Fic Idea • Me doing whatever my witch boyfriend wants / Me, my boyfriend, and my three-foot tall nephew
Summary • Leona is usually pretty docile when it comes to you. You can do almost anything to him and at most he'll crush you and use you like a pillow.
Who says romance is dead?
But all romance is tossed out the window when you side with the enemy. He will not tolerate traitors.
Alternatively • You help Cheka disguise himself as a mini Leona and the original discovers your plan before you can steal his jacket for authenticity
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
When Leona wakes up and feels you stripping him of his jacket, he assumes it is just you borrowing his clothing again.
After your transition, it was tricky to slip into sleeved clothing, so you often stole his jacket while he was asleep before running off to do who knows what. This sneaking of clothing isn’t new at all. Is it annoying because you are disrupting his nap? Yeah. But you put up with his shit so what can he do but put up with yours?
It is when you start tugging his shirt up that he feels the need to swat your hand as your fingers are cold.
“Leave it.”
... Another tug.
He grumbles. “What are you, a raccoon? Paws off.”
Leona’s amusement at your small indignant huff is short-lived when he hears a familiar giggle in the distance. He cracks open an eye. “Why do I hear Cheka?”
Your hands are hovering over him, posed much like a raccoon who is preparing to dip its paws into a dog’s food bowl. Hands slowly dropping to your sides, you lean back and sit on your legs. Closing the pages of a thick book, you shove it away from you, causing a crashing sound nearby. “No reason.”
“Where is Cheka?”
“What's a Cheka?”
“...”
“...”
He closes his eyes.
“...”
Up he goes.
You grapple him by his waist as he jumps to his feet with nothing but a simple ab crunch to pull his body upward— causing you to get dragged as you try to hold him back with all your dead weight. Unfortunately for you, he has long since proven he can lift you with ease. Were it not for your sympathy for beastmen's heightened sense of hearing, you would likely be screeching unintelligibly as you slink along the ground with each of his thundering steps.
“Cheka isn’t here!”
“Get your mitts offa me ‘less you want skin burn.” He trudges forward out of the door of his room to the rope bridge stairs that lead to the ground floor of the lounge.
“I’m honestly offended you’re able to drag me.”
“Get on my level, now, where is the brat?”
You look to the side with a huff, closing your eyes and ignoring his question. Not that he really needs you to answer, he can sniff out the kid from a mile away.
Well, if he wanted to, and in this case, he does.
When he reaches the ground floor, he notices a wall of students blocking something from his sight. It is obvious that this is where Cheka is, if not because of the meat shields, then because of their nervous whistling and the small, muffled giggles behind them.
Leona glares at the students, not stopping for a moment as he marches forth, dragging you behind him.
“Outta my way or get snapped.”
They all look sheepish as they shuffle aside to make a path for him, rubbing their necks and muttering apologies as they scoot out of the way.
Now, Leona is expecting a single Cheka. One Cheka, because he can still remember the horror of facing a horde of nephews after a misdirected spell from a first year.
What he doesn’t expect is to see the younger version of himself wearing his shrunken uniform while Jack Howl sits on the floor next to him with an expression that can’t settle on amused or ‘I want to go home’.
At the sight of his bandana around Cheka’s neck— looking no better than a bib— Leona pats himself down and inspects himself.
He hadn’t noticed it when he woke, but he is missing his necklaces and bracelets.
Looking down at the raccoon clinging to his waist, Leona narrows his eyes and grabs you by the back of your jacket before you can scurry off.
“Don’t even think about runnin’, your endurance is shit.”
“I have an opinion about that.”
“Oh yeah? Wanna try the backstroke in a sand pit?”
“... Suddenly I’m feeling so non-partisan.”
“’s what I thought.” Turning his attention back to his nephew, his favorite, only nephew— thank the Seven— he nods to Jack. “How’d they rope you in?”
“I have two siblings.” The white-haired teen shrugs non-committedly, allowing Cheka to try and spike his hair without any fuss. The acceptance is starting to make sense...
“Noted.”
Finally acknowledging the brat who wears his face, which makes acknowledging Cheka as a brat very... conflicting... Leona whistles, not unlike the signal one might use to call a dog. Works just fine though, the kid looks up eagerly, ears perking up as the attention of his uncle is finally on him.
