Citrus

Citrus! She/Her 20 IM NOT A PORNBOT I SWEAR

[saintxlaw]

“It’s not exactly a secret—” well, at least not anymore… [Qin Shi Huang x Reader]

Summary: You might not be in trouble but oh are you in for it. Your lie isn’t the only thing that’ll get messy…

Warnings: SMUT, of the filthiest kind my word😭, I’m sorry, also this is long, I ran my vibrator out of batteries with this one, cursing, fem!reader disguised as male, misgendering, anxiety mentions, intimidation, painful realities women face, some manhandling, you like it tho don’t worry, Qin Shi finds out ur actually a baddie and gains like + 100 rizz, petnames, “baby” “pretty girl” “sweetness”, bath s*x, unprotected too, oral (f.rec), he’s HIGHKEY a pǔssybully, dacryphilia, multiple ✪rgasms, size k|nk, size difference, kissing, looottts of kissing, nobody here has self control, whoops, he’s got the fattest of fat coc—, he’s so nasty about fucking you through your spine for some reason hmm how odd :/, choking, biting, creampies, dirty talk, they really go at it, fainting, everything is consensual, kinda rough but everyone is having a very good time I assure you :), squ!rting screaming creaming and more we’ve got it all at the hardware store 😂

A/N-> this is a continuation of the end of part 2 so go read that. English is not my first language and enjoy.

My cuties ^///^ -> @kainnnee + @thulhu ♡꙳°✿

‘Attractive’ wasn’t enough to describe him.

His eyes are black with hazy light pupils but somehow they seem to have a gleam about them, the centipede tattoo runs down his cheek stopping next to a deliciously pink mouth. Pinching your lips in, you gulp— keeping your eyes on anything else but his broad shoulders and handsome face framed by short eyebrows.

Fuck, he’s so built. Need that, really.

“And not a moment too soon I see”, he continues, trailing his gaze over your form. “Undress and get in. You look unwell but I believe this should help.” He raises an eyebrow as the fidgeting on your feet becomes incessant. It’s something you do a lot when it’s just the two of you he’s noticed. The corner of his mouth tilts up as he watches your toes take turns covering each other.

How curious.

Your hair is still tied behind you in the low bun you always wear, shoulders slightly hunched in your baggy clothes. Being fed steadily along with the others in the year you’ve been with him, he’d hoped you would gain some muscle or weight but you don’t seem to. Maybe it’s connected to the stress caused by your former peers? Either way as one of his favorites he’d like very much to help you feel better. Smiling in what he means to be comfort, Qin Shi gestures to your clothing.

You hesitate— moving to step back before a large hand wraps around your ankle, lightening fast as he holds you in place.

“I-i..”, you stammer, acutely aware of the heat from his wet hand bleeding through your skin.

“I can’t…” You finish lamely and he huffs mainly in confusion but also annoyance. He’s trying to help so why must you fight him at every turn of it?

“And why not?”

It’s straightforward— not something you can talk your way around and fuck if it doesn’t make you sweat. For once you wish his blindfold was on as his eyes bore into yours even as they actively avoid him.

You’ve been acting strange…why? He’s been suspicious at times but now he’s sure. There’s more you’ve been leaving out, the question is what?

Without so much more as a warning than the sound of suddenly disturbed water, Qin Shi hoists himself out of the bath to stand before you completely naked— water dripping generously from every thick, delicious muscled curve. Gasping, you try to step back but a thick arm shoots out, hand closing around your shirt in a tight fist, dragging your face close to his.

“What are you hiding, boy?”

He growls against your face, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Qin Shi watches your face drop— something like panic setting in as you gulp so hard you almost choke.

“N-nothing! My Lor-“,

“Bullshit.”

Your heart beats so fast and thudding that he can hear it. The words leave your mouth too quickly, furthering his suspicions. Dark eyes search your pretty face wildly for any hint of what it could be. He doesn’t believe you to be a threat but he doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks with just the two of you— mind racing from least to worse scenarios for your secrecy. And he so irritated for some reason though he’s not entirely sure it’s all on you. At this point he’s prepared for pretty much anything.

