Misunderstandings Ft. Dr Ratio

"Prefect, have you seen Rook anywhere?"

Epel looked distraught. He had spent the last three hours searching for his upperclassman, only to come up empty handed. He was now searching the courtyard again to no avail and was hoping you could give him a hand.

"Oh, yeah. He's been following me around all day," you answered.

"What?" Epel looked doubtful. His eyes scanned the empty paved path behind you. "How do you know?"

"Watch this."

You raised your hands above your head, forming a nice ring shape. No sooner did you lock your fingers together in the air than an arrow whizzed between your arms. It struck the ground right in front of Epel and chipped off part of the sidewalk.

Epel let out a swear and stepped back. "Wha' in tarnation was that!?"

You let your arms fall back down. "I think it's some kind of game. Rook hasn't actually spoken to me since he started doing it, but it's kinda fun. We've been practicing."

— PUSH AND PULL : honkai star rail.

premise. as someone who's always believed in the term “try and try again,” (peak delusion, you know) rooting yourself in their heart has always been your goal, no matter the cold rejections and curt declines you receive. however, even you have your limits; perhaps this little push and pull you two have going isn't worth your time after all... but what happens then, if the chaser becomes the chased? (oh, how the turns have tabled.)

...or, when you play hard to get with them.

— ft. sunday, aventurine, jing yuan.

warnings: angst n fluff, messy messy, these boys are in love but are wayyy too chicken to admit they actually adore you, genderless reader.

a/n. inspired by @/xiaowhore's playing hard to get headcanons! my holy trinity 😇 n MY FAVES RAHHH

NEXT : BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX

SUNDAY is perplexed. very much aware of his qualities which enlists him as one of the finer (finest) bachelors of Penacony (he was the Robin's one and only blood, and was also the head of one of the main guiding forces of the Family, after all), sunday isn't sure he's ever come across someone as.... tenacious as you.

foolish, to be more precise, for he cannot for the life of him comprehend exactly why you are the way you are with... him.

no matter his respectful declines of your invitations to promenade around Penacony (re: going on dates), you really didn't know how to leave him be. though he hasn't exactly said he hated it, sunday was, admittedly, rather... affronted. your gifts, in particular, were your loud declarations of your affection (that make his wings flutter more rapidly than he'd like); but sunday was rather inconvenienced at the whole thing.

nonetheless, he does still accept them. reluctantly, mind you. not because he was fond of your constant shower of affections, which seemed so permanent that he began to look forward to them got used to it. to your credit, your gifts were very much to his tastes. (Robin once gave him a rather soul-searching look when he found himself wearing the gloves you gifted, light blue and white in color. he still uses it, just not when his sister is in the vicinity.)

in fact, perhaps he may have gotten too comfortable. little by little, your constant intrusions on his time have thawed a way to his heart; making sunday look forward to your jovial greetings and grandeur elaborations on your day, and such a thing makes him feel scared sunday needed to nip this in the bud, and fast.

so he confronts you, abruptly one day as you give him his newest gift—a jewelry box for his earrings. (surely, the rapid thumping of his heart was due to his irritation at your constant persistence, right?) “i'm afraid this can no longer continue. i am flattered by your... fancy for me, but i do not wish to enter a relationship in the near future.”

the utter silence that follows is torture to him—but he endures. he tries not to look at the momentary flash of hurt on your face. you seemed to quickly recover, though. giving him a simple smile (it didn't reach your eyes. it shocks him how his chest ached at the realization) and shaking your head when he returns the gift to you.

“i understand, mr. sunday.” the formal usage of his name instead of your chipper ‘sunday!’ makes his face twitch. “but please, keep the gift. think of this as my last declaration. it... would do me a great comfort, just this last time, if you accepted it instead.”

(if he had grabbed your hand at that moment as you left for the door, would he regret it?)

when you leave, sunday thought it would put the conflicting feelings in his mind at ease—but it doesn't. a week and two days counting, true to your word, sunday receives no flagrant gifts, nor little messages on his phone that tell him to take care of himself, to eat, and to make sure to remember to check up on Robin.

instead, contrary to the feeling of ease, regret follows him instead.

it's at two weeks and five days counting when sunday could no longer stand the sight of papers that stacked atop his desk and the image of you leaving for the door replaying in his head far too many times for him to count, that he contacts Robin.

and she, once hearing about the situation, gives him a very, very enlightening talk. (of course, not without giving her brother a lecture of the lifetime. part of him felt shame to know that his sister knew of his... turbulent love life, but she was the only one who he could trust, anyway).

“absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she says. “but in your case, brother, your heart has already decided it's course, right?”

sunday eyes the smooth velvet of the jewelry box you gifted, ruminating. his earrings lie there, carefully pristine and beautiful, gold and silver intertwined. he has worn them without fail, clean and spotless. (of course it was. such a design so intricate was only chosen by you. the thought makes his ears warm).

the next days are agonizing. vigor renewed and epiphanies well-spent, sunday spends the rest of his time after finishing his duties researching and painstakingly finding the best jeweller he can find (even employing the suggestions of a certain gambler, much to his dislike), and spending a god awful amount of time revisiting and rechecking which spots you like, which places you enjoy, to the point it comes up in Penacony's headlines that sunday is interested in someone.

surely, it should've reached your ears by now, yes? sunday panics. your preferences are well-accounted for, and he's sure the Bloodhound family members that report to him have to tell you that the person he had in mind was you. even Robin, who was your closest friend, has probably told you already.

it's embarrassing to admit, but; to hell with it, the day he meets you after three weeks and sees you having a pleasant chat with aventurine, of all people, sunday thinks his heart had shattered into little pieces and stabbed themselves into his body. not so much as sparing him a glance, moreso.

so when, finally at his wits end, sunday chooses to corner you at the dewlight pavilion and spills out how he has royally screwed up in the worst way possible, no one is surprised. at this rate, you would be swept up in the charms of that wretched gambler, and what sunday lacked in, aventurine more than made up for.

“wait, don't go to that gambler just yet.” he's breathless, he's chaotic—and something in his heart squeezes when you finally look at him. “i... i wish to take up your time now, if that's possible.” (he wishes he would take up your time forever, really, but that was still too early).

you eye his getup. all of your gifts, lined on the man you spent so long chasing after—you see the gloves you gifted, the tie with not so much as a single crease, and the earrings that shine more brightly in the light of the pavilion. (it suits him. like you) it was as if sunday had completely surrendered himself to you, had all but decided to proclaim that he was yours, and this was nothing short of a plea for you to hear him.

“please.” he says. almost begs. “i can't bear not seeing you anymore. allow me to correct such a damning mistake.”

and if you were skeptical, the way sunday looks at you would dispel any doubt you could ever have. (his wings, they were fluttering.)

(months later, after a nerve-ending confession, many days of dinners, shared gifts involving matching jewelry and promenading to your wishes, it dawns on sunday he was absolutely dancing to your tune. did he regret it, though?

....no, most certainly not.)

if AVENTURINE were to be honest with himself, he saw you as a useful “friend” rather than a romantic interest. was it bad of him? of a sort. but risk cutting himself open and letting someone he might grow to care for know about all the ugliness that follows his life? no, he's fine as it is, thanks.

the first thing he notices is that you're kind—though he distrusted most of his colleagues and preferred none to get close to him, aventurine, in some morbid moment of curiosity, instead allowed himself to bask in your attention. instead of curtly disparaging you, he flirts back at your compliments (the way your face heated up in return was far too endearing that he can't help but want to kiss you he finds it amusing) and consistently texts you a “did you get home safe” or a “i bought you this because it reminded me of you”; at this point, it was like you two were dating.

was it leading you on? yes, but he supposes it was a win-win; he could send you those tiny bits of validation that was enough for you to stay respectfully at a distance while he probed at your intentions. unlike others who attempt to garner his favor, you're genuine, and you seriously take the time to know him. because you always text back with hearts, always reassure him, tell him to stay safe and wish him luck at every gamble, every high stakes bet he finds himself in. you even complimented his perfume once (and, if he had to be honest, he could not stop thinking about it all day—because that perfume he commissioned exclusively was based off of your own favorite scents and it was extremely embarrassing that he loved hugging you knowing that you loved the way he smelled and that it felt extremely domestic).

(sometimes, he doesn't reply. for months on end. suddenly the golden-haired man you love goes cold and you know then that aventurine ghosts you and then returns when he's in need of a friend—never a lover. it hurts you, but at the very least, you know he cares in his own way.)

and, if aventurine had to be honest, it was killing him from the inside bit by bit. as if to drive the knife deeper, you never danced around what exactly was going on with you two. you never ask why he ghosts you, then sends you a bundle of gifts all of a sudden and then rapidly spends time with you and repeating the cycle. no, you were consistently by his side, so warm and so caring—so unlike him—that aventurine wonders if it's really all right to open his heart to you.

if, by some chance, he actually wanted to be with you, would you treat him even more sweetly than before? aventurine thinks you would—you were beautiful in your entirety, and he was practically undeserving of you. he imagines himself kissing your hand and having you in his arms—and that feels like ice cold water being dumped onto his head, because you could do so much better and yet, why him?

so when aventurine hears about how a certain doctor was visiting you for some unknown reason, his already fragile sense of security in this little will-they, won't they crumbles.

and when he finds out that you were staying over with ratio? something twisted lodges itself in the little brushes of his heart, coiling and coiling—making him feel green. aventurine is aware you and the doctor are good friends, and ratio was the one who even told you to make a move on him! how could he just—suddenly interrupt?!

(was it dramatic? extremely. but knowing his friend and the person he secretly adores might end up together? you can't really blame him.)

he supposes this can be attributed to him. it was an egregious mistake, a blunder aventurine made—he never gave you a clear sight of whether he truly loved you or not and now you're slipping away from him.

so, he does something very unexpected.

at 3:00 AM in the wee early morning hours, aventurine practically barges into one Dr. veritas ratio's home, demanding what the hell was going on between you. and as if he had expected it, his doctor friend merely gives him a shrug in return.

“perhaps they were simply getting fed up by a certain IPC member—who is clearly head over heels in love with them—giving them mixed signals.” ratio's tone is stern, and aventurine definitely knows that the look he gives him is the one he gives only to fools.

you idiot, the doctor seems to say. yeah, yeah, he is; aventurine ignores the clear pinprick at his dignity.

yes, he supposes he is the fool here. “ah.”

“yes, ‘ah,’ indeed. now, let me propose a question.” the purple-haired man says. “will you react in such a way when i tell you that in order for my friend to stop their anguish, i managed to get them to fraternize with one of my colleagues?”

“...what?”

“they will be having a meet-up seven system hours from now.” ratio shrugs. eyes aventurine, who's looking at him like a gaping, stupid fish. “i can only hope that no one would dare to disrupt.”

...it doesn't take him long to be rid of the gambler by then.

(a few hours later, you stop by the Intelligentsia Guild to see one veritas ratio with a smug smile, eyeing the fur coat draped around your shoulders, and the flushed and happy expression written on your face.

“did it work?” he asks.

you laugh, “splendidly.”

indeed, that gambler was a fool, and there's nothing more than dr. ratio loved than to educate such fools to shape.

“that will teach him.”)

as a quote unquote ‘old man’ who knows that he's well up in his years for a relationship, JING YUAN finds you to be quite amusing.

it doesn't take a detailed analysis to know that you were smitten with him, really. you're a complete open book by his standards—if your heated face and slightly airy voice whenever you were even placed in the same vicinity with the Dozing General was anything to come by. while flattering, he also shares the similar mindset of being too old for any love his way—and he could be mara-struck at any given time, and jing yuan does not wish such a life filled with anguish and pain for the one who may steal his heart. but, worry not, brave suitor of the Arbiter General! unlike the other two above, this man has the experience of millenia, and is open-minded and aware that you truly wish to be perceived as a potential lover.

in fact, jing yuan's recent favorite habit is sneaking off the Seat of Divine Foresight purely to freak you out, watching you scramble up your words, seeing the heat crawl up your nape and bloom all across your face. adorable. you certainly knew how to appeal, that's for sure.

(“heh, it seems i've found a new place to stay in so that the Diviner Fu won't grill me alive when she sees me.”

and when he's rewarded with a bashful and speechless look in return, a smile and your, “i'm glad, general.” it surprisingly lightens up his mood by more than he expected.

that, in turn, gives him a frightening 30% energy boost; fu xuan was utterly shocked to see the languid man actually working and looking like he enjoyed it, for once.

