoulder, hesitant, as if afraid touching you would wake you—or worse, make the moment disappear.

But then, with a quiet exhale, he let his hand fall gently into your hair.

Fingers threaded through the strands slowly. Carefully. Like you were made of delicate silk.

“Y/N…” he whispered, barely audible.

There was a softness in his eyes no one else ever got to see. He didn’t know if you could hear him in your sleep—but it didn’t matter.

“You really don’t know what you do to me.”

He leaned back against the pillar, staring up at the night sky, the stars peeking through the edges of the courtyard ceiling. For once, he allowed himself a moment of stillness. No planning. No scheming. No worrying about Kalim or school or a hundred responsibilities.

Just you.

Warm and trusting in his arms.

And Jamil—quiet, calm—stayed perfectly still, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he brushed his thumb over your temple.

“If this is a dream,” he whispered, “I don’t want to wake up.”

Vil Schoenheit

The dressing room was quiet.

For once.

The glow of vanity lights lined the mirror, casting golden halos over the room. Bottles, brushes, powders, everything meticulously organized in Vil’s space. You had been keeping him company after his rehearsal—watching him take off his stage makeup with gentle, practiced motions, each movement like part of a performance in itself.

You sat beside him on the plush velvet chaise, your posture proper at first, engaged in conversation. He was mid-rant about a classmate’s awful skincare routine (heaven help them), and you had smiled, eyes soft, head tilted just slightly.

And then…

You slumped sideways.

Right into his lap.

Vil’s breath hitched, and he looked down, mouth parted slightly in surprise.

You… fell asleep?

On him?

“Darling?” he said quietly, brushing his fingers against your shoulder. No response.

Your face was tilted toward him, cheek gently pressed against his thigh, lashes brushing the top of your cheek, lips parted just slightly. You looked so peaceful. So still.

So unaware of how tightly you’d gripped his heart in that moment.

Vil slowly exhaled, lowering his hand to rest on your back. His other hand—still elegant, still carrying the last remnants of lotion—hovered over your hair. And then, with featherlight grace, he began to smooth it back, careful not to disturb your rest.

“Sleeping on a chaise,” he murmured. “That’s hardly ideal posture.”

But his voice had no edge. No scolding. Just… gentle amusement.

Vil Schoenheit was used to control—his appearance, his schedule, his image. And yet, here you were, disrupting all of that with a single act of vulnerability. Trusting him with your body in its most unguarded state.

And it didn’t irritate him.

It moved him.

“This is… dangerous,” he whispered. “You lower my guard far too easily.”

He gazed at you for a long while, memorizing the curve of your face in the soft light. The way your hand rested atop his knee like it belonged there. The softness of your lips, the warmth of your breath.

Vil had been photographed a thousand times, posed beside the most beautiful people in the world.

But this?

This was the most beautiful moment he had ever been part of.

He gently tugged a silk throw blanket from the back of the chaise and draped it over your shoulders, careful not to shift your head. Then, leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, reverent, full of unspoken feeling.

“You’ll be the ruin of me, schatz,” he whispered. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Rook Hunt

The sun had long since begun its descent, draping the vast grounds of NRC in a golden veil. The lush gardens behind Pomefiore dorm basked in that soft honey light, petals curling gently like sleepy sighs, and even the breeze seemed to hush itself to a lullaby. Rook Hunt sat on a stone bench nestled beneath an arch of ivy and lavender, legs crossed with poetic elegance, one arm draped along the bench’s edge, the other cradling a small leather-bound book of Baudelaire’s poetry.

But he had not turned a page in fifteen minutes.

His gaze, normally so sharp and brimming with curiosity, had softened completely—locked onto you, his beloved, curled up in the safest of sanctuaries: his lap.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, of course. It had started with just leaning against him, the sun warming your back and his hand absentmindedly carding through your hair, twirling strands like golden thread between his fingers. His voice had been low, reciting French verses with a soft lilt, letting the words flutter into the air like butterflies. Somewhere between the cadence of his voice, the scent of lilacs, and the rise and fall of his breathing, sleep had stolen you away.

And Rook… was absolutely enchanted.

“Oh, mon ange…” he whispered, barely audible, his breath brushing against the crown of your head.

He didn’t dare move. His usually ever-restless energy was still for once—his stillness more reverent than any silence in the cathedral. Your cheek was resting just over his thigh, your arms folded like a child’s under your head. A soft sigh escaped your lips every now and then, the kind that melted straight into his chest.

It was an intimacy far beyond a stolen kiss or dramatic serenade. This was something quiet. Sacred.

Rook’s gloved fingers ghosted along your shoulder, his thumb brushing ever so lightly against the skin where your shirt had slipped a bit. He chuckled—quietly, tenderly.

“To inspire such trust… Such vulnerability…” He murmured in awe, gazing down at you like one might look at a painting in a gallery, overwhelmed by its beauty but unable to explain why. “Tu es ma muse éternelle.”

The soft flush on your cheeks, the way your lashes kissed your skin, the rhythm of your breath—all of it wove a spell around his heart. A predator by nature, he was always seeking, always hunting the next beautiful moment. But this? This stillness, this peace—this was the rarest prey of all.

Rook leaned back, head tilted toward the twilight sky.

He would sit here forever if it meant you could rest undisturbed. The hunt could wait.

Idia Shroud

The atmosphere in Idia’s room buzzed with low ambient synth music, neon lights tracing cyber-punk lines across the walls, bouncing off rows of figurines and glowing monitors. Ortho had exited the room a while ago, leaving behind a half-empty can of soda and a quiet “I’ll give you two some space, nii-san~” in a sing-song voice that had Idia practically overheating.

You were on the floor, curled in a sea of fuzzy blankets and oversized gaming pillows. Idia had set up your “chill zone,” as he nervously called it—stocked with snacks, manga, and an absurdly cute cat-shaped pillow that he had definitely not bought because it reminded him of the way you smiled.

You had climbed up into his gaming chair at some point, practically draping yourself across his lap, completely fearless. Idia had gone full system error—stiff as a board, hands twitching at his sides, a thousand inner alarms going off.

“Wha—Y-You can’t just—th-th-there’s a process! A sequence! L-like, at least two awkward movie nights before you just go full-on lap-mode!!”

But you hadn’t answered. Your breathing had slowed. Your body had gone warm and heavy.

You’d fallen asleep.

Idia’s heart skipped several beats. He actually had to check that he wasn’t hallucinating. A tiny puff of air escaped your lips, your cheek squished against his hoodie-clad thigh, and your hand, like it had a mind of its own, had curled around the hem of his sleeve.

He froze. Again.

Then slowly, as if afraid to wake a very fluffy, very delicate sleeping beast, he let himself breathe. Just a little.

His hand trembled as it hovered near your head. His fingers twitched like they were afraid to mess it up—you—the whole fragile image of this moment.

And then, very carefully, he let his hand settle into your hair.

“…This is… r-real, right?” he whispered, voice cracking mid-sentence. He bit down on a whimper, overwhelmed.

“She’s literally asleep. On me. Like, I’m not even an NPC in this cutscene. I’m the main questline now.”

A faint giggle threatened to bubble up, but he slapped a hand over his mouth.

Then the other part of his brain chimed in.

What if she wakes up and realizes it’s weird? What if she was just tired and it wasn’t a conscious choice? What if she thinks you’re a total loser for sitting there like a statue?

He shut his eyes tight.