“It’s a bath— take your clothes off.” You shouldn’t be— especially with him being so rough but that’s precisely why you are.

Wet.

You can’t help it. Briefly you wonder how different things would be if you told the truth from the start. Would you be where you are right now? Would he treat you gentler? You find that you don’t want him to. A firm hand suited him too well.

Apparently, you take too long— a stark contrast to your usually instant initiative. Leaning down so his nose almost touches yours, the gesture is meant to be intimidating but all you can think is how good he smells and looks even better. It’s hard to focus with him so close and you slowly shake your head.

“Um…I- forgive me my lord”, you squeeze your eyes shut. Bracing for impact, “but no. I truly cannot.”

“Oh?” He scoffs, minutely indulging you, “But I wasn’t asking.”

“B-but”, you try feebly, “but why?” For a second he’s caught off guard by how cute you sound.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” your heart stops at that. “Whatever it is, I’d very much like to know. Besides, keeping secrets from your Lord just won’t do.”

“I’m…shy?” You can’t help but try one more time— one last ditch attempt to dodge the hangman.

He’s quiet for a beat, thoroughly looking you over with an expression you can’t read before stepping back…

and pushing you into the water.

Gracelessly you fall into the hot bath, flailing around until you resurface. You could swim but that wasn’t your main concern— your clothes are sticking to you. Your eyes blink the water away furiously as you wade to the edge like a wet cat. Hoisting yourself up, you jump only to feel your pants be yanked down as soon as you hop up, pulled clean off you.

Immediately you try to drop back into the water but muscled arms hook under your ass and push you back up. With a speed to rival his own, you slam your legs shut. You even go so far as to cross them at your calves, effectively blocking his view.

Is this the big secret? You weren’t a eunuch? Still, he’s too curious to just go off his own assumption. He needs to hear it from you,

“Open.” Voice deep and stilling as he commands you. Looking at him with wide pleading eyes, you open your mouth to stutter out what he knows is another excuse or distraction but he cuts you off before you can even start.

“Now.” A thrum of heat pulses through you. The dominance in his order has you trembling, natural instincts begging you to just submit. Impressively enough, you don’t.

He’s out of patience.

Yanking you to the edge like he’s making to drag you back underwater, you flounder to catch yourself, unhooking your legs in the process.

You only realize your mistake when you feel him suddenly freeze. Hurriedly, you look down with a wince and certainly enough…

His eyes are locked right on your pussy.

Qin Shi blinks once, then twice— wordlessly hooking his arms around your thighs before you can hide again. Heart in your throat, it still manages to race out of control, making your voice shake.

“Please— I- I can explain”, you speak clearly now, he notes. Not that hoarse whisper you always seem to have and now he understands its reason. While lovely, your voice was undeniably that which belonged to a woman. Huffing out a weary sigh, he flicks his eyes off your snatch when it twitches at the feel of his breath and shakes his head. He said he was prepared for anything? How wrong he was.

“It”, you swallow, “It’s not exactly a secret—”,

Cutting off your appeals, he asks the first thing that came to mind when he saw your naked sex.

“What’s your name? Your real one.” Since the cat was out of the bag, you suppose there’s no need to hide it; whispering it to him so softly that the steam almost carries it away.

He repeats it, looking into your eyes as you nod before he continues— this time as a request.

“Can I? See the rest?” He doesn’t have to elaborate, you know what he means. Wriggling atop the warm limestone, you lift your waterlogged top off you; revealing your bound chest before undoing that too. Letting your breasts bounce to their natural state and immediately, it all begins to click.

You weren’t all stick and bones, the oversized clothing was to hide your shape, he realizes trailing his eyes from your now loose hair with you propped up by your elbows down your body. And what a shape you had— all soft and pretty.

He’s not mad which is good because that means your life is no longer in danger. But he still needs to know—

“Why did you lie?”

You sigh, the sound heavy with weight of your truth. “It was just safer.” His eyes widen as yours slip shut. “I needed work without the high chances of being kidnapped and sold.” Ah. The life of young women wasn’t exactly a relaxing or safe one. You just needed work. Work meant money and money meant food and housing but you lucked out. Working at the palace under the guise of a man meant you didn’t have to worry about any of that.