“did something good happen today, jing yuan? why so enthusiastic?”

“i just felt like working more than usual, diviner Fu. i seem to have my energy levels at a high.”)

now, jing yuan is considerate and perceptive first and foremost, so there's a high chance that out of all the men here, he is the most open to giving you the chance to pursue him. he does inform you beforehand that he has no plans of accepting your confessions in the future, and that is where the ‘hard to get’ part comes in.

it's like playing a confusing romance visual novel with a fickle love interest—you never really know what you're doing, whether it's something jing yuan would like or not, and you don't know if he even thinks your attempts are moving his heart. (tldr: he friend zones you).

he maintains the same distance no matter his banters with you, no matter how many times you tell him that you'd help yanqing out with sword lessons. it's like he was just... treating you as he would a friend, and that you were basically stuck in the friend-zone forever.

(he keeps it to himself, but something warm stirs in his chest when he sees yanqing sleeping on your shoulder after training practice, with your arm protectively around the boy's side.

your sleeping face didn't make it easy to look away either; it's one of the few moments in which jing yuan shows just the slightest bit of reciprocating your pursuits; he brushes back the stray hairs covering your face, and drapes a blanket over the two of you.

of course, perhaps to tease yanqing, he also takes the calligraphy brush and makes a work out of his face, doodling all over it.

when you wake up, there's a lingering scent of ink and yellowed paper that fills your senses. when you turn to the boy beside you, you almost giggle out loud.)

it's a little disheartening—and while jing yuan did acknowledge that you were slowly, slowly burrowing yourself in his heart, he doesn't act on it fast enough, and instead lets the realization sit in his mind for a while.

it gets to the point where it feels as though he were preparing to distance himself, and even yanqing had asked if he was well. your visits with the Arbiter General also decrease, as he suddenly buried himself in his work even more than before.

he doesn't get to see you all that much afterwards, despite the lingering feeling of missing you filling his heart.

....that's until jing yuan hears word of a recent mara-struck incident involving the Sky-faring Commission; with your name listed among those heavily injured.

when he visits Bailu's clinic after yanqing urges him, jing yuan takes in the sight of you, littered in injuries from head to toe. your life, about to snap. he never even told you that you won; you did manage to steal his heart and for the first time in a long time, jing yuan allows himself to love.

so if, after three weeks later when you're finally healed up and ready to go, jing yuan brings you into his arms and drags you to let him sleep in your lap, you can't really blame him now, can you?

a/n: i love yearner hsr men,,, might do a pt 2 though. thinking of mayb ratio, jiaoqiu and f/heng next time...... sighs dreamily

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

---

Prompt: "It's a Zing not a Fling" :: The moment they realize you're the one. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw (Here) | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: No bullets this time. Excuse my wheezing. I hope that I finally leveled up - Also I'm doing these out of order baybeee. Mixing it up hohoho.

Durable. Thick yet durable leather. It's part of Leona's skin at this point. His palms hide - feeling naked and alone - without the supple caress of leather. Gloves that he's adorned for as long as he can remember.

When was it, that his father gifted him a pair of gloves? Not too long after his unique magic was revealed, he knows that much. The exact day is lost to a time before he could recall such things. Before he had a reason to think twice about touching the world with his bare hands.

Now, all Leona knows is supple leather. Letting himself go bare alone in his bedroom is a risk. One he hadn't allowed himself until the ripened age of rebellion. In a country that worships the sun. Washes in the rain. A prince that turns the lush world to sand is a poison. No matter what assurance or empty reach for his potential - that damned word, it's never enough. He is never enough - a prince like him is no prince to the people.

In a world of firsts, he would forever lack.

Could he?

Your gaze, so tender. Focused solely on him. Welcoming. Urging but without words. His senses somehow dulled and heightened all at once. Nothing's distinguishable aside from the pounding in his chest, fangs digging inside his cheek to not let it show -

Soft to the touch. Smooth like polished marble. Warm like the sun kissing his skin through the drapes, on the cusp of dozing yet urging himself to linger, walk the in-between. His callused finger pads barely graze the surface of your thigh, lingering in the air with whatever restraint holding him from pressing his naked palms.

Your skin cracks.

All he did was graze. All Leona wanted was to feel. Even if you never let him again. The way flesh splits startles him - spreading outwards faster than he can comprehend- as if his wants deserved greater punishment. He reaches for you, teeth biting through his gums at your tenderness gone. Your gaze shackled with fear as the flesh between his fingers turns to sand -

"STOP!"

A guttural roar rips through Leona's throat - rasped, taken with labored breath - it could shatter windows if his room only had them.

A lion's mourning.

Leona fisted the sheets, tangled from his nightmares, his heart hammering as his senses all but thrusted themselves from dream to reality. Everything was clear. He could smell the raging waterfalls outside, taste iron on his tongue where gums had split, hear the night bugs sing their song, feel the knotted fabric under his palms.

Your picture, still safely nestled behind his standing chessboard. The frame solid. Whole.

Leona reached past into his desk drawer, and pulled out his gloves.

"I don't know how to swim"

"....wait, you're actually serious. There no lakes where you come from or somethin'?"

Leona drifted on the outer bank of the main falls in Savanaclaw. His legs kicked lazily, keeping him right where he needed to be against sand-rock and out of the splash zone. Without the loud yammering his dormmates would put him through whenever out in the lounge - it was almost a bearable swim.

"Comin' out here this late was your bright idea, herbivore. Now you're not even going to get in?" he taunted, eyes squinting through dark at your legs just inches from the ledge. The thought pops up to pull you in but he resists, although not hiding his temptation

You notice and step back, "I didn't realize it was this deep!"

"And what'd you think it was? A kiddie pool?"

"I thought it was safe!" you huff, cheeks puffing out like a bunny's. Not helping the thoughts in his head at all, "who puts an actual waterfall in a dormitory? What if someone drowns?"

"Then they drown," Leona shrugs, yawning wide as he turns on his back with his arms spread out across the rough ledge.

He cranes his neck back, smirking upwards at your skittish stance. The moonlight did wonders on your visage, swimsuit offering him more to see than he normally gets.

"Nice view," he grunts, snickering as you stiffen and try to cover yourself. Red dusting your cheeks, trailing down to spots normally hidden from him by a poorly done bowtie.

Smooth like polished marble. Split to crumbling ash.

Leona's fingers twitch, disappearing under the cool water as he pushes off the ledge into the water. Far enough for you to have space, but not to leave.

Your attention follows him carefully, instinctively stepping closer as he pulls away. He should get out, take you back upstairs to dry off. Make you comb through his hair as compensation for whatever this is but -

"You'll be fine," he says nonchalant, but his eyes zero-in as you teeter on the edge, "it's not that deep. I'm right here. Nothing will happen to you."

"...promise?"

Leona tries not to let that trust shake him. Weakness isn't meant to be shared between someone like him and someone like you. The balance of vulnerability was already thin.

"Promise."

You jump into the pool - and Leona finds himself wading closer once your head dips deep under the water. The ledge is there for you, he reminds himself. His palms feel naked but bandaged enough by the crisp water that he can ignore it.

Your shadow ripples under still water, flailing like a newborn calf and he's just about to dive under when you come up close - too close, his mind screams - and breech the surface.

Waves cascade as you take in air, eyes opening from their tight scrunch underwater and shimmer just a push away from him.

"Cold! Coooold! Oh my god, it's so COLD!"

Leona kicks his legs to hold against the ripple as you whip towards him, pushing your wet hair back and pulling water from your face. He knows that look - the one that has your lips splitting at the edges from excitement. Laughter pulling from nerves that you're still riding the tail end of.

"I knew this was a good idea!" your sniffly laugh muffles to him, Leona's body trying to register when you went from the ledge to wrapped around him like a koala. Legs wrapped around his waist, floating on nothing under the waves. Arms thrust around his shoulders tight, chest pressed against his to here he feels how fast your little heart thrums -

His hands, the split moment instinctive, around your waist. Bare, naked palms, pressed fully against flesh smooth like porcaline.

Zing.

"You idiot!" He yells, fingers tightening as he leans back to look over your body head to toe. Anxiety dripping from him like the falls themselves.

"Don't just grab someone in the water! Why're you always so reckless?!"

Don't grab me so easily!

You did it so easy, with that flushed candor that had him questioning everything - did the thing he'd been fighting for so long.

"I thought you said I'd be fine! Don't change your tune now!" you yell back, laughing.

It's not the water you should be scared of -

"You almost made us both drown," Leona huffed, rolling his eyes. He gave your waist a tentative squeeze, needed confirmation that this wasn't something he'd wake from wrestling his sheets.

"Then we drown," you lean forward, that impish glint softening as your nose brushes against his, "right?"

As his palms - naked and bandaged under wet moonlight - work their path to pull you in closer, he feels your legs wrap tighter. The way you allow his arms to circle and support you, unafraid. "Right."

Rice. Oats. Bananas. Tomatoes. Beef -

No. Scratch that. Ruggie wasn't in the mood to barter through the main market tonight. He'd go in the morning, clutching the marks brough back from school, slip in when it's just as packed, but his mind will be clearer then. He'll stop by one of his old spots on the way, check in on the kids and make sure they weren't doing anything too bad while their parents worked their tails off.

Right now he'll take the backroads towards home - Gran was waiting for him anyways. Probably sitting on the same chair she always did on the front porch, watching the street with one eye open and the other stuck on their 'houseguest' - as if they were fit to 'host' anyone - until he came back with the week's groceries.

He didn't want to bring you back with him to the slums - but where else could you go? No one. Not a single person or beast, was supposed to ever cross his path outside of Night Raven. Not if it didn't fill his pockets.

As he crosses the threshold pass what could barely be considered a kids' playground, his mind can't fathom what would make you even the slightest interested to come to this run-down village. There were surely other offers to fill your summer break. Your little beastly buddy - or money leech - was shacking up with those first years in the Rose Kingdom. You could've gone with them, and he wouldn't have thought on it twice.

Offering you a place was more of an obligation, something to wipe his conscience clean. Not because he was your 'boyfriend' - did he really count as one? Nothing good lasts forever - but for his piece of mind.

Since bringing you to this place was like cutting a ticking timer in half. Ruggie couldn't admit it to himself, but he knew. He needed you to come here. He needed you to see what you were walking into with that blindsided ignorance that trailed off the bare scraps Crowley had given you at NRC.

'Cause if Ramshackle was considered a shack? Then his home surely looked like a dumpster on the side of a highway. This is what you were signing up for once that four-year drift at NRC was done.

You, who he sat down just that morning to ream in the dangers. Not to go out without him as a no-name in a community where everyone's either known or dead. You, who kept your coin purse - even if the damn thing was near empty - in a side bag with easy access to snatch. You, who stood shellshocked when faced with his Gran's appraisal. Introduced yourself as his without a shred of hesitation. As if he had the means to keep you.

You, who carefully set your bag down in the tiny five by five he called a bedroom and said it smelled like him. Gran passed him the shopping list shortly after, and Ruggie left you there to face her alone. His steps quick towards the market, but not in a hurry since it was only a matter of time.

When he turns down his nook of a street - just as predicted, Gran's out on her chair waiting for him to come back. He's ready for an earful. Ready to pull the return bus-ticket out of his wallet and say goodbye. "Rugs, come an' see what this one can do with the corn husks. Nearly split my ribs!" Gran calls just as his foot pivots off the gravel road. And at her side - you're aiming one of his old slingshots at him like a cheeky thug. Cornhusks rolled up tight to make mini pellets - strong enough to bruise he's sure.

"Ruggie! Your grandma's gonna teach me how to shoot!"

A shiver runs down his spine.

"Aye - kid. Gotta have someone making sure my boy stays sharp at that fancy school."

Zing?

"I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed."

"It's not kickin' if I'm offering it."

"Ruggie - the floor is cold. Literally. It's stone."

"Actually it's clay - and do you even hear yourself? Gran'll kick my ass three cities if I let ya sleep on the floor -"

The two's poorly-hidden fight was cut short by an even more stubborn shout.

"LIGHTS OUT NOW! OR IM KICKING BOTH YER ASSES!"