No. No, for once, he wouldn’t self-destruct this moment. Not when it felt like he’d stepped into a rare hidden level that only unlocked when your affection for an NPC was maxed out.

He looked down at you again, marveling at the tiny breath of warmth rising and falling against him.

“You’re like… my safe point,” he mumbled into the dark, letting his fingers finally settle gently in your hair.

A small ping from his PC reminded him a new update had installed.

“Whatever, I already got the best patch.”

Malleus Draconia

It was a rare, quiet evening at Diasomnia. No thunder echoed from the mountains, no duties called for the crown prince, and no students dared interrupt the rare moment of peace Malleus found with you.

The courtyard behind the dormitory was bathed in moonlight, silver threads weaving between tall hedges and ancient statues. You’d been chatting beside him on a stone bench, your legs curled beneath you, fingers grazing his as you recounted a ridiculous tale Ace had told you during lunch. Malleus listened—his eyes never straying from your face, utterly enchanted by your every word. You were warm and brilliant, like the sun he’d always been curious about, and it was moments like this that made him feel closer to understanding it.

But the day had been long. Long classes, longer conversations, and the gentle lull of Malleus’s deep voice had slowly pulled you into the edges of slumber. One moment you were chuckling, your cheek in your palm, and the next… your head tilted gently against his thigh.

Malleus stiffened slightly—not in discomfort, but surprise.

He blinked down at you, your lashes fluttering, your lips parting slightly as your breathing evened out. His first instinct was stillness. Dragons, after all, are patient creatures. He gazed at your peaceful form, processing the trust it took for you to doze off like this—on him. Vulnerable. Soft.

“My treasure…” he whispered, voice low with reverence.

He gently adjusted his posture, making sure your head had a comfortable angle. One clawed hand hovered hesitantly in the air before slowly descending to stroke your hair, tender and cautious, like touching spun gold.

“Even in sleep, you are unafraid of me.” The words were not sad, but filled with quiet awe.

The warmth of your body against him, the subtle scent of your perfume, and the delicate rise and fall of your breath began to unravel something inside Malleus. A rare emotion—one that wrapped around his ancient heart like ivy. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, yet here you were, the most precious thing he’d ever held, choosing to rest in his lap like he was your sanctuary.

As your hand twitched in your sleep, seeking his, Malleus smiled.

He laced your fingers together, holding you close.

“You will never know harm while I breathe,” he murmured, more promise than poetry.

He remained there, unmoving, for as long as you needed. Watching over you with all the devotion of a dragon guarding his hoard, his heart heavy with love and light.

Lilia Vanrouge

The music from the Lounge had died down hours ago, and yet the two of you lingered in the quiet common room of Diasomnia, curled up on an emerald velvet settee, bathed in candlelight.

You had been scrolling through photos on your phone, laughing at memories, while Lilia lounged beside you, arms spread over the back of the couch, looking for all the world like a retired general watching over his beloved court jester.

His teasing quips had slowed as the hour crept past midnight. You were curled sideways now, legs draped over his, head tucked against his shoulder.

And then… your body shifted slightly.

You sighed—a soft, exhausted exhale—and gently, instinctively, nestled your head into his lap. Your phone slid from your hand to the cushion with a muffled thud.

Lilia paused mid-sentence, blinking. Then he looked down.

“Well, well…” His voice was a whisper, touched with warmth and amusement. “You’ve gone and melted into my lap, little bat.”

There was no complaint in his tone. Only gentle adoration.

He shifted minutely, reaching for a throw blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch. With practiced ease, he draped it over your form, tucking it around your shoulders with a tenderness only centuries of experience could perfect.

As your cheek pressed against his thigh, he could feel the subtle hum of your breath through his clothes. He gently brushed your hair away from your face, taking a moment to admire your features—so soft, so trusting, so utterly you.

Lilia had lived longer than most stars, but never had he found a moment quite like this.

“A sight sweeter than sakura in spring,” he murmured, one gloved hand resting lightly atop your head.

He leaned back, gazing at the ceiling, his other hand lazily tracing invisible patterns against your arm beneath the blanket.

He thought of the countless battles he’d fought, the wars he’d survived, the heartbreaks endured. And yet this moment—this quiet, sleeping you—was what he found himself wanting to protect most of all.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly, “I’ll keep watch tonight, just as I always have. Even nightmares wouldn’t dare bother you while I’m here.”

A mischievous glint twinkled in his eyes, even as his voice remained soft.

“And if you drool on me, well… I suppose I’ll consider it a badge of honor.”

He chuckled lightly to himself, and resumed playing with your hair, humming a lullaby so old the stars had likely forgotten it. It was a melody sung once in ancient fae courts, now resurrected just for you.

Lilia, the eternal guardian, kept his silent vigil, heart full and content.

[caramel-chai]

can I request the overblot boys (hcs) with a fem reader who has curly hair. but when she went to twst she didn't get any products (Crowley would NOT give us shit) so she didn't do her curls until she got products and got to do her routine again and actually wear her curls for the first time in NRC

(if u don't do multiple ppl then can I js get Vil with this)

OVERBLOTS X READER

Where you have curly hair and you start to do your curls properly

Vil definitely noticed when your curls weren't defined, but he assumed it was a stylistic choice or a wash-and-go day.

When you walk into the hall with your curls fully revived and styled, he slowly raises an eyebrow.

"Oh? Darling, is that your natural curl pattern?"

When you tell him you finally got your products and could do your routine again, he's intrigued, and a little horrified that you had to go without proper haircare.

"Ugh. Typical of that insufferable man. No understanding of maintenance. None."

Vil goes into mentor mode.

"What's your curl type? 3A? 3C? Do you use heat? What's your drying method?"

He's already sketching a custom hair regimen in his mind.

He pulls a few strings and suddenly you have access to top-tier products from Pomefiore’s exclusive inventory.

You try to refuse, but he won't let you settle for “bargain-bin conditioner.”

"You were already beautiful, but now you're radiant. Your curls frame your face like a crown, and I expect you to treat them as such."

He'll teach you how to preserve them overnight, how to pineapple your hair, and even offer to silk-wrap your pillow if you stay over at Pomefiore.

Jamil has sharp eyes—you know he noticed your hair before, but he didn't comment.

He probably assumed the frizz or undefined curls were just how your hair always looked… until one day you walk into Scarabia with your full routine done, curls defined.

"… You did something different. Not that I was watching—I mean, I wasn't—well, I was, but not like—"

sighs internally

He's flustered.

It's cute.

You explain the whole “no products until now” thing and he’s immediately sympathetic.

"That's rough. Honestly, not surprised Crowley wouldn't think to provide that."

He offers to help you track down specific ingredients or oils if you want to DIY your routine—Scarabia’s got access to spices and natural oils you could definitely use.

He won't admit it directly, but your curls? Devastating to him.

He likes the way they bounce when you laugh and how your silhouette changes in the sunlight.

Occasionally brushes your curls out of your face without saying a word.

Kalim bursts in like: “You look AMAZING today!!”

Jamil mutters under his breath: “She looks amazing every day…”

Riddle is baffled the first time he sees you with your curls.

“You look… different today,” he says, trying to maintain composure.

He is staring. He does not mean to stare. But he is staring.

You explain it's your natural hair texture and that you couldn't do your curly hair routine before now because you didn't have the products.

"That is unacceptable. As a dorm leader, I demand that Crowley provide proper grooming necessities for all students. I'll write him an official complaint."

Once he realizes that this is how your hair looks when it's healthy and cared for, he starts complimenting it—awkwardly, but sweetly.