Qin Shi now knew of that painful reality.

Shaking his head again, he lets his forehead drop against your tummy— your startled squeak making him chuckle. All this excitement after an already draining day has him feeling more over it than usual.

“Sorry for being so rough with you earlier…”, his muffled apology vibrates your skin as warmth creeps up your body, pooling in your face.

“S’okay…”, your shy little reassurance has him giddy as he lifts his head, wading backwards further into the bath, offering his hand to you.

Trying to shrug off your embarrassment at being completely naked in front of The Emperor of all men, you take it, following him in. You knew your luck was shit but damn. Slipping into the water, you dip your body deeper, leaning your head back with a pleased sigh.

Amiable silence fills the space as you slowly relax, getting used to being who you are so openly while Qin Shi struggles to adjust. To the point where it’s hard to relax with the weight of his eyes on you as the puffs of your nipples peek through the water from you floating lazily on your back.

The hot water is absolute heaven on your aching body and the oils in it have you feeling oh so smooth as you let out another breathy sigh. You feel his movement by the rippling of the water as he wades closer to you. Breathing in some of the steam, you peek your eye open at him.

“Is there something troubling you, my lord?” He shakes his head, flowing around you as he grins.

“Not at all, I just wasn’t expecting to have such lovely company tonight is all.” Both eyes pop open at that, hot cheeks dimple softly as you stifle a flattered giggle, glee rushing through you and you stop floating to face him. He called you lovely.

“Lord Qin-“,

“Ying Zheng,” he corrects you. If you were going to be a man who was actually a woman then you could use his birth name. It sounds just as sweet as he thought it would coming from a beauty like yourself.

“—are you flirting with me?” You try to keep your tone neutral, unaffected but you sound too tickled, voice light and teasing as you swim around each other. He hums in contemplation,

“Should I not? Are you wife to anyone?” He keeps his voice even, breezy while he waits eagerly for your answer. Much to his delight, you shake your head no.

His grin spreads into something that makes your thighs clench, excitement making you jittery as you tease, splashing him lightly before you go back to floating on your back.

“Any more questions?”

Qin Shi laughs, low and pleased in his throat, nodding slowly. “Actually I do..”, you make a sound for him to continue.

“Does anyone else know-“, you cut him off with a dry snort. “Absolutely not.” He hums again, eyeing you all over and his intensity makes you shiver, nipples hardening.

“So all this time I should’ve been calling you pretty girl, no?” You’re positive that your flush has spread all the way down to your chest, not expecting him to be such a sweet talker.

“You could— but then you’d give me away.”

“Ahh. Then only when it’s just us two…”, his low voice trails off as you give a delayed hum not even surprised that you weren’t fired.

What an interesting night this was turning out to be.

Tapping your thigh from beneath the water, Qin Shi pulls you to stand before answering your confused look.

“I still need to check you over— see to your wellbeing and all that, remember?” Your heart skips a beat. Fuck, you forgot about that and the circumstances now compared to when he said it are completely different. Still, you can’t help the anticipation that wells up inside your chest.

Wading backwards, Qin Shi follows; helping you hoist yourself up on the warm stone, eyes following every drop of water running down your curves. Bringing your knees in and out the water, you go to stand up when he stops you with a hand around your calf.

“No need to strain yourself, I can check juuust fine from here.”

He’s eye level with your pussy and you both know that. You stifle a shiver, remembering how his breath felt against your exposed pussy.

Taking your silence as hesitation, he comforts you by massaging your legs— rubbing up and down your soft skin warmed by the heat of the water. “Is that okay, pretty girl?”

Fuck yes.

You nod vigorously, gasping at the bolt of electricity to your core as he firmly kneads up your calves to your thighs, asking here and there if anything hurt.

The pressure of his large hands feels so good that you feel yourself slip, moaning weakly as you point to your knee. “..hurts there.” The discolored bruising from all the times you caught yourself after being pushed by your childish peers. Poor girl. Cooing softly, he hooks his hands under your knees— making you lie flat on your back as he brings one to his mouth, kissing the skin tenderly before laving his tongue across.