The house grew cold quick - Savannah nights being unforgiving. If there was one thing Gran made sure they had growing up, it was blankets and firewood since central heat wasn't in the budget.

Ruggie wanted reality to bite you in the butt, not for it to hurt. He'd slept on wet mud once, the floor wasn't the worst option. His bed was old and small - a twin where on the left side there was a poking spring he'd learned to avoid in his sleep. He expected you to take it without second thought. But you were stubborn. Annoying with it, and he knew better than to fight one stubborn mule when another was one room over with thin walls daring to push him out on the streets. He crawled into bed with you, kept one of the many blankets and tucked his tail down, tried to make himself small. Pressed up against the wall on the left side. Hoped you'd keep to the right so he could smolder this feeling in his stomach. You hadn't. Ruggie woke up to sunshine and his face pressed in fabric that moved with even breaths. His back no longer against the wall, no crick in his side, his body pulled over another.

Up and down. In and out.

He looked up, chin careful not to press painfully into your stomach (a better pillow than his flattened one for certain) and saw closed eyes. Warm arms encircled him - ensnared him - and he stole one moment to revel in their protective cradle. His head lolling back down to nuzzle in this soft pillow.

You slept warm through the night, as had he.

Zing.

"Ruggie?" your steps trail his heels, hand locked tight in his own down the market road. Whatever change was left over from the errand sat in his wallet, strapped tight to his hip under his shirt. His free arm clutched a tight meat parcel - the beef he'd missed the night before. It was like a calling card for theft. Not too bad, he knew to keep one eye alert.

At least without you there, twisting over your shoulder as he tugged forward. Your furrowed brow drawn to the pack of hollering beastmen, all hostile for a good bargain to feed their hungry families. Some with sticky fingers and other means.

He was one of them just minutes ago. You, stuck tight to his side and wary under the scorn of locals. An outsider, with only Bucchi presence keeping those teeth sheathed. At least he meant something around these parts - or his Gran did. "Don't look back. Any mercy and they'll eat you alive," he said low into your ear, "there might not be anything in your wallet - but that doesn't stop the desperate ones. You've got clothes. Possible connections. Organs."

What should have been a joke, wasn't. His firm glance said as much.

Ruggie doesn't miss how your fingers clutch his tighter. "I told ya to stay back with Gran. Better yet - stay home the whole break," your jaw ticks, even he feels bad asking the necessary, "look - I'll phone Leona. Might have to go out for better reception but -"

"No," you cut him off, keeping your voice down but his ears could catch anything, "No. I want to be here. I - this is where you're from. I don't want to hide inside all summer, but please don't send me away."

Ruggie clamps his mouth shut, frown set in a thin line until you both pass yet another beggar. Their eyes hateful and distrusting to someone unknown, even when desperate.

He turns to shield you from it - insist. Except you tug him along, pulling him closer. You nod towards the beggar, acknowledging them but not stopping.

Zing

"It's got ya good, huh?" Gran said, hovering in the doorframe with the house laundry basket on her hip. Summer was nearly ending. You'd gone off to nap in his room - the heat did harsh things this time of year. He was just grateful it wasn't a stroke and you'd be fine in a night or so. Gran said as much, and there weren't any doctors in the area. He didn't have to ask what she was talking about. Rule number one in life: don't look out for anyone but your own.

And they way he was hounding you like a mad hyena earlier? The way your clammy skin felt under his palms, the panic in his voice when Gran ran to get water and fruits to get your sugar back up. He freaked out. He shouldn't have but he did.

"Yeah. If you're gonna lecture me about bearing my heart and that sentimental stuff - could you save it? Just...just this once?" he rarely stood up to her but this felt more like a plea.

She, of course, sat in her chair. Even pulled the thing up to where he sulked.

"The only thing I'm going to lecture you for is fighting. Sabotage is something ya do to other folks, not yourself."

"I'm clearly not doing a good job if...y'know," he sighed, flicking his ears back. Maybe then the world would shut up for once.

"Yeah...I know kiddo" Gran paused, looking him up and down like he was some sort of stranger she hadn't crossed before. She set her hand between his ears, giving his hair a good tussle, "but you're a good man. I raised ya into one, so I'd know -- you're not your father, Ruggie. I thought that fancy school might've softened you. I was right, you're definitely not the kid I sent off itching to make up for years lost 'ere. You're better, and that one in there's good for you. So maybe be grateful the world cut ya a break for once, and be happy."

Maybe she was right. Maybe he could stop ignoring that feeling. Maybe, he could do what he does best, and take you. Keep you. Since you were so hell bent on being had.

Zing.

In. Out. One. Two. In. Out. One. Two.

Jack's steps are even and uniform. His form perfect, unwavering even at the strongest gust of wind aimed to topple him. There was no force in the entire world that would set him off the track - his training too important if he ever wanted to get a scholarship in his fourth year.

Winter. Rain. Snow. Sun. Jack ends his day with a run. His lungs thank him for it as does his mind. The exertion is just enough to ensure a peaceful night of sleep feeling accomplished. His chest chills with cold air as the final lap for the night draws closed, and he slows to his cool down. A time meant for his mind to relax as he walks the circuit in it's full, listening to the trees and whatever delinquent is out trying to sneak past the campus security for a night of fun.

He won't rat them out. Not his circus, not his monkeys. Lady justice will come to draw her own conclusions - and by lady justice, he means the Heartslabyul House-warden that strikes fear into students from all dorms looking to cheat the system.

Jack himself was the slightest fearful of Riddle.

"Heya hiya hey -"

On predictable cue there's a filled water-jug in his face. Lukewarm, the ice he'd received the first time you offered it upset his stomach and you never gave it again. He takes the bottle with nothing more than a nod of gratitude, slumping on the lowest bleacher to finish his wind down. A moment later and a clean towel drapes over his shoulder. He nods again, and you return to your musings like nothing happened.

Jack can't remember when you started coming around - or why, for that matter.

Nestled into one of the low corners in the bleachers, legs curled under a blanket with your thermos in hand. One he loaned and never asked back - it's not like he was using it. Seeing you warmed on cold nights gave it a higher purpose than his gritty protein shakes.

Your focused mind lingered in the corner of his peripheral vision at all times - like an eye floater that never goes away. Haunting the same spot every night with your homework scattered about, busying yourself with whatever's there until he pulls up to unwind from his training.

When did he grow used to it? To where he can grunt and you'll know exactly what it means - be it a thanks, a question, or if he's needing silence to end the night.

Jack can't recall.

He's encouraged others to adopt a routine like his, but never pushed. Even then it was never like this. With the intent to weave his regimen together with another's.

So what's Jack to do with someone who's willingly engrained themselves into his life?

What's he to do, when the comfort of solitude has stretched beyond him?

"Hungry?" your voice flit to his ear one night, he utterance a break through dusk and his even breathing.

"I don't eat after six," Jack answered blunt, hoping it was enough and not thinking. Your lips purse to a pensive frown and his attention turns to the box in your lap. Its green his favorite - not that you'd know. The color of ripe cacti.

"Uh.." he catches his own tongue before words come out. He didn't mean to cause that expression. Letting the lip of his water bottle down, Jack decides to press a bit more.

"Nice box - I mean, what's in the box?" he asked, trying and failing to make his tone softer than the evening's bite. His cheeks warming.

What hesitance he held disappeared when you smiled, uncurving around the box to open the lid.

"I made some finger sandwiches," you tut, struggling with one of the latches before he reaches out. The instinct to assist beats his shyness.

You hand the box over.

"Sorry if they're a bit rough - I asked Deuce about what's good for people building muscle. He said protein so...egg salad?"

Jack has to resist the urge to laugh - of course Deuce would suggest egg salad. He raves about their protein benefit at least once a track meet.

They're a bit rough - the tight packaging ruined their presentation from singular little bites to one solid brick.

Nonetheless, Jack felt something stir in his stomach.

"Actually," he starts, whacking the box's bottom to pull the now-brick out, "I think I could eat. You want to split?"

For reasons he couldn't place at the time - or ones he didn't want to - Jack couldn't bring himself to hand back the cacti-green box without emptying it. Your hard work worth sacrificing one day's regimen.

When he held out the sandwich amalgamation, you reached out in kind to take the opposite side. With a little pressure, it gave and split in two.

In that moment, so did Jack.

Jack's palms slid under your legs with ease - almost like they belonged there. With the underside of your thighs in each hand, your body draped over his back like a pillow-weight, he realized how easy it could be to hurt you. All he needs to do is squeeze too hard, stumble over a rock and tumble the wrong way. His weight could crush you or the concrete could scrape your skin.

Maybe that would toughen you up a bit - no student at NRC shouldn't be able to take a it. He's sure you could - if there's one thing he learned from Epel, it's that those you assume can't are the ones who can take the most.

"You don't have to carry me like a sack of potatoes, y'know that. Right?" your voice tickles his ear, one flicking back just as your chin comes to settle between his neck and shoulder.

"It's good training," he argued, tone anything but argument-worthy, "and I want to."

Maybe adding that second part was too much. Why did he?

He'd beat himself with his own tail if it could move that way.

"It's a good thing I'm actually very lazy then. Since the track's no short distance from Ramshackle. You Savanaclaw guys really do monopolize the sports here, don't ya?"

His grunt's a suitable reply - one you're used to. As Jack crosses the mirror chamber from Savanaclaw to main campus, he jostles you up just to make sure you're still there once the magic fizzles out.

Your breath on his shoulder, weight holding down to earth - would he fly if you took it away? After all these days.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just study at home? The track ain't a suitable library"

And I'm not suitable company.

Not someone you have to trouble yourself to watch over.

"True," your hum drawls in his ear, exhausted he's sure. Your plate isn't necessarily empty, "but you're there. What, scared I'll leave you lonely?"

Yes.

"No. I just think you're exerting yourself too much." he says, scrunching his nose when your fingers ghost the apex of his collar.

"A bit of exertion is good. You're the known preacher for it," Jack feels your smile in his skin. It almost brings his own to life, "and if we're being honest? This is the best part of my day. I love spending time with you, even if I end up being your makeshift barbell."

Your laugh trailed the ends of that sentence, sweeter than the pears picked back home, which were always ripest this time of year when he thought on it.

Zing.

The rest of his 'prefect-delivery-service' as you laughed on and on about into him, was finished in silence. Comfortable silence.

And when he came to your dorm, he needn't ask if you wanted to be put down. Jack opened the door without a word and settled you upstairs in your bed. Grim didn't stir. The ghosts hadn't blocked his path. You let him be the end of your day, and he hadn't felt the need to explain himself even as he crossed back into Savanaclaw territory.

---

i JUST saw your reverse kiss and make out fic and i LOVE THEM is it okay for you to do the same for the rest of the cast plssss 💖

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── parent stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . ace . deuce . jamil . idia . silver

- [𝐩:𝐬] ~Fluff with a Dash of Heat . Emotional Comfort . Bad Day Comfort (for Riddle, Deuce, Silver, Jamil) . Impulsive Behavior (Ace, Idia, Jamil) . Suggestive Themes . Kissing . Emotional Vulnerability . Anxiety/Insecurity Mention . Possessive Behavior . Flustered/Desperate Behavior . Unexpected Boldness .

Note: I think you guys want me to make a second part... but I don't know 🤭. Alright, your guys' wishes have come true! Here is part two!!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Hope you guys enjoy it like the first one~

Riddle Rosehearts

It had been one of those days. Riddle had been holding it together by the finest thread of willpower and discipline. His prefect duties had dragged longer than expected, a few underclassmen had dared to ignore the Queen’s Law No. 89 about corridor traffic flow, and worst of all, someone spilled rose jam on one of the unbirthday party table linens.

By the time you found him pacing the Rose Garden, cheeks flushed with frustration and lips pressed into a hard line, he was seconds from snapping.

“Riddle,” you called softly.

His head snapped toward you. That stern expression flickered just for a moment. “I don’t have time—”

You took a step closer. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

And that did it. Something broke.

Without a word, he grabbed your hand—firm, but not rough—and began walking. You barely had time to react as he led you down the corridor, past classrooms, past portraits whose eyes seemed far too nosey, and toward a supply closet tucked away behind the alchemy wing. The moment the door shut behind you, he turned the lock with a soft click.

You barely had time to question before he pinned you gently but with urgency against the shelf-lined wall. His eyes flickered with something between anger and desire.