"Your curls suit you… No, I mean they frame your face well. Er, aesthetically pleasing… That's what I meant."

He secretly memorizes what products you tell like and restores them without you.

Leona notices the change immediately.

One afternoon, you walk into the botanical garden with your curls out and his eyes visibly track you from head to toe.

"Damn. That's what your hair actually looks like?"

He is shook.

He asks if he can touch it. Not in a weird way—he's just genuinely fascinated.

He's never seen curls like yours before and he's very tactile, so he'll run his fingers through a curl and let it bounce back, amused.

"You've been hiding this the whole time? Tch. Waste."

When you tell him you couldn't do your curls because you didn't have products, he gets pissed.

"That damn Crowley. Of course he'd dump a herbivore in here without even the bare minimum."

He will absolutely have stuff delivered from Sunset Savanna (or just swipe from someone's shipment).

Compliments your curls like it's no big deal.

"You look hot. Curls work for you. Keep it that way."

Refuses to admit he's been glancing at you more than usual.

Azul pretends he didn't notice the drastic change, but his reaction gives him away.

"Welcome to the Lou—uh, I mean—Yuu. You look… different. Not bad. I mean—good. You look good. Yes. That."

You explain the situation about not having curly hair products and its entire meaning shifts.

"I see. How inconsiderate of the Headmage not to equip you with proper grooming tools."

Azul offers to source imported hair products for you at a discounted rate. (You say no—he tries again.)

When he realizes how important this is to you, he tries a different approach: "For you, I could offer them for free. Consider it… good PR."

Lowkey develops a huge weakness for your curls.

He will deny it if Floyd teases him about it, but he definitely stars longer than he should when you play with them.

Secretly imagines you in a mermaid form with curls flowing in water like seafoam.

He doesn't even realize how romantic that is until later.

Idia is on his tablet as usual when you walk into Ignihyde, bouncing hair, curls finally in their full glory.

He looks up once—and then goes completely red.

His hair flares up in pink flames and he nearly drops his tablet.

"Is that… a new skin of yours?!"

You explain the curl care thing and the lack of products, and he just stares at you, like,

“They let you suffer like, without item drops?? That's current villain behavior.”

He goes into researching curly hair routines and Amazon-equivalents in Twisted Wonderland.

Next thing you know, there's a care package outside your door

Every time you wear your curls out, he turns into a stammering mess who can't look you in the eye.

Worships the curls but cannot verbalize it.

Ortho ends up saying it for him:

"Big Brother says you look great! Especially when your hair spirals like this!"

Malleus is so used to be excluded that when you come with your curls defined and radiant, he thinks it must be some kind of costume he wasn't informed about.

"Child of man… your hair is… glowing today"

You explain it's just your natural curls and that you couldn't do your routine before now because of the lack of products.

"So you had to wait to reveal your true hair form. Hm… I understand. Many dragons shed their scales to grow stronger."

He absolutely romanticizes your curls

“They remind me of the curling mist over Briar Valley’s hills at dawn… Spiraling, elegant~”

He offers to send servants to fetch “whatever oils or enchanted waters” you require.

You try to explain it's just gel and leave-in conditioner, but he insists on going above and beyond.

Touches a curl with curiosity.

“So soft…”

(he says it in awe, not creepily, promise.)

He's not shy about admiring you.

He will walk beside you proudly, staring at your curls as they blow in the wind, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

[caramel-chai]

i just rediscovered the pelican spider. give me 1-2 business days to stop laughing at how they're shaped and ill be normal again

[caramel-chai]

I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. A guy asked me what the Spanish word for tortilla was once and now I dream of kissing him under the moonlight

[caramel-chai]

ACE, DEUCE, LEONA, KALIM AND LILIA X READER

Where you have the habit of patting them on the head when they do something right

You made the mistake of patting Ace's head the first time after he barely passed a basketball practice match without cheating.

A small miracle.

You had smiled and ruffled his messy red hair saying,

"Good job, Ace. I’m proud of you."

Ace froze for a second. Blink. Blink.

Then— He grinned.

You could practically see the little sparkle light up behind his eyes.

"Ohhh?~ What's this? Little ol' me getting a reward, huh?"

He leaned down dramatically, tilting his head toward you like a cat demanding attention.

"Wanna pet me more? Maybe scratch behind my ears next time, Yuu?"

From that moment on, Ace treated your habit like his favorite game.

Whenever he did anything remotely successful—winning a card game, finishing a group project, even just carrying your bag for you—he’d shoot you the most obnoxious overly innocent look and announce,

"So, where’s my headpat?"

Sometimes he’d physically nudge your hand toward his head, acting whiny.

Other times, he'd dramatically flop into your lap pouting,

"C'mon, I worked so hard for this."

It was a bit of a monster you created, honestly.

But deep down you knew Ace loved it.

It wasn’t just the attention (though he definitely loved that too). It was you, loving him out loud.

Sometimes, after a rough day (when he didn’t feel like being annoying or bragging), Ace would just plop down beside you, resting his head against your shoulder wordlessly.

And you would smile and card your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, murmuring how proud you were of him.

Ace would close his eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips—and let himself be held by you.

Deuce wasn’t used to being praised. Not like this.

When you first patted his head, he’d passed a potion test he was convinced he’d failed.

The moment Professor Crewel handed him a passing mark, Deuce lit up like a sunrise. And when he turned around to share the joy with you—you just smiled and ruffled his hair.

“There you go! I knew you could do it.”

He blinked. Face froze. And then:

“What are you doing?!”

He turned bright red. Hands flailing. “I’m not a little kid!! You can’t just—!”

But despite the protests, he didn’t stop you. His cheeks glowed. His ears went pink.

And you could feel him slowly leaning into your hand, like he really needed someone to say “you did good” and mean it.

From then on, you made it a habit. Big things. Small things.

If Deuce gave someone without punching them?

Pat.

If he helped someone carry books or aced a quiz?

Pat.

At first, he would puff up every time: “Yuu! Come on, don’t do that in front of the others!!”

He got this tiny proud smile every time, like he couldn’t help but melt a little.

You started noticing he worked harder when you were watching.

“I’ve got to do it right,” he’d mutter under his breath. “Yuu’s gonna see this. I gotta make ‘em proud.”

Eventually, Deuce started earning your headpats on purpose.

He’d glance over with hopeful eyes every time he did something right, and when you stepped close and reached up, he’d bow his head, pretending not to smile—but you could feel it radiating off him.

It wasn’t about being babied. It was about you believing in him. And every headpat said: You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.

For someone trying so hard to walk the right path—that meant everything.

Leona hated it. ...At least, that’s what he said.

The first time you patted his head—after he actually bothered to show up to a Housewarden meeting on time—he let out a growl.

"The hell do you think you’re doing, herbivore?"

But you just smirked and kept scratching behind his ear in that one spot, and watched as the mighty lion prince immediately betrayed himself by leaning into it, just a tiny involuntary fraction.

"You did good today," you murmured.

And you saw it—the second when the tension drained from his shoulders, when he let himself lean just a little closer.

After that, it became a game.

Leona pretended to be indifferent whenever you pet him, acting lazy and annoyed, grumbling things like,

"You're such a pain."

But whenever he actually accomplished something (winning a Spelldrive match, helping a Savannaclaw student study even though he claimed he didn’t care)—he would position himself within reach.

Sprawled on the lounge couch?

Conveniently lying right where your hand would naturally fall on his head.