“Unca Leona! I look just like you now!” Cheka announces proudly, his hands on his hips as he puffs out his chest, his expression beaming.
Leona has little fodder to use this time around, as the brat is literally a mini mirror of him.
“Yeah... you’ve never looked better, kid.”
He is going to smother you in your sleep later for your muffled wheeze.
Fic Idea • “Playboy” falls for a sweetheart (I know Vil is not one, no worries)
Summary • Vil is a proud and beautiful person who would never waste his time on frivolity. (But he can't quite explain why he keeps going to your market stall for just one more smile)
Alternatively • Vil is whipped and he doesn't know what to do about it yet
Listening to:
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
He couldn’t give a firm answer if someone were to ask him when this started.
“I suggest the dandelion honey, it will be good for your lungs, and detox, too.”
“You think I need the aid?”
“One can never be too careful, right?”
Vil cocks a brow, a light smile on his face as he watches you beam at him.
“If this clogs my pores, I will be very cross with you.” He murmurs as he plucks a jar of one of the lighter honey varieties from your table. Tilting the jar this way and that to watch the slow sliding of the viscous syrup, he notes the design of the tag attached with soft twine around the neck. It is your logo (one he has grown far too familiar with).
You hum quietly, adjusting your jars idly as bees peacefully fly around your stall, “You can take it up with the dandelions.”
He sends you a halfhearted glare, sending you into a fit of giggles. Vil fixes his collar, hiding the brief flash of pink on his cheeks with the movement.
You wave your hands in front of you defensively. “I’m kidding. If it really does damage your skin, I’ll repay you.” Your smile is far too bright to be natural when you return to your seat behind the table, leaning on your elbows with a hand propping your head up.
“How have your classes been? No one causing you too much trouble?”
While he avoids making eye contact as he peruses your wares, he can still see you from the corner of his eye. “I am passing them all, of course.”
Vil aligns a total of three honey jars before you whilst browsing through the single honey sticks and packaged taffy he knows to be homemade. He hadn’t yet tried the taffy, though you constantly insisted that he try one. (It simply isn’t a good idea for him to indulge in sweets when he has a strict plan for himself. He enjoys what he has and strives to reach an even better state; if he has survived without it this long, then he doesn’t need it).
“Training the body isn’t an excuse for not training the mind.” He grabs a honey stick, reads the name of the jar, and decides to test the flavor. Placing it on the jars he grabbed, he opens his satchel and prepares to pull out the same amount he has been spending for months. “As for the students, I have little faith in a full recovery for their microbiome.”
Vil ignores the small warmth that your resulting chuckle brings him, the way it blooms in his chest and stretches to warm his fingers. He counts through the thaumarks in his wallet, listening as you carefully bundle up the jars with the biodegradable packing paper you gushed about for two weeks after receiving your first shipment.
Upon burying the paper, the seeds within it will blossom into berry plants.
(He has quite the collection of raspberries and strawberries growing at his windowsill).
“You’ll find a way to help them out somehow. You’re the magnificent Vil Schoenheit, if you can’t do it then no one can.” Collecting the items and carefully arranging them in a sturdy newspaper bag, you hand over the product and cup your hand to receive the necessary payment.
Vil takes the bag and gently places the marks in your hand, his fingertips brushing against your palm. He feels just a hint of mischief in him as he watches you calculate the change in hand, brows furrowing (how cute) and mouth moving as you note the extra marks there.
He snatches his hand away before you can hand him the money back. “Ah, ah, ah.”
“I can’t keep accepting this from you.” You pout. “You work hard, you should use your money on something you like.”
He is.
Each time he leaves you with just a little too much, he is spending it on something he likes. But he can’t say that. No, he can’t admit he enjoys visiting your stall so much that he would brave the crowded market every week just to hear from you again. He has long since accrued enough honey to last him years; (the Pomefiore students definitely have their fill of the honey products he's stuffed in their arms). You believe he has these days off, as if his busy schedule would allow for this; as if he doesn’t have to balance his calendar like toppling beakers to give himself a half hour to see your eyes light up when you spot him in the crowd.