“I need this,” he breathed, his voice strained. “You.”

He kissed you like he was trying to drown out the world. No rules. No order. Just the rush of lips on lips, and the way his hands found your waist like he was anchoring himself. Riddle wasn’t usually this desperate—not this untethered—but when your fingers tangled into his hair and you kissed him back just as fiercely, a low, almost uncharacteristic noise escaped from his throat.

One of the brooms clattered from the shelf beside you, but neither of you paid it any mind.

Minutes felt like moments. He eventually pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow. His usually perfect uniform was wrinkled, his collar askew, hair a mess.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was… unbecoming.”

But you smiled, brushing a thumb over the pink hue of his cheek. “It was perfect.”

His eyes softened. “Only you can calm me like this.”

Ace Trappola

Ace had been flirting with you all day. That cocky smirk, the sly touches when no one was looking, the way he leaned way too close during lunch and whispered, “You’re making it real hard to focus, y’know.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You never focus anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I have a good excuse.”

He’d been plotting this. You could tell by the glint in his eye—Ace wasn’t exactly subtle. So when you walked past an empty classroom on your way to your dorm and felt someone tug you by the wrist and yank you inside, it wasn’t a surprise. Not really. What was surprising was just how fast he shut the door, turned the lock, and kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in months.

“Missed you,” he mumbled between kisses, pressing you back against a desk. “Even though I literally saw you like an hour ago.”

You laughed, breath hitching as he nipped at your bottom lip. “You’re such a idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” His grin turned into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands sliding along your hips like he couldn’t get close enough.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and just a little trouble.

One of his hands slid under your blazer, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt while his other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your head to kiss you better. He kissed like a tease—playful, slow, then suddenly intense enough to leave you dizzy.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” he whispered against your lips. “Been thinking about this all day. Like, do you try to distract me or are you just naturally irresistible?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, pulling him in for another kiss.

He did. But not without a smug little chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Eventually, when the risk of someone catching you got just a little too real, Ace pulled back, panting and flushed. He grinned down at you, wiping a smudge of gloss from your lip with his thumb.

“We should probably go before Crowley shows up and gives me detention again.”

You smirked. “Worth it?”

“Hell yeah.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce tried. He really did. He studied for the test. He kept his nose clean. He even avoided Ace’s latest dumb scheme. But the world had other plans.

Professor Vargas announced a surprise pop quiz—on a unit they barely covered. Then a potion exploded in his face during lab. And just when he thought he could walk it off, he overheard a couple of older students talking about how “guys like him never amount to anything.”

By the time you found him hunched on a bench outside the classroom building, he wasn’t saying much. Just… clenching his fists like he was one second from punching the sky.

“Deuce,” you said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, and for a second, his tough-guy mask cracked. His eyes were red. From smoke? Anger? You weren’t sure.

“I—I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I just—needed air. It’s dumb.”

You crouched in front of him. “What happened?”

And that did it. The floodgates opened.

He told you everything—rushed and frustrated, hands flailing as he vented. “I try so hard, but it’s like… one thing goes wrong and suddenly I’m that guy again. The delinquent. The screw-up. No one thinks I’ll ever change.”

You grabbed his hand. “I do.”

That’s when his expression shifted. Like you’d said the one thing he didn’t realize he needed to hear. And without another word, he stood up, pulled you to your feet, and led you quickly—not even glancing around—into the nearest empty classroom.

The door barely shut before he turned around, eyes stormy and locked on you.

“I… I just—can I—?”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You kissed him.

At first, it was soft. A tentative press of lips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this comfort. But when you wrapped your arms around him, pulled him closer, he melted. Like all the tension had been clinging to his muscles and finally let go.

His hands found your back, sliding up slowly, as if grounding himself. He kissed you like it meant something. Like it saved him.

“I’m really lucky,” he murmured, forehead against yours. “To have you. To have… this.”

You smiled, brushing hair from his face. “And I’ll always be here to remind you—you’re not that guy anymore.”

“Not with you around,” he whispered, kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. More sure.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had been quiet all day. Too quiet.

You’d noticed it during lunch. The way he stirred his food absently, how his gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful and dark. Kalim had been extra excitable, and Jamil had worn that polite mask of patience, but you could tell—he was simmering underneath.

So when you caught his eye across the courtyard later, that gaze wasn’t passive anymore. It was intense. Hungry.

And when he wordlessly gestured for you to follow him, something electric sparked in your chest.

You didn’t ask where he was going. You just trailed behind him as he glided through the halls, silent but purposeful, until he reached a storage closet near the gymnasium. He opened the door, looked back at you with something unreadable, and when you stepped inside, the door shut behind you.

The dim space felt thick with heat.

“Bad day?” you asked quietly.

Jamil didn’t answer.

He pressed you back against the door so fast your breath caught. His lips were on yours a heartbeat later—silencing any thoughts you might’ve had with a kiss that was slow, dangerous, and completely intoxicating.

“I needed something,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and smooth like velvet over a blade. “Something that’s mine.”

His hands were steady, but his kiss was anything but. He kissed you like he was unraveling. Like all the things he had to hide and control every day had finally broken the surface. His body caged yours in, not out of aggression, but out of sheer desperation to feel something real—you.

You could feel the tension radiating off him. He touched you like he didn’t trust himself to go further, but couldn’t stop. One hand braced above your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go meant returning to that carefully curated mask he wore every day.

“You always make me feel like I don’t have to keep pretending,” he murmured into your neck. “Like I can just be.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, whispering into the curve of his jaw. “Then don’t pretend right now. Just be here.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—full of gratitude and longing. His breathing slowed, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I should get back,” he muttered reluctantly. “Kalim’ll start searching if I’m gone too long.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Then let him look. Just a little longer?”

Jamil exhaled a quiet laugh, a rare, genuine sound.

“Yeah… just a little longer.”

Idia Shroud

Idia had been spiraling all morning.

The new project in Ignihyde Lab glitched hard, Ortho almost got accidentally reprogrammed, and to top it off, he overheard some random students talking about you—how “someone like you” was wasting time on a shut-in like him. That shouldn’t have mattered. But it got under his skin. It festered.

He spent the next two hours in a haze, typing too hard, muttering under his breath, eyes flicking to his tablet screen like your name might just pop up and make him feel okay again.

Then he saw you walking toward the main building. And instead of retreating like he usually would, Idia stood up, ran a hand through his electric-blue hair, muttered a string of curses about how this was “like, peak out-of-character behavior,” and bolted to intercept you.

“Whoa—Idia?” you blinked as he practically teleported in front of you. His hair glitched from neon blue to a deep pink.

“I—uh—I need you. I mean—not like that! I mean yes, like that, but—just—come with me before I short-circuit or die or implode—whatever happens first.”

You could barely laugh before he’d grabbed your wrist, nervously leading you through the winding back halls of the science wing. Your heart pounded with curiosity and adrenaline. And when he stopped in front of a rarely used equipment storage room, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and stepped inside with you—oh. You knew what this was.

The second the door shut behind you, he turned to face you. Pink light flickered wildly in his hair.

“I-I don’t know how to do this kind of thing,” he admitted, words rushed. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day and I feel like my brain’s doing that ‘blue screen of death’ thing because—holy crap—look at you.”

He hesitated. But you stepped closer, brushed your hand over his hoodie-clad chest, and smiled.

“Then stop thinking.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he was afraid he’d glitch right through you. Soft at first—shy, hesitant, stuttering against your lips like a program still loading—but then something changed. His hand slid around your waist, and he groaned softly against your mouth as he leaned in, lips parting with yours like he’d forgotten everything but this moment.

The taste of cola from his favorite energy drink lingered faintly on his tongue. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, surprisingly warm despite how jittery he was, and he tilted your head like he was learning how to really kiss you.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, breathless.

“It’s perfect,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

He smiled—a real one. Soft. Rare. Beautiful.

“Achievement unlocked: Most Unbelievable Moment Ever.”

Silver

Silver usually wore serenity like a second skin—calm, gentle, a touch sleepy. But sometimes, sometimes, something inside him cracked through that dreamy exterior. Especially when he was exhausted, emotional… or desperate for you.

You noticed it after a long, grueling day of training with Lilia. Silver had taken on too much—again. You caught him nodding off in the garden, sword still in hand, posture rigid even in sleep. When you knelt beside him and gently touched his shoulder, his eyes snapped open—cloudy, tired, but focused on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough. “Come with me.”

You barely had time to respond before he stood, took your hand, and started leading you. His fingers were warm but firm. There was something off—different. Not bad. Just… intense.

“Silver?” you asked softly.

“I had a dream,” he murmured. “You were in it. And when I woke up, you were here. And I… couldn’t tell if it was still a dream.”

The hallway was quiet. He led you into an unused classroom, probably one of the knight training theory rooms, filled with old armor and worn-down desks. He locked the door behind him.

Then he turned to you, his eyes darkened with exhaustion and longing.

“Let me stay here a while,” he whispered. “With you. Like in the dream.”

Before you could reply, his lips were on yours—slow, deep, full of emotion. It wasn’t rushed. It was aching. Like every part of him had been waiting for this. His hands were gentle as they cupped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he kissed you like someone who dreamed of this moment too many times to waste it now.

His breath hitched when you kissed him back, and his hand slid up your back, burying into your hair, holding you there like he needed to make sure you were real.

“I’m always slipping between sleep and wake,” he murmured into your skin. “But this? This is the clearest I’ve felt all day.”

You felt your heart squeeze at the quiet vulnerability in his voice. His forehead rested against yours, and you swore you saw the faintest smile curve his lips.

“If this is a dream,” he added, eyes fluttering shut, “don’t wake me up.”

---

Sam's shop having one of those gumball machines where you can get a cute little plastic ring, Yuu is there with their fave twst boy and immediately gives the little piece of plastic they got to him and states with a serious face-

"Were married now."

---

Dorm Leaders with a Crush That Acts Drunk When Tired

Characters: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Kalim, Vil, Idia, Malleus, Rollo

Genre: fluff, crack

---

What was Vil's birthday outfit? (I'm sorry if you posted about it, I can't find it 😭)

Vil had a silky little jumpsuit and heeled slippers combo! the heels were, based on my inbox, somewhat contentious, but I feel that their purpose is pretty clear:

Betraying the Gods in Three Easy Steps || Malleus Draconia

Step 1: Befriend the Demon King.

Step 2: Fall in love.

Step 3: Quit your hero job.

The first thing you learned upon being chosen as the hero was that the gods were, in fact, morons.

This revelation came to you as you stood in their grand celestial court, bathed in holy light, staring at the pantheon of divine beings who had just bestowed upon you a sword that actively whispered threats into your ear.

"Go forth, O Chosen One," boomed the god of war, his six eyes burning with sacred fire. "You must slay the Demon King who lurks in his cursed lair atop the Black Hills!"

You shifted your weight and cleared your throat. "Okay, so... question. Just a tiny one. What, exactly, has the Demon King done?"

The gods exchanged glances.

"He is evil," the goddess of fate offered.

"Uh-huh. Examples?"

"He... exists," the god of light said, waving a golden hand vaguely.

There was an awkward silence. You rubbed your temples. "Right. But, like, has he pillaged villages? Enslaved kingdoms? Kicked a puppy?"

"He has refused to die despite our many attempts to kill him," the god of judgment said gravely.

You squinted. "So you're mad that he’s alive."

"YES," they all said in unison.

Fantastic. You had been chosen to carry out a divine grudge match.

Still, you weren’t in any position to argue. The gods had given you a bunch of ridiculously overpowered artifacts, including a holy sword, an indestructible shield, and a cloak that supposedly made you invisible but mostly just made you look like a very blurry ghost. They also kind of expected you to die like all the previous heroes, but that was a problem for later.

So here you were, standing at the edge of the Black Hills, staring up at the Demon King’s lair—a suspiciously well-maintained castle that looked less like a fortress of darkness and more like the summer home of someone who enjoyed gardening.

This whole thing reeked of bureaucracy.

With a deep sigh, you tightened your grip on your murderously sentient sword and marched forward, fully prepared to commit deicide if this entire mission turned out to be as dumb as you suspected.

You had braced yourself for a dark, ominous fortress filled with twisted creatures, rivers of lava, and at least one chandelier made of bones. Instead, you walked into what could only be described as a cozy study.