Sitting with you under the shade of a tree?

Somehow ended up leaning back so close you couldn't not pet him.

He never asked.

But every time you started to run your fingers through his hair and scratch gently behind his ear, that gruff lion would let out the softest rumbly purring sound against his will.

(And if you kissed his temple while you did it, his ears would flatten... but he wouldn’t move away.)

The first time you patted Kalim’s head, it was after he successfully hosted a big Scarabia banquet where no one got food poisoning, nobody got sunstroke, and Jamil didn’t strangle anyone.

High bar.

You reached up, giggling, and fluffed his snowy white hair between your hands.

"You did amazing, Kalim! You’re incredible!"

Kalim immediately lit up like a sunbeam.

"REALLY??" he cried, sparkling. "You think so?! Ahahaha!! You're the best, Yuu!!"

He immediately tackled-hugged you, spinning you around in circles, laughing so loudly and brightly that half of Scarabia heard it.

From that day forward, Kalim decided headpats were mandatory.

Every time he achieved anything—got a good grade, learned a new flying trick, remembered all his appointments for the day—he would come BOUNDING up to you like an excited puppy.

"Yuu! Yuu! Look!! I finished all my homework early!!"

And then he would immediately bow his head down toward you, waiting for his headpat.

If you didn’t do it fast enough, he would grab your hand and put it on his head himself.

Once, in front of the entire Scarabia dorm, he proudly yelled,

"I did all the event planning with Jamil without messing up once!! Yuu, gimme my headpats now!!"

The Scarabia students just sighed fondly. (They were used to it.)

Sometimes Kalim would fall asleep with his head in your lap, your hand stroking through his soft hair.

He would mumble half-dreaming praises:

"Yuu... the best... so nice... love you lots..."

No matter how rich, powerful, or loved he was by the world—there was something in Kalim’s heart that craved that warm reassurance. That he was seen.

That he was cherished just for being him.

And you gave it to him, every time.

Lilia’s reaction to your headpats was...

Well.

The first time you did it, he simply closed his eyes and smiled like a cat basking in the sunlight.

You had congratulated him for flawlessly performing an impossibly complex spell during Alchemy class (he's like 500 years old how is he not gonna do it)

— and without missing a beat, you'd stood on your tiptoes (he was short, but still a bit taller than you!) and fluffed his hair affectionately.

Lilia chuckled.

"My, my. How spoiled I'm becoming, but if it's coming from you, I suppose I could grow used to such indulgences."

Unlike Leona—who denied wanting headpats and melted when he got them—Lilia leaned into it shamelessly.

He treated it like a game.

Sometimes after pranking Silver he'd come sauntering up to you, grin wicked, and lower his head.

"Don't I deserve a little reward, Yuu?~" he’d tease. "If you're feeling generous, that is."

If you hesitated even a second, Lilia would pout, arms folded, pretending to be deeply wounded.

"Ohhh, how cruel! You encourage me to be mischievous and then deny me my rightful prize!"

He’d even throw in a fake sniffle for good measure.

When you did give in—giggling and running your fingers through his soft hair—Lilia would hum, closing his eyes, his whole person softening.

And sometimes he would rest his head against yours

"You’re too kind to an old fae like me, Yuu." A whisper of something bittersweet

[caramel-chai]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another click of his tongue, this time for you.

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you mean red and white?"

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

"Because I'm a guest?"

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

"No. Because you are the visiting Queen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas, he recalls with ease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

Zing.

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

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

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

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

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

You glow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why aren't you mad at me?"

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

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

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

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

Mercy? At Night Raven? You're kidding.

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

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

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

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

"B-but that's not fair! What about your -"

Trey shut off the faucet.

"Enough already," he grit the words out, "You're not supposed to be in here after hours and Crewel isn't the sort of instructor to let transgressions go. Do you want to be barred from the lab indefinitely?"

There was not any yelling. If anything, he was too quiet. No directly hurtful words. Trey hadn't meant for his tone to come out so forceful, but the veins on his arms were starting to bulge under duress and you just weren't listening.

His skin was about to blister if he kept it under water much longer. Maybe he should have let it.

Trey will do whatever he can to keep you happy, safe - satisfied and exactly as he found you. His feelings aren't that of a wet doormat, but he's always gone the subtle route. Thought things through.

Damn it - you always made it hard to think things through.

Grabbing one of the hanging towels, Trey turns around with the tick in his neck hanging tight. Just waiting for you to go and leave him feeling strung. The lab always felt cold compared to the rest of Night Raven, you'd take your warmth but he wasn't doing a great job of protecting it regardless. His mind's already running the extra mile and looking for a way to fix this.

"I don't mind being banned if it's what's fair. You don't need to shelter me, Trey. I know when I've messed up, and I want to help if you'll just let me."

Zing.

You don't run out on him, leaving a mess behind. Leave him cold. Like when the oven turns off and the kitchen's aired out. There's no need for a step-by-step plan. His words stung - he knew by your fists bunched in the pockets of your lab coat. You dislike this as much as he does - and yet, unlike Trey, you don't run.

"Let me help. Please?"

Trey purses his lips together, taking a deep breath through his nose before letting it out in four counts. He finishes toweling his stained hands, sooths the sting, tosses the rag aside and steps into your space. Closer than needed but something he wanted.

His painted hand hovers over your head, his impulse to make light and ruffle your hair. Reign it all back in.

Except one look in your eyes stops him short, and he finds your cheek instead. His purpled thumb looks ridiculous against your reddening cheeks - utterly wrong yet you lean into him before he can change his mind.

"Alright," Trey relents, tone much softer, "You win. I'm annoyed- "

Trey pauses, his brows dipping. You wait.

" - and I'm sorry for just now."

You nod against his palm, "I am too. Let's...let's just take a bit. We don't have to tell Crewel together if you're sure, but I can at least help with Riddle. I've had plenty of practice."

That you did with the freshmen you hang around - and a success rate of zilch since they still walk away with collars more often than not.

You really couldn't protect Trey from Riddle's word, in truth. He'd scold the both of you without hesitance. Although maybe it won't be so bad, sharing a tart without the roundabout.

"That sounds good to me."

Cater Diamond calls maximum-level bullshit. Magic is definite. His split-card never fails to produce an exact replica of him down to the finest detail. The cowlick he combs over, right above his left ear. The slight downturn of his right eye - an unfortunate side effect of sleeping on his side, face scrunched tight between forearm and bicep. His freckle pattern is identical too, even the ones on his back! Every possible fluctuation of his voice, the slight lag in his gait, his superstitions about stepping on tile cracks - even as a duplicate, he won't risk that karma. Cater's unique magic was perfect. Which is why he calls bullshit when you claim to tell them apart.

No.

Tell him from them? All clones look exactly the same, act the same, but apparently they didn't replicate his 'aura'. Whatever that means.

The first time you were able to do it, he thought nothing. That maybe you were looking to feel special - especially when your only response to how was 'I can just tell'. Even though no one looked convinced, you weren't bothered.

Cater wasn't about to take it personally either. Not when you were a great source for magicam material, and one of the few people his dorm head seemed to tolerate. Definitely the cute underclassmen type his sisters would go crazy for, and he did owe you for...well, no need to keep tabs, right?

It's not like you were being rude about it either. If it was a slight against his magic ability, maybe he'd feel differently.

Except you did it again.

And again.

Again.

Oh? Another time too.

Enough times that he stops sending a copy to do his dirty work, because you'll know. Even if you don't rat him out, there's that way you try to bit down a smile that somehow gets his clones to have a looser lip.