Maybe he spoils himself with a sweet more often than he thought.
Adjusting the bag in his hand, Vil sends a smile your way before leaving, his head full of cotton when he notes the sheepishness in your expression.
“I’ll see you next week.”
He can’t pinpoint when it began, but he definitely doesn’t plan on ending it anytime soon.
Summary • You have the ability to hear boss music, which is helpful when you are from the Sunset Savanna and need to hide from other predators. But it's pretty terrifying when you hear it at school, especially when it turns out to be the infamous Squeezer.
Alternatively : You've been gone a long time and Floyd is determined to hug you
Listening to :
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
“I'm more self-sufficient than all these guys put together!”
You laugh as you walk the hallways with Ruggie, carrying snacks between you both as you discuss your individual survivability in dangerous situations and who would likely be used as cannon fodder first in a tight spot. So far, you both agree that Kalim—though a sweet guy— would absolutely die first due to his big and naïve heart.
You then suggested that Epel would be one of the most likely to form a cult and attempt to rule over everyone else as he quickly dives into “survivor mode”, like the human in a war movie you once saw a fellow Savanaclaw student watch. While Ruggie believed Riddle or Sebek would be quicker to turn to madness, he did agree that Epel was likely to draw marks on his face to look like a warmonger.
With the first to die and the first to go mad, you then debate who would be the best to have on your team, and as your fellow survivor.
“The third to last always betrays the survivors. At least with me, you know my intentions. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
“How do I know you wouldn’t side with the third survivor if they offered you the stuff in my pockets if you kill me over them?” You turn the corner and cross over out of the covered tops and into the sun, passing over to the field where Leona is ideally still waiting.
Ruggie tilts his head, seriously turning the question over. He waves you off dismissively when you let out a clicking noise of disapproval. “Obviously, I’d never turn on you. You’re my pack, but it would all depend on the kind of person the third survivor was. Would they promise me equality and comfort that they can’t back up? Or would they be honest and able to support their word? I just need stability, I don’t need coddling.”
You nod sagely. “Which is why we would be stuck as the sidekicks that are doing the heavy lifting while the main characters make out in the forefront.”
“They always kiss in the middle of a battle.”
“I never understood why people don’t just,” You mimic jabbing a weapon into the air before you, giving the imaginary blade a twist. “You know? Two-in-one.”
The moment your foot touches the grass, a tuba comes to life.
You tense and look around as a bass joins in the fray— trombone — cello.
“He’s here.”
Ruggie, who has long since grown accustomed to your gift, groans and begins piling your snacks into his supply.
“Are you sure it’s him? You've been gone for a few weeks, you might be rusty. And he barely goes to practice.” He tucks his chin over several packages of melon bread and wrapped sandwiches, pouting when he sees your nod. “If you’re yanking my chain here—“ You cut him off with a finger as you point across the field.
In the distance, by the basketball courts where the basketball club is making their blue moon appearance, where Jamil was seemingly developing an ulcer over whatever Ace is attempting to do, and where the rest of the club is doing some sort of summoning circle—
Is Floyd Leech.
The Brawn.
The Can Opener.
The Squeezer.
The mafioso of your nightmares.
Floyd is using a freshman like a stick to catch a stuck ball, his bored— almost annoyed— expression a sharp contrast to the poor Heartslabyul student who is ready to pass out from fright. With ease, he lowers the boy when the ball is retrieved, but that is when he turns around, eyes scanning the field before they lock onto you.
Instantly, his expression lights up.
The music comes to an eerie drawl.
You shake your head slowly, eyes wide as you shuffle into a defensive position, tail flickering and ears flattened back.
Floyd turns his body to better face you, a toothy grin stretched on his face as he lifts five fingers. His expression gains a mischievous tinge as he lowers one finger down.
The bass warbles.
You curse under your breath and look at Ruggie, who has already started walking away. “Hey! You’re not gonna help me?!”
“Told ya I am self-sufficient. Hide with Crewel.”
Maybe your family wouldn’t notice if you returned home without Ruggie.
With a groan, you face Floyd who is now holding up three fingers.