The room was warm, lit by a fireplace that crackled gently in the corner. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged tomes, some of which looked suspiciously like romance novels. A tea set rested on the table, next to an open book. And sitting in an armchair, casually flipping through the pages, was a man.

A very tall, very elegant man with sharp green eyes and black horns curling from his head.

He blinked at you, clearly just as surprised as you were. "Oh," he said. "Hello."

You stared at him. "Uh. Hi?"

There was a long pause. He looked at your very dramatic hero attire, then at the glimmering, divinely blessed sword in your hand, then back at you. "I assume you’re here for a reason?"

You shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, so, the gods sent me to kill the Demon King, but like… lowkey? I don’t know what he looks like."

The man nodded, as if this was a completely reasonable statement. "I see." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Would you like some tea?"

You squinted at him. "I feel like you’re not taking this whole ‘assassination attempt’ thing very seriously."

"Should I?" he asked, pouring tea into a cup with unnerving grace. "You don't seem particularly invested in it yourself."

You couldn't exactly argue with that, so you sat down, placing your god-blessed weapon awkwardly on your lap. The man slid a cup toward you. The tea smelled… nice. Suspiciously nice. You sniffed it. "This isn’t, like, drugged or cursed, is it?"

He looked amused. "Only if you consider chamomile a powerful sedative."

You took a cautious sip. It was delicious.

"So," he said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Tell me about the outside world. It’s been a while since I last left these hills."

You shrugged. "Nothing much. The gods are idiots, as usual."

His lips curled in interest. "Oh?"

You leaned forward conspiratorially. "Okay, so get this. When they summoned me, they gave me this holy sword, right?" You tapped the weapon resting on your lap. "Only problem? It won’t shut up. The gods literally forgot to turn off its voice function, so now it just screams battle cries at all hours of the day. I had to wrap it in three layers of cloth just to get some sleep."

He let out a chuckle, eyes gleaming. "That is… incredible."

"Right? And that’s not even the worst part. The god of wisdom—actual title, by the way—accidentally set fire to their own temple last year because they miscalculated a lightning spell. They blamed it on ‘mystical forces’ but everyone knows they just got their math wrong."

The man—who, now that you were really looking at him, was ridiculously attractive in a dark-and-mysterious way—laughed. It was a rich, deep sound, the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just told the best joke in the world.

You grinned, feeling oddly comfortable. "Oh, and don’t even get me started on the god of fate. She got into a brawl with the god of harvest because she made a prophecy that all the wheat fields would burn down, and then the god of harvest was like, ‘You know that’s literally my job, right?’ and cursed her with hay fever. Now she sneezes every time she tries to predict the future."

Your new tea-drinking companion actually had to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter.

You took another sip of tea, feeling very proud of yourself. "Anyway," you said, stretching your arms. "By the way, have you seen the Demon King? Because, like, technically, I’m still supposed to be doing that job."

The man calmly pointed to himself.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You blinked. "I'm sorry. What."

"Malleus Draconia," he said, setting his teacup down with the kind of elegance that made you feel like an unwashed peasant. "And you are?"

You were still reeling from the realization that you had spent the last half hour drinking tea with the exact person you were supposed to kill, so it took you a second to answer. You introduce yourself. "Hero chosen by the gods. Here to, you know…" You made a vague stabbing motion.

Malleus nodded, completely unfazed. "Ah. Yes. That would explain the weaponry." He glanced at your holy sword, which had mercifully remained silent for the past few minutes. "Though, I must say, you don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about your mission."

You sighed and set your cup down. "Yeah, well. I don’t really get why the gods have it out for you. I mean, do you actually do evil stuff? Are you stealing souls? Raising the dead? Kicking puppies?"

Malleus tilted his head, considering. "No, no, and—well, I suppose there was one incident with a puppy, but in my defense, I was trying to return it to its owner, and it misunderstood my intentions."

"That’s a really vague way to say 'I accidentally terrified it.'"

He sipped his tea, saying nothing.

You squinted at him. "So you’re telling me the gods declared a holy crusade against you for… what? Vibes?"

Malleus shrugged. "I assume so. They don’t seem to like my existence very much."

"Wow. Must be nice not giving a shit."

"It is quite freeing," he agreed. "Would you like a tour?"

You blinked. "A tour? Of your evil lair?"

"My home," he corrected, as if you were the unreasonable one. "I assume you have never seen it before."

"You assume correctly." You rubbed your chin. "Eh. What the hell. Show me around, mighty Demon King."

And so, instead of assassinating him, you spent the next hour wandering through the halls of his "evil lair" (read: very fancy castle), learning about his book collection, admiring the admittedly cool-looking stained-glass windows, and getting distracted by a particularly fluffy cat lounging on one of the rugs.

Somewhere along the way, you had fallen into easy conversation, sharing more absurd stories about the gods’ incompetence while Malleus listened with increasing amusement. You barely even noticed how natural it felt, how quickly you forgot the whole "mortal enemies" thing.

It wasn’t until you were about to leave that you remembered why you had come in the first place.

"Ah, right," you said, gripping the hilt of your holy sword. "The whole… uh, slaying thing."

Malleus lifted an eyebrow.

You exhaled and held the sword out to him. "Here. Take this."

He looked at you, then at the sword, then back at you. "You are giving me your divine weapon?"

"Look, man, I don’t know if you can tell, but I am very bad at this job."

Malleus took the sword, examining it with mild curiosity. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the weapon, which had remained blissfully quiet all day, suddenly came to life.

"FOUL BEAST! UNHAND ME AT ONCE—"

Malleus flicked his wrist, and the sword immediately went silent.

You gaped at him. "You can do that?!"

He hummed. "It appears so."

You put your hands on your hips. "You know what? Yeah. You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore."

Malleus smiled. "How generous of you."

You waved him off and turned toward the exit. "Anyway, this has been fun and all, but I should probably get going before the gods smite me for treason. I’ll, uh… I’ll get the job done next time."

Malleus watched you with that same unreadable expression, something like quiet amusement playing at the edges of his lips. "Of course. Next time."

You nodded, totally believing yourself, and left.

The gods were getting suspicious.

You could tell by the way they kept summoning you more frequently, their celestial faces lined with divine skepticism, their glowing, omnipotent eyes narrowing just a little more each time you gave your mission report.

So you did what any responsible, chosen-by-the-heavens hero would do: you doubled down on the lies.

“I’m gathering intel on the enemy.”

A few gods murmured in approval, nodding at your strategic foresight.

(The truth? You had spent the last four days sprawled across an absolutely sinful couch in Malleus’s absurdly cozy castle, debating whether a dragon could, theoretically, play the lute. Malleus had very strong opinions about claw dexterity and string tension. You were just trying to figure out how to smuggle the couch home.)

“I need to study his weaknesses.”

More nods. One god even stroked their beard, looking impressed.

(The reality? You were currently studying how many cookies you could consume before he started looking mildly concerned for your well-being. The number was high. Concerningly high. You were probably committing a sin against your own digestive system, but that was Future You’s problem.)

“He’s probably planning something evil, so I need to keep an eye on him.”

Now the gods were practically glowing with approval. One clapped you on the back, nearly knocking you off your feet.

(Meanwhile, in the demon king’s lair, Malleus was sitting in his massive library, sipping tea like a distinguished nobleman who had never even considered jaywalking, much less world domination. At one point, he sighed dramatically and looked out the window, the very picture of a wistful poet pondering the meaning of life. You had watched him do this for ten whole minutes, waiting for a sign of villainy. Nothing. The man was the least demonic demon king you had ever seen.)

The gods, thoroughly convinced that you were hard at work, dismissed you with a vague warning to “stay vigilant” and “not fall for any demonic tricks.”

You barely made it back to the castle before collapsing onto your new favorite couch with a groan. “They think I’m doing such a good job,” you mumbled, stuffing another cookie into your mouth. “I could probably ask for a raise.”

Malleus looked up from his book, amusement dancing in his emerald eyes. “A raise? What exactly would they be paying you for?”

“For my noble heroism,” you said around a mouthful of cookie. “My unwavering dedication. My strategic mind. My—” You gestured vaguely. “—efforts.”

Malleus hummed, setting his book aside. “Ah, yes. Your valiant efforts. Lounging on my furniture. Eating my desserts. Entertaining me with tales of divine incompetence.”

You wagged a finger at him. “You say that like it isn’t an important job.”

He smirked. “Oh, I quite enjoy your company. But I do wonder how long you plan to keep up this charade.”

“As long as I can,” you said without hesitation, grabbing another cookie. “At this point, I think I deserve an award for Best Hero in the Field of Procrastination.”

Malleus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you with what was definitely, absolutely, 100% not fondness. Probably. “Indeed.”

Getting Malleus out of his lair was easier than expected. Getting him to wear the disguise, however, was a battle of wills.

“It is absurd,” he said flatly, staring at the comically large hat in your hands.

“Absurdly effective,” you countered.

“It looks like it belongs to a—”

“Fashion icon?”

“A cursed scarecrow,” he finished, unimpressed.

“Okay, rude. But listen, if you walk into town looking like that—” you gestured vaguely at his horns, “—people will either think you're about to declare war or host a very dramatic poetry reading. The hat helps.”

Malleus gave you a long, contemplative look, then, to your eternal delight, sighed and took the hat. It sat atop his head with the solemn dignity of a royal crown, though the sheer size of it made him look like he was about to start selling potions out of a roadside wagon.

“Very well,” he declared. “Let us proceed.”

Thus began the grand adventure of sneaking the Demon King into town.

Turns out, no one even noticed.

Which, to be fair, was kind of expected. This was a town where a man once tried to pay his taxes in live chickens and where the local bard wore sunglasses at night “because it added to his mystique.” Some guy in a huge hat? Not even in the top ten weirdest things people had seen this week.

Still, you felt an odd sense of pride as you dragged Malleus through the bustling streets. The Demon King, who had spent untold centuries isolated in his ominous gothic estate, was now watching a juggler toss flaming batons while a street vendor tried to sell you “cursed amulets” that were clearly just painted rocks.

He was fascinated.

His first stop was the bakery, where he became personally and spiritually invested in the concept of croissants.

“These are quite remarkable,” he murmured, carefully inspecting the flaky layers. “It is as if the very essence of light and air has been woven into dough.”

“You’re making it sound way fancier than it is,” you snorted. “It’s just bread.”

“A divine bread,” he corrected.

“You’re literally a demon.”

“I can still appreciate divinity when I taste it.”

Next, you took him to the bookstore, where he spent an unreasonable amount of time debating which tomes to purchase. At one point, you caught him flipping through something called One Hundred and One Curses to Ensure Your Enemies Remember You Fondly, which felt both deeply specific and incredibly on-brand.

While he was distracted by a book of poetry so dramatic it might as well have been personally written for him, you slipped away for a moment. A nearby flower stall caught your eye, and on impulse, you picked up a delicate bloom, its color strikingly similar to Malleus’s eyes.

You returned just as he was still deep in thought over which book to buy. Without a second thought, you reached up and tucked the flower behind his ear.

Malleus froze.

His expression didn’t change immediately—he just stared at you, his usual unreadable gaze flickering with something… complicated. His fingers hesitantly brushed against the petals, and for a moment, he looked genuinely baffled, as if no one had ever done something like this before.

You grinned at him. “Looks good on you, Your Evilness.”

Malleus exhaled a short, amused huff. “I must admit, I do not often receive accessories from my sworn enemies.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you said, already dragging him towards the next store. “Now come on, I still need to introduce you to the single greatest achievement of human civilization.”

He tilted his head, intrigue sparking in his expression. “Oh?”

“Fried food.”

For the first time in centuries, the Demon King of Darkness, Terror of the Gods, Eternal Wielder of Unholy Power… was genuinely excited.

You were not bringing Malleus more books because you liked him. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. You were simply executing a strategic maneuver—an information-gathering mission, if you will. The more books he had, the more he would talk, and the more he talked, the more you learned.

This was all very professional. A tactical decision. Absolutely nothing to do with the way his eyes lit up whenever you brought him something new or the fact that you may or may not have started associating his lair with peace instead of doom.

So, with arms full of books that were definitely not handpicked to match his interests (including one on celestial phenomena, which was coincidental and not an attempt to make him happy), you strolled into his lair like you owned the place.