You jolt, hand flying up to cover your mouth from what you don’t doubt to be a whorishly desperate moan as he does the same to your other knee before sucking hot kisses up your inner thighs. Defined jaw working hard while he slurps at the hypersensitive skin next to your drooling cunt.

Now, in his defense, Qin Shi really did plan on holding back it’s just… he’s always had a strong preference to you. It’s why he kept you so close. You were competent and funny and soothing— pretty too and he was more than content just keeping you around as he wasn’t sure a relationship would be suitable with a man since he was expected to produce heirs but now? He wants to keep you under him, full of him, dripping off him and whatever else.

Spreading your thighs even further, he takes his time kissing everywhere around your folds. You’re so sensitive the anticipation makes you restless, squirming as you switch between looking down at him and the sparkling ceiling. Looking up your soft stomach to the swells of your chest, Qin Shi wonders how the hell he could’ve missed it.

Your breathy sigh bursts into a sharp moan as he lets his tongue fall out, lapping a firm strip through your wet pussy lips. The muscle hot and greedy as it laps from your slippery hole up to your throbbing clit. Qin Shi groans deep in his chest at your taste, so gushy that each time he licks his palette is replaced by another wave of your honeyed slick as you cry for him.

Seriously, how the fuck could he have missed it?

Your keening voice makes his blood simmer, sharp and restless under his skin making him hungrier with each dulcet whine from your pretty mouth. The cute nub at the top of you pulses erratically and he spits on it, making you gasp at the depravity of it before he’s slurping it into his mouth— scorching tongue stroking hard beneath the hood and your skin just about vibrates off your skeleton. White bursts behind your eyes, raw pleasure making them roll back into your skull, hips bucking wildly while you scream.

Fuck.

His cock throbs in response to you, hooking his beefy arms around your thighs to still you. The sounds of him sucking you off are obscene at this point— wet and messy as he hums; popping off your overworked clit to fuck you with his tongue.

Your chest caves from how hard you gasp, hands shooting down to pull at the wet strands of his hair, struggling with everything in you not to break under the spine tingling pleasure.

He’s in his own little world as he drinks in your pussy like it really was the last thing he would taste, curling the thick muscle against your walls— mouth suctioned over the entirety of your cunt as his tongue puts you through hell with every delicious ‘schlick’.

“O-Oh god-!”

Mmm, he’s preening at that. You’re so sweet, calling out to him— your god. Hiccuping wails turn into bleating sobs as you undulate your hips into his face, big hands sliding underneath your ass to help you fuck yourself on his mouth.

The air is heavy not just from the steam but the suffocating heat of your shared desperation. Your sweetness making him a little insane as he curves his thrusting tongue towards your bellybutton, slick thumb coming up to roll your clit in mean, thorough circles…

You go slack, head and body dropping against the ground as you cum violently.

Qin Shi moans at the first spurt of cream from your cunt, doubling down to pull you through every debilitating wave of ecstasy; slurping filthily as your release floods his mouth— coating his lips and tastebuds.

When he finally decides to pulls his mouth off you, you’re boneless. Staring listlessly up at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath through the cotton filling your ears.

You never came that hard in your life— not even from your own hand and maybe that’s a good thing because you’re positive you pulled something. Qin Shi kisses up your body, burying his face in your neck as he sucks his marks onto your skin; sharp canines tracing the area before he’s licking up your jawline. Ravenous and primal which is exactly how he kisses you.

His mouth is wicked as your tastes mix together. You’re warm, and so soft. The plush skin of your lips impossibly tender under his mouth and he growls, forcing himself to pull away before he really loses it.

The sound your lips make when they part is luscious and full, stirring heavily at that ignited something in his core but gods the way you look at him… rushing back to your mouth is all he can do— sucking your bottom lip between his and you make that needy little noise dragging his most primal instincts to the surface.

Groaning raw with the promise to ruin you, he coaxes your head to the side so he can kiss you deeper, taste you deeper.

Even though he already did but he needs more.

He can’t get on top of you fast enough.