Okay. Maybe he needed to work on that. Yet still. Risking everything on your whim just so he can cut class isn't worth the headache.

Yet he will not concede.

It's bullshit. You're bullshitting so far out that he'd sooner believe Trey skipped flossing for an entire week straight. No. A month.

But Cater can't cling to that simple, vulgar dismissal. Even if he's never said it out loud to your face. There has to be a reason. While he's not one to have it 'out' for his underclassmen, you have to be putting on some kind of front. He can't bring himself to be spiteful about it since 'Cay-Cay' doesn't exactly encompass all that makes Cater.

You have to be - because it's physically impossible for someone to be this ignorant. He can excuse your lack of Wonderland culture (and is working to remedy it) but social cues? No. You have to be doing something intentionally. Anything. To see more of him.

He respects the effort, but if you're so intent on seeing him? Well. He'd let you see all right. Just don't blame Cater if you regret losing 'cay-cay' in the process.

"Special delivery for you, Peepers. Curtesy of Heartslabyul's royal court!"

With a perfectly-wrapped gift basket on one arm, and his phone in the other's hand. Cater holds the front door to Ramshackle on his hip and outstretches the screen for your 'signature'. Aka. just for you to take some photo-evidence that he's done his duty so Riddle won't scold him for skimping.

"On god, are those my cookies? Did Trey actually do it?"

You happily take his precious phone and snap a quick picture. One of Cater on the front- stoop, and another with half your face in the bottom frame. Eyes squinted enough that anyone could tell you're smiling. He poses too on instinct, but once the classic *click* passes he's eagerly dropping the basket in your hands.

You open the wrapping and sniff the air. "It is! I could kiss that man. Just get me a step ladder and a bit of peer pressure."

Cater snorts.

"Over cookies? I admit, we do have the best baker on campus but don't make it too easy. We don't want lovesick boys raining down on Ramshackle..." he wiggles his brows with a cheeky smirk, "...or do we? So scandalous of you!"

No reward for the messenger? He almost wants to press for it, but you'd probably take him seriously.

Cater disregards the slight bitterness in his stomach, and pushes into your space to snag one of the 'special delivery' bites. He dangles the biscuit just over your head and holds it up to the sun.

You, of course, try to get it back. He relishes in the brief power imbalance.

"Aren't these just normal cookies? Wah - look how golden the edges are! Totally pic worthy, if you ask me," he jumps through the threshold and into the main hallway. The cookie just on his lips.

"Would be a shame if we just ate them all, right peeps?"

A bit of sugar is worth that expression. The front door slams on your heels as you make like a bull towards him.

"Annnnnnd that's my cue! Later, gator!"

He dips and spins at the last second, sweeping past for one action-packed getaway that leads straight out the door to the safe confines of Heartslabyul castle. Not with boisterous laughter, but his cheeks do feel extra stretched out. Cater isn't sure if he wants this feeling either.

Never mind before. That was a magicam worthy image. The 'harmless' Ramshackle prefect ready to commit murder over one cookie.

Eyeing his little prize, Cater takes a bite.

Still not a fan of sweets or chores...but he can admit that both the victory and visit are sweet.

"I have a question."

"LOL - is that why you look three-days constipated?"

"Do you always have to be such a - "

Dick?

"Yes," Cater flashed his teeth, tapping his phone against his cheek, "To you? Always."

Cater doesn't mind playing sitter for a bit. Not that you ever actually sat still. Nah. Kalim was all too eager for someone to come listen in on what the Pop Music Club was working on, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now two-thirds of his club busied themselves fighting over if they'd sing a rock ballad, or some actual pop. Since they were technically the 'pop' music club, and their optimist leader wanted you to really catch the vibes.

Cater? Cater didn't mind all that much, but was real glad he chose today to attend in person. Not because you'd rat him out, but for these odd entertaining moments. It's not like he can poke all his little 'buds' this way.

He leaned against the back of Lilia's amp, attention flickering between your prattling and his doom scroll.

"Did you know I was coming today?"

Pretty steep lead-up for a lame question.

"Nah,' Cater shrugged, but caught your disbelieving look, "whaaa? Do you think I can keep tabs on all my cute underclassmen? Don't be such a spoiled goober, peeps."

You still remained doubtful. He tapped his phone to his chin, setting a line out for you to catch.

"Alright, I'll cast. Why are you so sure I knew, huh?"

You wince, sucking some air past your teeth. He recognized that look. It's the same one Ace had every time he admit to a crime. Dang. A-Deuce really has you clutched.

"You just...I noticed you kinda avoid using your unique magic with me around. Kalim said it's how you three can make music that needs more instruments, but -"

You pause, isn't he supposed to be the skeptic here?

"Well. You're you right now. So I just thought - not to sound accusatory, mind you - that it's because of me.."

Well that's new. Not the calling him out part. Cater's let that grudge go over time. You were just too fun to mess with, and he settled for playing the cards set up. It's not like you were going anywhere.

He just didn't expect his little one-sided rivalry to make it through that 'aura' barrier, or whatever it is you called it before. Neither for him to actually show his hand, especially when he could deny it so easily.

"You want me to lay it straight with you?" Cater asks, his smile too wide for blatant kindness.

Back out man. What are you doing?

You, doe-eyed no more, nod along.

"You're hella creepy. That's why I give you special attention."

Part of Cater relishes in the startled expression on your face. In the discomfort of being seen that he's dealt with since the moment you met. Even if the feelings changed an now coated with something sickeningly sweet. A feeling he didn't want, but came regardless.

He continues without prompt.

"Did you ever think about where the name 'peepers' comes from? Sure, you're cute like a little chick. ADeuce sure Shepard you like one, and I'm sure it'd be the same if you were in Heartslabyul with the rest of us - "

You say nothing. Although Cater's not really being cruel, just honest. He knows there are better words to use here. Can think of them, but he doesn't want to.

"- but you don't really know boundaries, do you? Which can totally get you on the off-side, just saying. At first I did it to make sure you couldn't twist my clones into admitting something totes embarrassing - but now? Hmm....dunno. Just having fun."

The uncomfortable silence that follows is not fun. Although he's good at flipping back to scrolling as if he didn't just get as real as it gets IRL.

You don't stick around for practice. Part of Cater feels guilty that Kalim came back to an empty room, but he's not much in the mood for singing anymore. With you gone, he left behind two doubles.

Later, in his room, he wonders if it was 'Cay-Cay' talking or 'Cater'. They're not mutually exclusive. Either way, he doubts you'd be willing to chat casually with either again. Problem mitigated.

You were a good, if not rattling, experience.

So why's he not happy?

“I want to apologize. If you’ll hear me out.”

Now that’s not what Cater was expecting. Not at all. Two weeks without a Ramshackle resident in sight. For a bit he thought you decided to hate him for setting boundaries of all things. Ace and Deuce were your besties, but they hadn’t breathed a word about whatever you felt to him.

Either you were better at holding secrets than anyone else on campus, or those two had enough tact to respect their upperclassmen. Most likely the former, given past events.

Cater’s more interested in the cup noodle in your hands. Not even the good kind either.

“Is that supposed to be an offering? Did Acey teach you how to pull a kettle out of thin air too?” He’s going to need some hot water after all.

What would normally get those noodles thrown at Cater’s head - maybe a half-baked insult about them resembling his hair too - doesn’t work. You set the styrofoam cup on his desk and sit next to it.