And that was when you met him.

Lilia Vanrouge.

You knew the name. You’d heard it whispered in the temples, spoken with the kind of reverence usually reserved for plagues and natural disasters. The Scourge of the Battlefield. The War Demon. The Dark General Who Consumed Kingdoms Whole.

You had also heard it from Malleus, who described him as eccentric, mischievous, and one of the few people he respected.

And the moment you laid eyes on him, you realized once again that the gods were complete and utter morons.

Because standing before you was not a nightmarish harbinger of destruction. No, the man currently floating upside down in the air, cheerfully snacking on something, looked more like an impish uncle who would absolutely teach children how to commit tax fraud for fun.

He looked at you. You looked at him. He grinned. You immediately braced for impact.

“Well, well! So you’re the fabled Chosen Hero,” Lilia chirped, righting himself mid-air and landing gracefully before you. “How fascinating! I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“I—” you began.

“I must say, this is not what I expected!” he continued, completely ignoring you. “From what I’ve heard, heroes usually barge in with righteous fury, divine proclamations, and very little self-preservation! Yet here you are, standing in the Demon King’s domain, casually handing him books.”

You turned to Malleus, who looked completely unbothered, still examining the latest tome you had brought him. “You told him?”

Malleus, without looking up: “He asked.”

You turned back to Lilia. “And you’re not freaking out?”

Lilia tilted his head, amused. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know, I just assumed one of Malleus’s generals would take issue with me being, you know, the divinely ordained slayer of your king?”

Lilia snorted. “Oh, please. Do you have any idea how many so-called ‘heroes’ I’ve seen storm in here? You’re already my favorite.”

“…Thanks?”

“Of course! It’s just so refreshing to see one of you actually using your head for once.” He floated up again, upside down, resting his chin on his hands. “Though I must admit, I was expecting something a little more… impressive.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lilia smirked and gestured to the table where you and Malleus had been previously engaged in very serious discussions. Your stomach dropped. You had left out your papers.

Specifically, the ones where you had been doodling different armor designs and asking Malleus for his fashion advice.

Malleus, the traitor, casually picked one up. “I am partial to this one,” he said, holding up a particularly elaborate sketch. “The embroidery detailing is quite striking.”

Lilia laughed.

You buried your face in your hands as the War Demon, the Living Nightmare of the Battlefield, the Eternal Scourge of Kingdoms—wiped away tears of laughter over the fact that instead of slaying the Demon King, you had apparently made him your personal stylist.

It was, all things considered, not your proudest moment.

It had been months since you first stepped foot into Malleus’s lair, and, well… things had progressed.

Not in the way the gods wanted, obviously. If they had their way, Malleus’s severed head would be mounted on a sacred altar by now. Technically, you were still on your holy mission to vanquish the Demon King. Technically, you were gathering information. Technically, you had every intention of fulfilling your duty.

But, if one were to take a completely unbiased look at your current situation… it might appear that you were just hanging out.

A lot.

Like, a lot, a lot.

Malleus now made your drink exactly the way you liked it—sometimes before you even asked. You didn’t even have to tell him anymore. You’d wander into his lair after a long day of doing absolutely nothing related to demon slaying, and he’d already have your favorite drink ready, at the exact right temperature.

And you? You, the so-called “Divine Champion of Justice,” the god-appointed warrior of destiny? You had, against all logic and reason, started bringing him gifts. It wasn’t even a conscious decision at first. But every time a merchant came through town, you found yourself idly picking up little trinkets or books that looked like they’d interest him.

You told yourself it was just diplomacy. A strategic bribery effort. It had absolutely nothing to do with how much you enjoyed seeing his face light up whenever you presented him with something new.

You weren’t even sure when the shift had happened.

One day, you were the brave hero, standing before the terrifying Demon King with divine orders to smite him. And now? Now, you were practically living in his lair. Casually.

You’d gotten comfortable here, a fact that you refused to acknowledge out loud. Malleus’s lair was peaceful, quiet, and—to your horror—pleasant. The enormous gothic windows, the soft candlelight, the bookshelves stacked high with ancient tomes… It was all just so much nicer than the gods’ temples, which were always cold, sterile, and filled with divine bureaucrats who asked too many questions.

And worse—worse—when you weren’t here, you were usually thinking about what to do for Malleus next.

Should you bring him something from the next merchant caravan? Maybe take him to another festival? He liked those. Maybe introduce him to the weird little bakery in town that sold those oddly-shaped pastries you kept seeing. He might find them amusing.

You were planning surprises for him.

Like a friend.

No. Not just a friend.

A best friend.

You slammed your head onto the nearest table with a thud.

The gods could never find out about this.

You were having an existential crisis. A real one. The kind that made you stare at your reflection in a soup bowl and wonder if you had any meaningful purpose in life beyond being the divine equivalent of a glorified errand runner.

Lilia, of course, noticed. Because he was an agent of chaos and probably fed off emotional turmoil like some sort of tiny, ancient demon bat.

“You seem troubled,” he had said, watching as you slumped dramatically over Malleus’ very fancy dining table, exhaling the world’s most pitiful sigh. “Why don’t you and Malleus spar?”

Your head lifted slightly. “What?”

Lilia smirked, clearly pleased that he had successfully baited you out of your misery. “It’s been months, has it not? If the gods ask, you can tell them you’ve been honing your skills, preparing for the final battle.”

That… actually wasn’t a bad excuse. The gods had been getting nosy again, demanding updates. Maybe you could make this work.

Which was how you ended up here.

Standing in the grand, sprawling courtyard of Malleus’ lair, stretching out your limbs while he calmly removed his cloak, draping it over a bench like he was about to have a casual stroll instead of engaging in combat.

“You sure about this?” you asked, gripping the hilt of your sword.

Malleus tilted his head, looking amused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smirked. “Just saying, if I win, I demand tribute.”

Malleus chuckled. “And if I win?”

“… Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Lilia was off to the side, grinning like this was the best form of entertainment he’d seen in centuries.

You inhaled deeply, grounding yourself. Okay. This was it. You were going to fight the Demon King, and it was going to be serious. No more cozy tea parties. No more lighthearted book shopping trips. It was time to—

“Would you like me to go easy on you?” Malleus asked.

You scoffed. “Pfft. No. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Malleus hummed, looking almost pleased at your confidence. “Very well.”

And then, without warning, he disappeared from sight.

You barely had time to register the movement before a gust of wind slammed into you at full force, sending you flying backwards like a poorly thrown ragdoll.

You crashed into a bush.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the sky, contemplating every choice that had led you to this moment.

Then, groaning, you rolled out of the shrubbery, shaking off the twigs as you picked up your sword. “Okay,” you muttered, adjusting your grip. “That was just a warm-up round.”

Malleus was still standing in the same spot, looking entirely unbothered.

And his hands were behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you—” You took a deep breath. “Are you fighting me with your hands behind your back?"

“Of course,” Malleus said pleasantly. “You told me not to go easy on you.”

You could hear Lilia choking on laughter in the background.

You squinted at Malleus, wondering if you should feel honored or insulted.

Fine. You could work with this. You charged again, ducking low, aiming for his legs. A flicker of green magic intercepted you, sending a harmless but powerful shockwave that knocked your weapon out of your hands.

You stared at your empty hands.

Malleus looked mildly impressed. “Good attempt.”

You retrieved your sword. Tried again. And again. And again.

Malleus never used his hands. Never lifted a finger. He just sidestepped your attacks with casual ease, occasionally flicking his magic at you, like you were a mildly annoying housecat trying to pounce on a much larger, much more powerful predator.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped trying to win and just started having fun.

And then, eventually, your energy gave out. You collapsed onto the ground, spread-eagled, arms outstretched, staring up at the sky as you caught your breath.

Malleus stepped closer, looming over you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“I do believe you’re my favorite hero,” he mused.

You groaned and slapped a hand over your face.

The gods were going to kill you if they ever found out about this.

You couldn’t sleep.

Which was fine. Heroes probably weren’t supposed to sleep. Heroes were supposed to lie awake at night, tormented by the burden of their destiny, haunted by the weight of their mission, plagued by—

"What if I let him win?"

You bolted upright so fast you nearly knocked yourself unconscious on your headrest. You slapped a hand over your mouth like you had just spoken a heresy so foul the gods would strike you down immediately.

That was not a normal thought for a hero to have. That was the most absurd, blasphemous, outrageous, morally reprehensible—

"Am I technically dating the Demon King???"

NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO—

Your hands went to your temples. You squeezed your eyes shut. Maybe if you just thought hard enough, you could physically remove this thought from your brain. Or maybe, if you focused, the gods would finally smite you like they had always threatened to do.

You flopped back down onto your mattress, dragging a pillow over your face, as if that would smother the absolute nonsense your mind was generating tonight. But the problem was, now that the thought had entered your brain, it had built a home there. It had a mailbox. It was paying taxes. And now it was decorating with even worse thoughts.

Because now you were remembering the way Malleus had smiled when you let him talk for two whole hours about gargoyles. How his eyes had lit up like you were the first person to ever listen. The way he carefully, deliberately made your tea exactly how you liked it, as if he had memorized it from the very first time. The way he always tilted his head when he listened to you, genuinely fascinated by even the stupidest things you said.

The way he let you exist in his space. Not as an enemy. Not as a hero. But as…

… oh no.

OH NO.

You slapped a hand over your mouth again. Your other hand clenched into the sheets like you were physically trying to hold onto your sanity.

You were NOT—this was NOT—

You rolled over, kicking your legs violently under the covers. Maybe if you shook your entire body hard enough, you could dislodge this thought from existence. Yeet it into the void. Purge it from reality. But all that happened was that you pulled a muscle in your back and now you were lying there, in agony, emotionally and physically, because you were starting to realize something terrible.

You weren’t just fond of Malleus. You didn’t just enjoy his company.

You liked him.

You LIKED him.

YOU LIKED THE DEMON KING.

You sat up again, legs crossed, hands clasped together in front of you. “Dear gods,” you whispered, voice trembling, “please smite me where I sit. I have failed you.”

Nothing happened.

“…Cowards,” you muttered.

You flopped back down, staring at the ceiling in pure despair.

You were going to bed. You were going to sleep, and when you woke up, you would not be in love with the Demon King. You would be normal. You would be reasonable. You would be a good hero.

You closed your eyes.

Five seconds passed.

You opened them again.

Gods help me.

Literally.

You were having the time of your goddamn life.

Malleus' lair—again, as usual. You were halfway draped across his lap, leisurely popping fruit into your mouth while Lilia spun some absolutely deranged tale about the time he tricked a king into believing he was a vengeful forest spirit. Malleus sipped his tea, vaguely amused, and you? You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a grape.

The atmosphere? Immaculate. Life? Good. Everything? Perfection.

And then the door SLAMMED open.

You flinched so hard you nearly tumbled off Malleus’ lap. The tea cups rattled. The room’s easygoing tension evaporated as you stared at the figure in the doorway—some guy, just some guy—storming in with his sword drawn, looking like he was about to say the most dramatic thing you’d ever heard in your life.

“I HAVE COME TO SLAY YOU, DEMON KING—”

He stopped.

Because you—the actual hero—were very much not slaying the Demon King. You were, instead, sprawled across him like a spoiled house cat, eating his fruit and giggling like an idiot.

A horrifically long pause followed as this budget hero—who was not chosen by the gods, by the way—took in the scene.

Scrambling upright, you waved your hands frantically. “This—this is not what it looks like—”

“It is exactly what it looks like,” Lilia corrected, taking a dainty sip of tea. “Please, continue.”

Budget Hero looked insulted. Absolutely offended. “You—you’re supposed to be a hero! You’re supposed to be fighting him, not—” He gestured at you and Malleus with a face of pure betrayal. “—whatever this is!”

Panic surged. “I am fighting him!”

Budget Hero squinted.

You cleared your throat. “It’s just—” A vague gesture at Malleus. “A mental battle.”

Lilia snickered. Malleus lifted a brow, deeply entertained.

Budget Hero wasn’t buying it. His face hardened with righteous fury as he turned his sword back on Malleus. “No matter! If the gods will not choose a proper hero to strike you down, then I shall—”

And that’s when it happened.

Before Malleus could even think about obliterating him, you moved first. Instinctively. Violently. Viscerally.