Rather than wait for the third to drop, you bolt for the main campus, sliding between students in your way. Although tempted to hide away with one of the housewardens you have carefully befriended to ensure your survival, you know that your options are rather limited. Perhaps Malleus could be good to shelter you from the equally tall marine menace, but Sebek would scold you for using his master as a shield, and you don’t need his booming voice hurting your ears again.
Idia is an immediate no as he would kick you out as soon as Floyd begins making a ruckus.
Riddle might be good, but due to Floyd’s signature spell, you would be lucky if Riddle’s collars didn’t land on you instead.
Kalim splashing Floyd with water is like giving a plant a drink.
Vil isn’t too bad, but the last time you hid with him, you had to test out a few potions of his and that was not an experience you wish to have again.
So, Crewel.
You skid into the potions building and run up the stairs, out of breath by the time you see the doors open to the room with Crewel looking over a large grimoire while standing before a set of beakers and bottles.
Your professor glances at you, a mildly annoyed look on his face when he sees you frantically stacking stools against the doors to the classroom. “What is it this time, pup? The same as last time?”
“He was playing basketball.”
“Ah, so he will be sweaty this time.” Crewel’s nose scrunches in distaste. “Well, you’re welcome to hide with me, but do be quiet, I’m working on a new blend, and if this spills on me, I will not hesitate to throw you to the eel.”
“My lips are sealed.” You say as you finish pressing the wooden stools against the doors.
The music, which had been louder earlier, is obscured by the smooth jazz that radiates from Crewel as he mixes his potion.
You peer over your shoulder, listening to the music, waiting to see if it grows louder.
When you hear a peak in the saxophone, you point to the dropper Crewel lifted in his left hand. “Something will probably pop.”
He lowers the dropper, causing the music to fade back into a gentle hum. “I see.’
That is when you notice the sudden guitar joining the mix, growing louder and louder as it picks up speed.
You look at the doors, tail curling around your leg as you back away from the stools. Surely they will protect you? Surely Floyd isn’t determined enough to waste his time on bursting through the doors with all of the weight in the way?
“Did you remember to lock the doors?” Crewel asks in a lighthearted tone, the opposite of the feeling of lead in your stomach as you hear the click of the door opening.
“Cuttlefish~ You’re acting so squeamish today~”
Cursing under your breath, you look behind you and find Crewel has left a note on the table.
“I’m in the supply room with my experiment, I don't want you splashing into it.”
“Professor!” You whine, shaking your hands out from nervousness as you look around for a spot to squeeze into to wait out Floyd’s patience. But it is too late to hide. You can hear the stools scrape against the ground as Floyd gradually pushes the doors open.
You dash to the other side of the classroom, but you know it is too late to escape when Floyd walks in and closes the doors behind him. The smile on his face unnerves you, as you know he finds joy in seeing you run. He had said so the last time you ran, except he had to chase you across the Spelldrive field that time.
“Com’ere Cuttlefish, I won’t bite~”
You hide behind the last desks, inching side to side in his opposite direction after he nears the tables and tries to go around them to reach you. Your hands clench into fists as you debate what to do as he nears your table. Maybe you could make it to the doors again, but he put the stools back where they were, which would waste your time, allowing him to catch you.
“Let’s be rational about this, Leech.” You laugh nervously. “I just had top surgery, so if you squeeze me it's really gonna hurt y’know? How about a rain check?”
Floyd smiles, his eyes playful as he reaches your table and inches closer to the left. “Oh yeah? I didn't notice.”
You mess up.
“Hey!” You hug yourself, “It took a lot out of me to get it done you know-”
He manages to hop over the desk and reach you while you are distracted.
“For Seven’s sake!” You screech, hurting your own ears as you feel Floyd wrap you in a hug. Though it is more out of surprise rather than pain. Unlike his usual death-trap-like squeezes, it feels more like… A hug?
Floyd nuzzles his cheek against your head with a chuckle. “I was getting worried, Cuttlefish, you didn’t tell me you were leaving.”
The music that haunted your steps turns softer and more playful as Floyd relaxes, causing you to relax as well.
Mostly anyway. Your face is far too warm for you to be considered relaxed. But you can blame that on your running from earlier.
You sigh and pat his arm as it rests just below your ribs. “I missed you too, Floyd.”