Deliriously he swears that he must be drunk, must be high— moving his head to the rhythm of your languidly deepening kisses like a man hypnotized. But stars above, he can’t stop, he just can’t. The air is so hot as your kisses grow thick and sticky and so goddamn needy. The rise and fall of your chests quickens as your lips become wetter and raw. Your fingers tighten in his hair, triggering a hail of shivers along his neck. There’s no time to choke his soft groan and so you take it for yourself with hot suck to the corner of his mouth.

Hissing, Qin Shi presses the contours of his beefy muscles flush against you, feeling your softness yield to his hardness as he chases your tongue with his own. A hungry hand squeezes at your ass, making you squeal in delight. He can taste you even better now, savoring the sweetness on your tongue.

You absolutely overwhelm his system with your nails against his scalp, your other hand grabbing and caressing all over him as you thoroughly enjoy his body— your own writhing one pressed to his. The enthusiasm you return with each simmering kiss is fucking him up in the best ways, your noises melting like candy in his mouth.

So, when you slip your hand between your bodies, taking his girthy length in your hand as you position it at your entrance— he doesn’t hesitate to thrust right in, pulling away so he can watch your face melt in pleasure.

He’s big. Dizzyingly so.

You go a bit brainless at the full stretch of him stuffed snug up your dripping pussy, brows drawing together as your jaw drops, a weak punched out moan escaping your lips; staring dead in his face. He cooes at you, at the dazed little look in your blown pupils— sliding out then thrusting back in with a wet slop. Setting a back arching pace.

“Feelin’ good, baby?”

You nod slowly, cunt tightening around him at the sound of his voice. It’s like you’re blissed out all over— moaning prettily as he starts to speed up now that he knows his size isn’t causing you any pain. The way he rolls his hips as he fucks into you has you feeling feverish from the inside out.

He doesn’t even need to actually try to hit those spots in you that make your toes point because he’s just that big. Fucking you so good and so full as the fat head of his cock smacks against your g spot in hot, leaky kisses.

The room fills with the lewd sound of your coupling and distantly you’re grateful for the fact that nights are specifically reserved for his private baths because if anyone were to walk by the door— the evidence would be damning. Jostling your body with every harsh thrust as he fucks you right out of your mind. You cry his name and his eyes roll back at the want in it, moaning down at you.

“Yesss”, he hisses around the concentrating heat curling in his gut while he rearranges yours, “Know it feels reeaaal good…so wet f’me, pretty..” and you were— dripping all over his balls every time he buried himself in your syrupy cunt.

Unable to take any more of your tits bouncing in his face, Qin Shi cups the fat of your chest, squeezing them together and bringing his head down as he sucks both your nipples into his mouth. Back arching, you wail, raking your nails down his incredibly built back but the sting only pushes him more; tongue swirling around the stiff peaks in his sloppy mouth before he bites down on the puffy nubs.

“N-nghh! Fuucck!”

The sound of him inside of you changes— sounding a little less wet and a lot more creamy. It makes his spine tingle, teething off your nipples to look down.

White rings cling to his cock with every deep slam into your pussy and the sight knocks the air out of his chest as he’s abruptly flung closer to orgasm. He can’t cum though because he needs you to cum first. His pretty, clever girl.

Drooling, you’re totally useless to the way he folds you, hands sliding down his back to grab his ass while he’s railing you stupid with how the angle puts him even deeper.

Ruthlessly fucking you through the stretch with everything he’s got, he brings a hand down to strum your twitching clit until that burning chasm in your stomach sucks you in crushing you in the pressure and intensity of your brutal orgasm.

So overstimulated, you sob through it and that combined with the way your wet cunt sucks his cock— hurtles Qin Shi off to his end as he flounders to hold onto something to ground himself in the storm of euphoria. Blindly, his hand clamps around your windpipe in a tight grip.

Choking, your pussy gets even tighter from the sudden cut of airflow, sharp arousal prolonging your high as you get fucked through both your orgasms. Grappling at his thick arm, you squirm— trying to fight the pressure that’s right there but one last hump to your clit as he empties himself in you and you erupt.

Liquid bliss jets out against his lower abs with surprising force as you cum until you black out, jaw going slack as your eyes roll back, tears streaming down your face.

“Thaaat’s it, sweetness… lemme have it..”