Budget Hero never saw it coming. His weapon went flying in a single fluid motion, and before he could process it, he was done. Just absolutely demolished.

Silence.

Then:

Lilia. Wheezing. “Oh, that was brutal.”

You stared down at Budget Hero’s crumpled form, still gripping your weapon, stunned.

Because here’s the thing. That wasn’t a calculated attack. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even to protect Malleus, exactly.

It was pure, unfiltered spite.

Who did this guy think he was? Marching in, sword drawn, acting like he was Malleus’ sworn enemy? That was your job. Your dynamic. The thought of anyone else trying to take that place—trying to take any place in Malleus’ life that wasn’t yours—was so disgusting, so offensive, that your body moved before your brain did.

…Oh no.

Quickly sheathing your weapon, you coughed into your fist. “Welp. That’s enough murder for today! I should get going!”

Malleus blinked at you, unbothered. “You only just arrived.”

Lilia, still recovering from laughter, wiped a tear from his eye. “Stay! We haven’t even finished discussing your new armor—”

“Nope!” You laughed—too forcefully. “Nooope! I just—I have to, uh—cleanse myself. Spiritually. From, um. Today’s events.”

Malleus tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

You sweat. “Yeah, but this one was just, uh, really emotionally charged. You know how it is.”

Lilia’s grin was so knowing it made you ill. “Do we?”

You needed to leave immediately.

“Anyway, see you later, besties!” Backing toward the door, you threw up a hand. “Malleus, you’re great, Lilia, you’re also great, I’m normal, and definitely not in any sort of crisis! Bye!”

And then you fled. Like a coward.

You had been avoiding him.

Technically speaking, you had only been gone for a week. But considering you usually barged into his lair daily—arms full of books, or pastries, or some weird trinket you thought he’d like—it was an absence that did not go unnoticed.

After all, you had never run before.

Even when you first met him, when you had been sent to kill him, you had walked right up to him and said, "Hey, so the gods told me to kill you, but honestly, I don’t feel like it." And he had smiled, slow and intrigued, and offered you tea. That had been the beginning of everything.

You had stayed. You always stayed.

But yesterday, after that absolute disaster of an encounter with that third-rate hero, after watching yourself cut him down before Malleus could even lift a hand, after realizing with gut-wrenching horror that you had reacted viscerally to the mere idea of someone else claiming that they were destined to fight him, to be his rival, you had fled.

Because what the fuck did that mean?

Because why had your stomach turned in disgust at the thought of someone else standing in your place?

Because you had looked at Malleus, and something inside you had snarled mine, and the weight of that realization had nearly knocked you off your feet.

So you ran.

Cowardly. Embarrassing. You, the so-called chosen hero, the one who had spent months dragging Malleus through town, shoving hats over his horns, feeding him sweet treats, listening to him ramble about gargoyles with the fondest expression on your face—you had panicked and run away like a flustered maiden in a fairytale.

You didn’t even have the excuse of battle wounds. The only wounds were entirely self-inflicted, entirely emotional, and entirely stupid.

So today, after daysof pacing and telling yourself to get it together, you forced yourself to return.

You spent the entire week gaslighting yourself into thinking nothing happened.

That reaction? Not weird. You were just… caught off guard! Maybe a tiny bit possessive. Maybe incredibly deranged about Malleus to the point where you instinctively obliterated someone for even thinking about taking your role as his arch-nemesis—but that was normal. That was just healthy rival dynamics!

So when you walked into Malleus’ lair the next week, it was with the confidence of someone absolutely not having a mental breakdown over their supposed mortal enemy.

“Yo,” you greeted, hands in your pockets, a casual whistle leaving your lips. “What’s up, big guy? Ready for some classic, good old-fashioned, not-at-all suspicious hero vs. villain conflict today?”

No answer.

It was silent. Too silent.

Usually, Lilia was there to greet you with some teasing remark. Usually, Malleus could sense you the moment you entered his territory, and you’d be met with a soft “You’ve returned.” Usually, there was some kind of warmth, a quiet hum of life in these ancient halls.

But today, there was only cold stone.

Your stomach twisted as you searched for him.

You found him by one of the enormous windows, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the sky with an expression you’d never seen before. His shoulders—usually poised with an almost arrogant regality—were slack. His jaw, tight. His eyes, distant.

For the first time since you met him, he looked exhausted.

“…Malleus?”

Your voice came out softer than you expected. Almost hesitant. As if part of you already knew what he was about to say.

He didn’t turn, didn’t shift, didn’t react right away. Just stood there, gazing out at the vast horizon like he was searching for something.

Finally, after a long, slow exhale, he spoke.

“…I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Your breath caught.

You had been gone for a week. You figured skipping a few visits wouldn’t matter much. That you could collect yourself, sort out whatever this was, and return once you weren’t a flustered disaster.

But standing here now, staring at him, it hit you just how much he had felt your absence.

His fingers curled a little tighter behind his back. His voice, barely above a whisper—

“If someone were to kill me,” he murmured, “I think I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

The breath whooshed out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, you understood.

He wasn’t just speaking in hypotheticals. He wasn’t musing about battle. He wasn’t challenging you, wasn’t provoking you, wasn’t setting the stage for a dramatic clash between hero and demon king.

No.

Malleus had lived centuries watching heroes march to his doorstep, brandishing divine weapons, shouting righteous declarations, vowing to end him. And yet, he had never once fallen. Never once faltered. Never once let a blade even graze his skin.

But yesterday, when you hadn’t returned, he had thought—ah. So this is how it ends.

If he had to be slain, he wanted it to be by your hand.

If he had to see someone for the last time, he had hoped it would be you.

You broke.

Instantaneous. No hesitation. No rational thought. No clever quip or theatrical deflection. No last-minute is this a good idea? self-reflection. Just a sharp inhale, a rapid closing of distance, and then—

You kissed him. Hard.

Not soft, not slow, not gentle. Desperate. Raw. Months of pent-up feelings, of endless late nights spent thinking about him, of hands brushing and shared laughter and quiet understanding and—fuck. You were so gone for him.

Malleus stiffened—but only for a second.

Then he melted into you.

His hands rose—one tangling in your hair, the other curling around your waist, pulling you so close you swore you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. He kissed back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like he’d been waiting just as helplessly as you had.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he stared like he’d never seen you before. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. His grip on you so tight, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

“…I suppose that was your way of saying you refuse?” His voice, unsteady.

A breathless, shaky laugh. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I refuse.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath warm against your lips. His hands didn’t loosen their hold.

“…Then don’t ever leave me.”

You closed your eyes. Gripped his shoulders.

Nodded.

“Never.”

The celestial being—divine embodiment of justice and order, an ancient force revered throughout history—descended upon Malleus’ lair in a blinding display of light and holy power.

Wings of pure radiance unfurled. A golden staff crackled with divine energy. A voice, imbued with the might of the cosmos, boomed across the chamber:

“CHOSEN HERO. DEMON KING. IT IS TIME FOR YOUR DESTINED BATTLE.”

You blinked. Looked up from where you were curled against Malleus, sipping tea and reading a book titled 1,001 Architectural Wonders (That Are Not Gargoyles, Please Stop Asking).

Malleus glanced up from the game of chess he was currently losing against Lilia. “Oh?” he said, perfectly unbothered. “Has it truly been that long?”

“Yes, it has been that long!” the celestial being thundered. “You were sent here to vanquish the Demon King, not—” their eye twitched as they took in the scene, “—play house with him.”

You frowned. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

"Rude? RUDE?!" The celestial being practically vibrated with fury. "YOU LIED TO US!"

“I did not lie,” you said, deeply offended. “I gave you very detailed mission updates.”

“‘I’m gathering intel on the enemy’?”

“I was!” you huffed. “Did you know Malleus actually prefers honey in his tea instead of sugar? Crucial information.”

The celestial being sputtered. “You literally wrote, and I quote—” they conjured a glowing scroll and read aloud, “‘I need to study his weaknesses.’”

“Well,” you said, nodding toward Malleus, “he is weak to compliments. Call him ‘awe-inspiring’ and he gets all flustered. It’s very endearing.”

The being looked one breath away from smiting you. “AND ‘HE’S PROBABLY PLANNING SOMETHING EVIL, I NEED TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM’??”

You pointed at Malleus, who was currently sipping tea with perfect elegance, staring at you like you personally hung the moon in the sky.

“Look at him,” you said dryly. “He’s clearly up to something.”

Malleus delicately set down his teacup. “Indeed,” he mused. “I was just plotting whether to have scones or biscuits with my tea tomorrow.”

The celestial being’s golden aura flickered like a candle in the wind. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM!”

Malleus frowned. “That seems excessive for a difference in snack preference.”

The celestial being inhaled sharply, hands trembling. You were pretty sure you just heard them whisper I hate my job.

“Enough!” they roared. “FIGHT! NOW!”

You and Malleus exchanged a long glance.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with all the excitement of two overworked employees being forced into another useless meeting, you both sighed and reached for the nearest decorative swords.

You lifted your sword. Malleus did the same.

And then, with all the enthusiasm of two toddlers being told to pretend-fight for Grandma’s amusement—

—you both half-heartedly tapped your swords together.

clink.

“There,” you said, monotone. “We fought. Can we go back to cuddling now?”

The celestial being screamed.

The celestial being didn’t so much escort you to the heavens as haul you there like a parent dragging a misbehaving child to a disciplinary hearing. You barely had time to adjust to the blinding light before being unceremoniously dropped onto the cold marble floor.

Above you, the gods loomed from their gilded thrones, their divine radiance pulsing with something that was not quite anger—because gods did not feel anger, only divine disappointment, which was so much worse.

The celestial being, standing smugly beside them, crossed their arms. “I told you they weren’t taking this seriously.”

The first god spoke, voice like rolling thunder. “Chosen hero.”

Another voice, this one like a windstorm, joined in. “You were sent to slay the Demon King.”

A third, calm and cold as deep water. “And yet, you have done nothing.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the celestial being snapped their fingers, and suddenly, an image materialized before you. A glowing vision of you, fully reclined across Malleus’ lap, popping fruit into his mouth while he read a book.

You stared.

“…Okay,” you admitted, “this looks bad.”

The celestial being glared. “Because it is bad!”

The gods ignored them, their voices deepening into something more final.

“This war against the Demon King has lasted centuries,” one intoned.

“You were our last hope,” another added. “If you do not complete your duty, there will be no other hero for another hundred years.”

“Without a hero,” the celestial being hissed, “there will be no one to protect the world from his inevitable destruction.”

Their words should have shaken you. You should have felt the weight of them pressing into your spine, the consequences of this moment sinking into your bones.

Instead, you just felt tired.

Tired of this war you never understood. Tired of the gods, who sat safe in their gilded heavens, while they sent hero after hero to their deaths.

Tired of pretending that Malleus was something he wasn’t.

You took a slow breath. Then, you reached up and began unbuckling the divine armor. The metal rang loud as it clattered to the ground, reverberating through the silent chamber. You ripped the sacred amulet from around your neck, tossing it aside like an afterthought. The enchanted boots that carried you here? Gone.

The gods watched, speechless, as you stripped away everything that bound you to them.

Then, you stood taller than you ever had before.

“I quit,” you said simply.

The chamber erupted. The celestial being choked. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” you interrupted, stretching your arms, reveling in the freedom of it. “And I am. You want a hero? Find another poor fool. I’m done.”

The gods stared, as if they truly couldn’t comprehend your audacity.

“There will be no other hero for a century,” one god reminded you. “Do you understand what you are forsaking?”

You grinned. “Yeah. Unnecessary slaying.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, the celestial doors parting effortlessly before you. The gods did not stop you. Perhaps they couldn’t.

You returned to Malleus’ lair lighter than you had ever felt.

He was waiting for you when you arrived, standing near the entrance, his expression unreadable. His eyes—those impossibly green eyes—watched you carefully, searching for something.

“You’re back,” he said softly.

You stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “Of course.”

Something flickered in his expression—something relieved, something like hope.

You exhaled, the weight of everything lifting off your shoulders. “I’m free now, Malleus. No more gods. No more divine duty. Just… me.”

For the first time, you saw it—true joy in his gaze. He stepped forward, closer, until there was nothing between you.

And then he kissed you.

It was not hesitant. Not questioning. It was certain, like he had always known this moment was inevitable, like he had only been waiting for you to realize it too.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his lips curling into a smile.