“I’m sorry you felt creeped out by my ‘sixth-sense’ or whatever it is that my shared braincell friends call it. All this time I thought you were hanging out with me because we were friends or -“

You stop. Surely you wouldn’t leave him hanging, but Cater knows you as well as you know him. Too well. Blood rushes to your ears, as does words to your lips.

“- or, uh, more. Like - you didn't use the doubles since you liked spending time with me. Which is a bit conceited to think, I guess. I didn’t realize you were forcing yourself to be something you’re not. In the beginning I really admired you. Maybe that’s why I can tell the clones apart? It's a dumb reason but really all I've got. You always caught my attention. I’m not special, or psychic, or anything - I just really liked you.”

Zing

It’s not as if no one’s ever confessed their feelings to Cater. He’s an online presence. Cay gets five confessions a day, at minimum. A dozen fawning comments at every meal.

Except he never stole their packages, or drove them up a wall trying to find a hidden dirty sock in their dorm.

He was still ‘Cay-Cay’. Blessedly cute, to his sister’s delight and his honed weaponry. Although if he could be what they all wanted, he’d be at RSA. Maybe in another life.

No use on what-ifs after all.

“Could you say that with a mouth full of uncooked noodles? Raw emotions should equate raw stomach pains to show your sincerity” Cater wiggled the styrofoam cup before bopping it on your nose.

In this life, he was a melody of sinful cuteness. Maybe you saw that, maybe you didn’t.

The want for that little ‘more’ definitely left him with ammo for what was about to come.

You could be bullshitting that too. The vulgar conclusion somehow still coming back up after all this time.

The diamond on his cheek crinkles with a cheeky grin, and one of his doubles walks in with a piping hot cup of water. Then another with two bowls and chopsticks.

“JK I won’t do that to you,” he lets them set up for some real noodles, slipping the ones you bought away for later. You don’t need to know everything.

He’ll let you in on this much though.

You were trouble. A bit annoying and oblivious.

But deep down, so was Cater. Maybe he was the one bullshitting himself this whole time.

“You’re real lucky that I’m into creepy these days….say, could we maybe do a horror collab at your place for our launch?”

Deuce often wonders where he'd be if he hadn't come home that night. Good parents try to hide their feelings for the sake of their kids, but what if he hadn't overheard that phone call? What if his mother still felt such sadness? The Insomnia is well earned - if you ask him. Shame that he'll carry for the rest of his life. Her sorrow is his greatest regret, but he'll carry it. To move forward.

Would he still be part of the gang? Likely. There's no way Night Raven College would want someone with bruised knuckles as the only trophy on their name. Who's only redeemable skill was swinging a bat while pumping a wheelie.

Or would they? Floyd Leech received a letter and wasn't turning over any shells to become less...Floyd-like.

Maybe Deuce wasn't special. Just lucky.

Perhaps Night Raven would be better off with the old him. That prideful jerk who didn't think twice before throwing a punch. Who's greatest pride was his blast-cycle and rarely spared a thought on the people who really mattered. An absolute moron stuck in the wrong crowd, in the wrong place always at the wrong time.

In an abyss of what-ifs, there is one certainty.

You would not be a friend to Deuce.

He preyed on the magic-less back then. It's so easy to picture you as those faceless kids that he taunted. He thought himself better than them. Made them preach his superiority, and if they refused? Made their life hell. As did the rest of his gang.

What might he have said to you? What would he have done?

Deuce wasn't necessarily thrilled to be thrown on thin-ice during his first week on campus. He wasn't outright cruel towards you, but Ace? Ace was an asshole. Deuce heard how your meeting went. How he preyed on your ignorance, even though you couldn't help it.

Deuce can't give your group's third shit for it either.

Not when a bit of teasing was mercy compared to the bullying he used to do.

Not when he'd have gone further than Ace could attempt, and not when you'd have taken it without knowing any better. Your trust that he now held so dearly, traded away for a bit of momentary cruelty.

He would have got high off your misery, and been none the wiser to what he was ruining.

This ache is how Deuce tames that abyss of what-ifs.

Any life where you are not a friend to Deuce, is a life that he refuses to see possible.

Deuce is not special. He is lucky.

Lucky enough that you came into his life when he embodied the dignity to learn, and sense appreciate someone so wonderful.

Just like with his mother, Deuce can't ignore the thoughts. They will come, and he faces them with an imaginative force.

At the start of this new life, Deuce set out to become better. To be honorable. Sharp. Strong. Diligent. His mother's pride and tears fueled those ambitions.

Except he forgot one important factor. When he thinks of himself in this image, the desire brightens with your face in his day-dreams amidst hard work.

Kind.

Deuce wants to be kind.

"Finished?"

You stretch lazily across the library table. In the wee hours of dawn, with the sun just barely poking in with it's grey-toned light, Deuce scratches away at one of the many 'guides' Riddle loaned him for practical magic studies.

The word 'guide' must be used loosely, since the notes require endless sifting through textbooks for proper context. Leave it to his Housewarden to give just enough for any student to learn, but they'd need to exhibit excessive effort.

Deuce felt like the village-idiot, or rather the stooge of his academic year. They did this sort of gimmick back in the gang. Every batch of new-comers would come with a dud, meant to fail during initiation as an example.

Hell even Ace passed the last exam. Even if he just brushed by with a 70, it was still miles better than Deuce's 42. At the rate Deuce is going he might as well sign his soul off to Azul agai -

No.

"Urhm...I think? Just need to read a bit more," the words blurred, was it is eyes or did he literally erase the ink off?

The packet disappears before his retinas refocus. You start skimming over the shoddy work without asking. Now he's feeling frustrated and embarrassed.

"Two's wrong," you flip the page, his fingers twitch over the table rim, "five, six, eight, twelve, and fourteen too. Nineteen's short answer is technically right? Not by Riddle's standards, but Trein would take it."

You slide the packet back towards him with minor corrections made. He shouldn't hate red, it's his dorm's pride. Although Deuce wishes that for once he could get a pristine white paper back.

Just once. A sign that all this work was paying off. That he's doing something right.

What's worse is that he's dragging you down with him. A yawn builds in the back of his throat and he shoves it so far down it meets his intestines. Tired? At a time like this? He can't be tired, not when you're giving up a precious Saturday morning so he doesn't resort to cheating like before.

He ducks low, hiding in red ink.

"Sorry, prefect. I'll - I'll just have to start over. You should go get some shut-eye before Grim needs you."

Sorry for wasting your time.

"Why would we do that? You did good."

Huh?

A red pen with the cap just barely holding on pokes the big 65 circled on his paper. It leads up to a lifted blazer cuff, which leads to a stretched arm, which leads to a knotted ribbon which barely passes as a bow.

All to you, in his space with your seat long abandoned with his determination.

All to kind eyes. Indiscriminatory, with patience.

"Good? I missed seven questions."

"Yeah, that's a 65."

Deuce strains his eyes, squinting at the mark with hatred.

"That's not good. It's not even passing."

"Yeah, duh." You sigh heavily. Not like there's a librarian or nerd on duty to hush.

The red cap thumps against his forehead.

"65 is 23 points better than a 42. C'mon, juice-box. Don't tell me we need to study maths next."

You hold the cap there until he looks up from his burial in papyrus. His deprecation - his lapse- meets you in battle and with that one look? You kick its ass to the moon and back.

No judgement. No exuberant praise. No false promises.

Just you and him against the world. Or in this case, a bad grade.

Zing.

One bad grade that he refuses to let set a precedent for his day.

There's a sting to his eyes. It must be the dust.

No. It's a heavenly glow. In this moment, you weren't a friend. You were like a saint sent down from the heavens or wherever it is you come from. It might as well be heaven to him, since he can't go there and it's sent him an angel.

He doesn't want to disappoint you. He doesn't want to spit in the face of that kindness. The hidden bitterness that a magicless student understood practical theory vanished in an instant, as did his desire to trade this pen in for a good sulk.

All he wants is for you to stay with him. To make you proud. He'll work without rest for as long as he has to, if it means he has your faith.

"D-don't call me that! If that nickname sticks then I'll never make it as a proper honor student!"

He swats the pen off him with flushed cheeks, but little strength. Your laugh invokes this newfound confidence and it's like six shots of espresso all at once.

You slip into the chair across him, snickering.

"Sure thing....if you can score 70 by noon. I believe in you, juice-box."

The heat is sweltering. What dorm doesn't have central air in the middle of summer? Ace already knows the answer, but complains anyways. The whines fall off his lips like greetings. More of an obligatory thing.

He could head back to Heartslabyul. Where it's a steady seventy-two degrees and hopefully some shaved ice in one of the freezers. He could sneak you in? Twist Riddle’s nickers even when the guy was across the sea.

Not just Riddle, but everyone else too. Ace hadn't seen another face on campus in nearly two weeks. Deuce was the last to leave, seeing as his 'new image' meant helping mommy dear out with a summer job.

There wasn’t anyone around this time of year. Just the upkeep staff. Needless to say that Night Raven morphed into one odd ghost town.

Oh. Let's not forget himself and the two lone residents of this dilapidated dormitory.

Zzzzz-

"It's not fair you always get the bed. What ever happened to basic hospitality?" he groaned, cheek pressed into the hard floorboards.

You scoff from where he can't see before going back to whatever it is you were rambling about. He wasn't fully paying attention. Something about this game franchise starring a pink gumball that eats things to get powers?

What a dumb idea. He'd say as much, if he wasn't becoming one with the ground. Banished to below after kicking you in the chin while laughing at his comics.

Sweaty, uncomfortable, clothes sticking to his skin and said comic too far out of reach. The pages spit every time the slightest gust of wind comes in from outside. Grim's knocked out-cold on the recliner, occasionally stirring awake to tell you both to shut up.

"Ace? Are you even listening anymore?"

You peer down over the bedside. Hair ready to host rats and a bit of cheese dust on your cheek. Beads of sweat smeared it into a junk food lipstick. Vil’ worst nightmare, honestly.

Zzzzzz-

Ace barely peels his body off the ground to smack his hand over your mouth. Your weight is nothing to stop him from climbing back over the crumpled duvet. That’s right. Scream under his sweaty grip. No one to save you now.

"Never was - now move over already before I become a puddle and melt all over your floor"

The bed is just as, if not more, sweltering and uncomfortable. Ace grins apathetically as you flail to escape his noogies. Only to give up and go back to rambling on. This time letting the heat suffocate you together rather than apart.

He could fall asleep like this. Will fall asleep like this. It’s his earned right for the entirety of summer. Whatever it is you’re on now, he doesn’t care. Not fully. Just keep talking and don’t get up.

Ace thinks the world doesn’t give him enough credit.

The sun, the sea, the sand - it’s all too perfect. A vacation away from endless classwork and his house-warden trying to rip him a new one? A dream.

That’s what this was.

A dream.

With you right at the center of it all. Again. This isn’t something he’s buried deep down. His mind’s eye didn’t need to work hard for his desires.

Ace knows what’s up. He knows that if he sits up on his elbows, reaches over to poke your ribs and taunts out a vengeful swat - that he’ll get more than just some sand in his eyes. He’ll be done for. He’ll be blinded.

He’ll fall into the sweetest nightmare.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz-

It’s buzzing in him. He’s walking such a fine, a dangerous line. This isn’t forever. He just wants you to be happy without the expense of his own. Is that so much to ask?

Where the hell are the adults? The professors? Why is he even in this position?

When will he wake up? How long until the fantasy is gone? He doesn’t want to give it attention.

Since he will wake up. You'll come for him. It's a matter of when, not if. If he gives in, then the fantasy will become just that until it's gone. He'll blink and it will all be gone.

Ace knows that the only way is for you to walk along in-between, but it’s impossible. Ace is well aware of the inevitable cracks better than anyone else. He doesn’t need convincing.

…

Fine.

Ace falls asleep willingly. He keeps his hands to himself, lays upon the shore, and lets the tide wet his feet.

Dreams are far more forgiving than reality, and the world can withhold its credit. He doesn’t want the knowledge.

“I thought I was changing your mind!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m in love with you, idiot!”

Ace felt his teeth crack together. He said it. It took months of trying. Months of pulling himself back as far as he could.

He said it. You heard it. He’s glad you heard it because it’s unfair that he’s the only one about to get his chest ripped out. It’s not fair.

“I’m in love with you,” he breathed out, “I’m in love with you and I want you to stay.”

It's not real. It can't be real. Since all he could see now was that person from the very beginning. The one he taunted on an off chance on his first day. He was such a dick back then. All he had to do was keep walking, but he was too cruel for that. He just had to go mess with the person who’s day was already at an all time low, stuck cleaning old statues while everyone else got on with their lives.

If he just kept walking. If he didn’t let his ego get the better of him. Then he never would have experienced any of this. He wouldn’t know you.

He wouldn’t love you.

Zzz-

And what burns the most, is that he wanted to love you. Even if it meant this frustration. This abandonment.

“I'm sorry."

I can’t do this.

“WAKE UP ALREADY -"

“Ace?“

He rest his forehead against your pulse. Nose nestled into your collar, body draped over your front like a blanket. His bones felt like pudding after running for so long.

The end of this nightmare wasn't close. Nowhere near. Even though he was ripped from one dream - no, a nightmare. A twisted, willing nightmare. It wouldn't be over until the dragon sung.

Even then. There were sill hidden cards within his deck. The ones Ace held close to his chest.

You came for him, because of course you did. He wants to say that he'd not do the same. That you're an utter dumbass for going against Malleus Draconia of all people. Except he'd be lying to himself.

"We need to get going," you tapped his shoulders urgently, "Ace? C'mon, you're freaking me out man...we need to help -"

"Just give me a minute."

He held you tighter. Not by much. His own subconscious drained life like Riddle at a party. His head was still buzzing. What was dream melted with what was reality.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" you asked, wary.

Idiot.

Ace held you at arm's length.

Zzzz-

"How much of that last part did you actually see?" he asked.

Your concern morphed into sympathy. Of course it did.

"Don't worry about any of us judging you, okay? Those dreams don't accurately reflect our hearts. If anything, more of a pleasant nightmare. Like our hearts giving us a weird case of Stockholm Syndrome with our desires"

That's not what he asked, but alright.

"So all of it," he concluded and clicked his tongue, "damn it....this is so not cool."

Whether you took his sulking as something to be pitied or not. It didn't matter. Twisted desire or not, it didn't matter.

He wouldn't let it matter. This card could hold until he made the dragon sing.

"C'mon," Ace pulled you forth to convene with the others. His head clear and the buzzing louder than ever. His fingers laced tightly with yours.

This is real. He can do this. He won't wait for another sweet nightmare or promise of power.

"You and I? We have words after this is over. I've been through seven layers of hell because of you, and there won't be an eighth."