“I was hoping you’d choose me,” he murmured.

You smiled back, fingers threading through his.

“I always would have.”

It happened over tea, as most of your most life-altering conversations with Malleus tended to.

You had been lounging on his absurdly comfortable sofa, sipping something floral he had brewed just for you, feeling very much like a person who had absolutely no idea that their entire life was about to be rearranged.

Malleus, ever composed, set down his own cup and regarded you with something almost too fond.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about how long we’ve been together.”

You blinked. “How long?”

He hummed, tilting his head. “Since you gave me your sword, of course.”

You continued blinking, because surely, surely you had misheard him.

“…My sword?”

Malleus nodded, utterly serene. “Yes. It was an elegant proposal.”

You made a sound. It wasn’t a word, exactly, but it conveyed your confusion well enough.

Malleus watched you, waiting patiently for what he must have assumed was joyous realization.

You, meanwhile, were still trying to process whatever the hell was happening.

“…Proposal,” you echoed, because maybe if you repeated it, reality would shift into something that made sense.

Malleus offered a rare, knowing smile. “A symbol of devotion. Offering one’s most treasured possession to another—it is an unbreakable vow, a declaration of lifelong commitment. The moment you placed your sword in my hands, you became mine.”

A long pause.

You stared at him. He continued to look pleased.

You, meanwhile, were experiencing an entire existential crisis.

“Hold on,” you said slowly. “So you’re telling me that, in demon culture, giving you my sword meant—”

“A proposal,” Malleus finished, nodding. “It was quite romantic.”

Your brain short-circuited. You thought back to that moment, a year ago, when you had so casually handed him your holy sword, thinking haha, maybe he can make this thing shut up.

In reality, you had apparently gotten engaged like an absolute moron.

You set down your tea with the careful precision of someone trying very, very hard not to spiral. “Malleus,” you said, voice deceptively calm, “why didn’t you tell me?”

He blinked, puzzled. “I thought you knew.”

“Malleus, I’m human.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Ah. I see the problem now.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply. “So, in your mind, we’ve been betrothed this whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, utterly unbothered.

You stared at him. He stared back, composed as ever.

And then you just—laughed. Because of course. Of course you had accidentally proposed to the Demon King like an idiot.

“Well,” you said between snickers, wiping at your eyes. “Since we’re apparently already engaged, wanna just go ahead and get hitched?”

Malleus’ grin was blinding.

“Absolutely.”

Masterlist

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Could I request Diasomnia with a partner who's a smithy? Besides weapons, they can also craft tools, kitchenware, tableware, jewelry, armour, and anything else made of metal.

thank you for waiting this long <3

Diasomnia with a Blacksmith! Reader

Malleus Draconia – The Dragon Prince’s Personal Artisan

The first time he visits your forge, he’s utterly enchanted—not by the flames, but by you. Watching you work, hammering molten metal with such skill, is far more mesmerizing than any spellwork.

He commissions you to craft him a custom weapon, but it turns into a long-standing habit. Now, you’ve made him jewelry, ornate goblets, and a ridiculously expensive teapot set because he wanted to see how you’d do it.

Gets lowkey jealous of the things you make. “You spend so much time crafting weapons for others. Shouldn’t your finest work belong to me?”

Definitely flexes your work in his hoard. Will absolutely hoard you too if given the chance.

If you try to gift him something small and personal—like a pendant or a signet ring—he gets unreasonably soft about it. You just handed this ancient dragon prince a trinket, and now it’s his most prized possession.

Lilia Vanrouge – Chaos Gremlin Patron

"Ah, metalwork! I was quite the smith in my youth!" he says, as he spectacularly fails to make a dent in a copper sheet.

He is the most annoying client because he commissions the weirdest things. Once asked you to make him a sword with a detachable spoon. He used it to eat soup at a war camp.

Always hanging upside down in your forge, asking too many questions. “What does this do? Can I touch it? Oh? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You make him a personalized dagger with his name etched in glowing runes, thinking he’d use it in battle. He instead uses it to cut vegetables while cooking. (It’s the only reason the vegetables survive his cooking.)

But when it comes down to it, Lilia deeply respects your craft. If he ever gifts you anything, it’s always materials from far-off lands, rare ores, and enchanted metals that sing under your hammer.

Absolutely goes feral if anyone tries to disrespect your work. You won’t even know what happened. One moment, someone is criticizing your craftsmanship—next moment, they’re pale, shaking, and handing you money while Lilia smiles behind them.

Silver – The Knight Who Always Falls Asleep Near Your Forge

He respects your work immensely but has terrible luck visiting you. He always falls asleep while waiting.

You once found him passed out against your anvil. You almost clocked him with a hammer thinking he was a burglar.

But the best part? He sleeps like an absolute angel in the most inconvenient spots. On your workbench? Yup. Leaning against a suit of armor? Done. Balanced on a pile of metal ingots? How??

When he’s awake, though, he’s very earnest about learning. He wants to understand how to take care of his weapons, so he often asks you to teach him maintenance techniques.

You sharpen his sword once, and he treats it like you personally saved his life. He insists that your work makes him faster and sharper in battle.

If he ever sees you working late, he’ll gently put a cloak over you and tell you to rest. But if you refuse? Fine. He’ll sit next to you and fall asleep while pretending to keep you company.

Sebek Zigvolt – Loudest Supporter, Most Aggressive Customer

"HUH?! YOU FORGE METAL?! INCREDIBLE! ASTOUNDING! I SHALL ONLY COMMISSION FROM YOU!!!” (You are now his personal smith. You had no say in this.)

He demands the strongest, most unbreakable weapons. You make him a sword once, and he treats it like it's a divine relic.

Tries to act like he’s too dignified to be impressed, but the first time he sees you pull molten metal from the forge, his jaw drops.

You gift him a custom sword with his family crest, and he is red in the face. "W-WHAT?! THIS IS—HOW DID—FOR ME?!?!” You swear you saw sparkles around his head.

Complains about you “wasting time” making non-weaponry, but secretly loves everything you make. Once, you gave him a metal drinking flask for travel, and he now refuses to use anything else.

Will loudly threaten anyone who disrespects your craft, even if they didn’t say anything. Someone casually mentions a blacksmith in another town? Sebek immediately starts yelling: "THEY CANNOT POSSIBLY MATCH MY CRAFTSMAN!!!”

He also secretly admires your patience and dedication. Late at night, when you’re working under the dim glow of the forge, he just watches in quiet awe. Sometimes, he forgets to yell.

Masterlist

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Can you write a floyd x touch starved reader because their family on earth isn't all that affectionate?

Squeeze First, Act Later

𝖆/𝖓: starting to post fics with no header because it keeps tweaking out TUMBLR WHY IT WAS WORKING FINE BEFORE and WOAH TWO IN ONE DAY?!

𝖙𝖜: none

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: floyd x touch starved!reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 990

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

Floyd Leech wasn’t exactly subtle about his affections. If he liked you, you knew it. If he really liked you, you were getting lifted, squished, teased, and dragged around like a personal toy. For most people, it was a lot.

But for you?

It was everything.

Because back home—on Earth—hugs were rare. Your family wasn’t bad, exactly. Just... cold. Distant. Not the kind to ruffle your hair or pull you into a sleepy cuddle on the couch. Not the kind to hold your hand when you were sad or lean against you just because.

And here was Floyd, invading your space from day one like he’d always belonged there.

At first, it overwhelmed you. All the sudden touch—arms slung around shoulders, hands tugging at your clothes, fingers flicking your forehead. But instead of shrinking away, you found yourself... craving it.

Needing it.

Even when he was teasing you, it felt like warmth in your chest. Like something had been frozen for a long time and was finally starting to thaw.

One lazy afternoon in Octavinelle, you sat on the couch in the lounge, head tilted back, eyes closed. Floyd plopped down beside you with zero warning, sprawling dramatically across your lap.

“Eeeeeh? You look all gloomy again,” he drawled, staring up at you upside-down. “You gonna cry or something?”

You blinked down at him. “No, just tired.”

He didn’t move. If anything, he melted further into you, head resting heavy against your thigh. One hand lazily reached up, fingers toying with yours.

You stiffened slightly at first—then let him. The casual intimacy made your heart squeeze, but you didn’t pull away.

Floyd’s sharp gaze flicked up to your face. “You always get all stiff when I touch you,” he said, tone unusually serious. “But you never stop me. Weird, huh?”

You swallowed, not meeting his eyes. “I’m not used to it.”

“Huh?” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Used to what?”

“…Being touched. My family wasn’t really... affectionate.”

Floyd stared at you. Not laughing. Not smirking. Just watching.

“Like, no hugs and stuff?” he asked after a pause.

You nodded.

“…That suuucks,” he finally muttered, as if personally offended. “No wonder you always look all surprised when I hug you. You’re like—‘whoa! what’s this??’” He mimicked your expression, then flopped back down dramatically.

You huffed a laugh.

He was quiet for a moment. Then—

“Hey, shrimpy.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna try it?”

“…Try what?”

“Hugs. All the time. No reason. Just ‘cause.”

Your breath caught. Slowly, you nodded.

Floyd sat up, wrapped his long arms around you, and pulled you into a tight squeeze. His chin rested on your shoulder, hair tickling your cheek.

“Like this?” he murmured.

You couldn’t speak. You just buried your face in his chest, fingers gripping the back of his jacket like you were afraid he’d disappear.

Floyd didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

From that day on, you never had to ask for affection. He gave it freely, generously, with all the intensity that was so him. And every touch, every nudge, every sudden arm slung over your shoulders, felt like rewriting a part of you that had gone too long without love.

It started with the small things.

Floyd wasn’t any less chaotic—he still skipped class, still dragged freshmen around by the collar, still threatened to squeeze anyone who annoyed him.

But there was a softness now. A strange, quiet shift that only those who knew him best could spot.

Azul noticed it first.

“Floyd,” he said one afternoon, eyeing the scene before him with a furrowed brow. “Why are you… braiding their hair?”

Floyd glanced up, lazily twisting another lock of your hair between his fingers.

“‘Cause I wanna, duh,” he grinned. “Shrimpy said no one ever played with their hair before. So I’m makin’ up for lost time.”

Azul stared. You were seated on the floor between Floyd’s knees, shoulders relaxed and eyes half-lidded in contentment. If Azul didn’t know better, he’d have said you were about to fall asleep right there in Floyd’s lap.

That was new.

“…I see,” Azul said, adjusting his glasses. “Just don’t skip your shift again. We have guests at seven.”

“Uh-huh,” Floyd hummed, clearly not listening. He patted your head twice—gently, as if memorizing the shape of it. “Shrimpy first, work later.”

Azul opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. There was no menace in Floyd’s voice. No biting sarcasm. Just something warm and unfamiliar.

Jade, meanwhile, had been watching this change with quiet fascination.

Later that night, while Azul reviewed the lounge’s earnings and Floyd dozed off with his head on your shoulder in the back booth, Jade leaned over and said softly, “I think he’s happier.”

Azul glanced over the rim of his teacup. “Hm?”

“Floyd,” Jade said, smiling faintly. “He’s been more even-tempered. He hasn’t threatened to sink anyone in days.”

“That’s… unsettling.”

“And he lets them hold his hand.”

Azul choked slightly on his tea.

Floyd Leech, who bit people for touching him wrong, letting someone hold his hand?

“You think they’re—?” Azul asked, eyes narrowing.

“In some way,” Jade mused. “Floyd doesn’t do anything halfway.”

Azul’s gaze drifted back toward the two of you. Your hand was loosely linked with Floyd’s, his fingers curled around yours even in sleep. You looked peaceful.

And Floyd, for once, didn’t look like a live wire about to snap.

Azul exhaled. “If this makes him easier to work with, I won’t complain.”

Jade chuckled, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I wouldn’t say easier. But definitely more tender.”

Later, as you gently brushed Floyd’s bangs from his face, you murmured, “You okay with them watching us like that?”

“Mhm,” Floyd mumbled without opening his eyes. “Lemme show off. I like bein’ yours.”

You smiled. “I like being yours too.”

He cracked one eye open, grin sharp but affectionate.

“Then I’m gonna keep touchin’ you until you never feel lonely again.”

And true to his word—he did.

credit to @fae-and-wolf for divider

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