Zing.

[caramel-chai]

[caramel-chai]

HC: What follows the first kiss

First kiss scenario where he runs away/takes a step back, flustered, after a quick peck on the lips

-Deuce,Riddle, Idia

First kiss scenario where he has to jog around to cool his head because he wants more kisses and feels greedy

-Jack, Sebek

First kiss scenario where he captures your lips again a millisecond after the first kiss. There's no time to breathe.

-Malleus, Floyd, Jade, Vil, Epel

First kiss scenario where he gets dazed right after, just gazing at you and thumbing your swollen lips

-Trey, Jamil, Silver

First kiss scenario where he throws his head back chuckling out of glee before pulling you for another

-Rook,Floyd,Ruggie

First kiss scenario where he lifts you and spins you around

-Lilia, Kalim

First kiss scenario where he melts—hiding his face on the crook of your neck because he's embarrassed that his legs feel like jelly; He feels like his breath was taken away

-Ace, Azul

First kiss scenario and it's followed by half a minute of awkward silence, then a full make out session

-Cater, Leona

.

.

.

The others can fit in more than one category, too.

[caramel-chai]

on his way to visit his gf

original image

[caramel-chai]

sigh,,,,,,,, thinking about your newly wed husband…

Floyd Leech! Who never kicked the habit of being the worst person alive to sleep next to, not even in your many years of being together >:( Waking up blanket tossed aside to the floor with his back pressed against yours, fully ensnaring you in his freakishly strong grip, despite numerous complaints about overheatin’ in the morning thanks to ya - jackass. Kissing you before leaving for work so obnoxiously loud you can hear the smack of his lips leaving yours, teeth exposed by his devilish grin - “Don't miss me too much, ‘kay?” Always coming home with his suit suspiciously mussed up, smelling of old copper coins, practically tackling you every time he sees you, eyes crinkling and mouth opened in a toothy grin, singsonging five words - “I'M BAAAACK ~ didja miss me?” :) Dragging you all the way to the Coral Sea for the Leech family’s monthly family meeting, though everyone knew Georgina just wanted an excuse to see her son and her dear child-in-law, pinching your cheek and cooing about how she wanted to fatten you up, only for Floyd to pull you close, complaining about how you were his to squish - well, you did sign up for this <33

Vil Schoenheit! Who never let you have a lazy morning in your entire relationship, waking you up with smoothie bowls and invitations to joining him in pilates - you never say yes, but you’re always willing to watch your dearest as he works out :)) Subtly hinting at his engagement in interviews, getting married in a small but picturesque chapel, close friends only - soft launching your marriage with a single caption less photo on Magicam, both of your fingers entwined, rings glinting in the almost dreamlike sunlight <3333 Spending his off days hate watching the odd soap drama together on the couch, so close you can smell your precious lover’s scent - the fragrance from his expensive body wash, the smell of the real Vil Schoenheit, something his hundreds of followers would never get to experience :)) Going on lengthy press tours, only to come home late to the sight of you, asleep on the couch, clearly waiting for him - “You ought to listen more to me, my sweet potato - sleeping on uneven surfaces can cause back problems, you know.” Still joining you anyway, after bringing a pillow to properly support your head and a blanket to cover the both of you <3

Ruggie Buuchi! Who moved into a neighbourhood suspiciously close to the slums he used to live in, your backyard even having a granny flat in case of Grandma Buuchi’s surprise visits, signature donuts and grin in hand <333333 Clinging on to you in the morning before work, grumbling about five more minutes before caving to having responsibilities and forcing you awake as well - married couples should go through troubles together right, shishishishishi >:))))) Never missing the opportunity to start a neighbourhood barbecue even in the blistering summer heat, always giving you the best cuts of meat straight from the grill - what a gentleman :)) Monthly date nights spent anywhere from your living room, watching cheesy chick-flicks to the beach, rubbing sunscreen on each other’s backs(“Like what ‘cha see?” He’d snickered, on one such occasion, after watching you ogle his toned back muscles - cocky bastard, but he’s cute, so whatever ;))

BONUS:

Trey Clover! Who ends up taking over the family business, apologising about dragging you into it - but you’re repaid handsomely back, getting a front row seat about seeing your dear husband knead dough with those big, strong arms of his <3

Jamil Viper! Who had no qualms about taking your last name, and most certainly never will <3333 Dependable to a fault, always cooking Michelin-star worthy meals for dinner, wiping away any leftover crumbs from your mouth with that adoring look in his eyes - yeah, he definitely isn’t leaving any time soon :)))))

Silver! Who even during his so-called bachelor’s party(a glorified sleepover with his friends) couldn’t think about anything but you, dreaming about your future, your smile, your adorable laugh… and if he broke tradition by visiting you earlier than he was supposed to, he was sure you wouldn’t be too mad <333

Rook Hunt! Who everyone else was sure had kidnapped you to some faraway land due to never seeing you two again after your wedding, when in reality, your newly-wed spouse had simply whisked you away to a year-long honeymoon, visiting every inch of land Twisted Wonderland had to offer - ah, what wouldn’t he like to experience with his dear amour?

[caramel-chai]

hello my lovely followers i bear the unfortunate news that i cant stop thinking about middle age ratiorine

this might get flagged for nudity but whatever i had a good time while drawing it

[caramel-chai]

“What’re you staring at?” Leona Kingscholar asked, his voice thick with sleep. His hair was splayed across the pillows, over his bare skin as he shifted closer to you in his bed. 

You had been staring at him, smiling with your cheek squished against his pillows as you laid on your side, facing him. The sleepy look on your face was nothing short of adorable, eyelids raising and falling, as you tugged the sheets up to cover your bare body some more. Almost bashfully. It was funny, considering the fact that he had already seen everything the night before, “Nothing,” you cooed.

He raised a brow. His eyes were still a little bleary, and he had fully intended to go back to bed, but now he was curious. What was going on behind those pretty eyes which shared with him a coy sort of look, a hospitable glance that invited him into the home which was your arms and legs? He reached over to brush some hair away from your forehead, and then he pinched your cheek, “You’re not a very good liar, kidege.”

“... I‘m not lying though.”

“You’re playing dumb.”

You grinned at him and he gazed back with pure love. His pupils had dilated and his heart was just so full. It felt like it was going to burst with all his feelings. Your skin was littered with little marks of his affection. He was tired and his body ached, but it was so sweet. He could not have begged for a better sight in the morning. He reached his arm over and tugged you so close that your nose brushed against his.

He sighed, shutting his eyes once he felt your finger run against his scar. Your hands were careful now, unlike the night before when you had clawed at him. You did not ask about the scar, instead focusing on the way it felt. The rough grooves under your finger, the little dip it made against his face, the way it was a different color than the rest of his richly dark skin.

Furaha. It was just another word for joy, but it came so easily right now. He rolled his eyes when Falena would go on and on about how joyous he was with his bride upon first getting married, but Leona understood it now. Especially when you leaned over to kiss the bottom part of his scar, on his cheek. Leona’s arm shifted further beneath your back, rolling over onto you, hugging you close while you squirmed, “Nina furaha.” 

I have happiness.

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

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[caramel-chai]

i pray to vengeance on the sixth string of a guitar

(from this weeks speed draw :3)

[caramel-chai]

oh mine god, i accidentally hath sent thou a picture of mine cock and balls...prithee delete it!! 'Lest...thou desire to look? haha I jest, delete it...should thee crave... haha nay, banish it...'lest?