Groaning throatily, he watches the erotic display lodged deep in your overstuffed pussy, rolling against you until the stream eventually stops.

Kissing softly at your cheeks, he cradles your unconscious body gently as he slowly slips out of you.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to settle his heart from all the adrenaline pumping while he busies himself by guiding you back in the water, laying your back to his chest, your lower half floating in the water as he wades you both through the large space.

He hasn’t felt this good in a while. Relaxed and tingling, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, tightening his arm around you, mind full of all the precautions you two would now have to take. You didn’t want anyone else to know you’re a woman and he’s more than okay with respecting your wishes. Also, he knows he’ll have to at least try to treat you the same for appearance’s sake but he already sees the list of rules you two are bound to stay breaking.

Eventually, consciousness returns to you in a dawn of lights. Blinking blearily, you feel lips press into your cheek and you snuggle deeper against the firm body holding yours in the heated water with a pleased sigh.

Qin Shi smiles at your contentedness, leaning down to kiss you again because he can’t help himself.

“How do you feel? Sore at all?”

His worry is sweet. You don’t hurt anywhere right now but you’ll definitely feel it in the morning, more than anything though you’re tired. Being put through the floor will do that to a girl.

Smiling softly, you shake your head, closing your eyes as you let him shift you through the water. You’re almost too relaxed— suddenly remembering something and your eyes pop open, gasping as you grasp his biceps.

“I need to get back to my room! I’ll be late for roll call in the morn—“, your panic is cut off by the face lovingly nosing up your throat.

“Nonsense. You’re staying with me tonight”, he whispers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You’d argue, really— it’s just you’re so tired and it’s such bliss finally being in the arms of someone that you’ve had your eye on that you find yourself shrugging.

Tilting your head back onto his broad shoulders, you give into his distracting kisses with a breathy hum.

“I guess I can, if you say it’s fine…”

“Mhmm”, he hums, audibly occupied by the luscious feel of you and you whine for his more focused attention.

“You— ah! You just can’t keep me up all night, okay?” Since you still had duties to attend to in the morning and all day after which he should know considering half of those duties involved him.

But it seems luck won’t stay on your side when he cups your chest, rolling your nipples with a hot lick up your ear.

“No promises…”

Im giggling🤭

[vividblaze]

ACTUAL TOMCATMUSASHI DIALOGUE o(-<

[citrusisticdreams]

Bro I swear, they drop freaky lines out of nowhere 😭 I was in the hot springs and Sasaki just told me “I don’t know if its the hot springs but you’re making me feel hot right now” mind you mika and shuten are with is in the springs

[vividblaze]

It's so unfair to make me pick between the cat and (raccoon) dog.

[citrusisticdreams]

in this same predicament but with yohji and kincho ALSO I LOVE YOUR ARTT

[sorcerous-caress]

Tiefling with a human kink finally bags a human baddie. He’s sweating just trynna act normal and not ask the human a really indecent question

"Do you cu-" clearing his throat, Ardour tail's end dug into his ankle. "Come." He corrected himself, "Do you come here often?" The tail curled around his leg tightly.

"Here?...my own house?" Expecting irony or the build up to a joke, turning your gaze away from the TV screen as you lowered the remote to face him.

Only to be met with a sincere expression. For a second, the suspicion of the guy in front of you being an idiot crosses your mind before you immediately brush it aside.

"I guess. You know, since I live here." You went back to scrolling through the list of movies.

"Cool cool."

Ardour's sharp claws traced the soft surface of the couch underneath him, taking advantage of your distracted gaze to blatantly trail his gaze up and down your thighs. Drinking in the sight of your hips. Hand curling into a fist to prevent his claws from tearing the couch.

Humans are really...so squishy. He pictures your own hand pressing between your thighs, touching yourself and chasing pleasure with desperation. How different would his own hand feel around you? Would you like grinding against the bumps and sharp bones underneath his skin? Would you enjoy the rough infernal texture of his skin against your fragile, easily injured human one?

"Did you ever fuck yourself on this couch?"

He can't say that.

"Did I ever what?"

"Uh...meet a tiefling before? Other than me?"

"No not really." You press the remote's button harder than usual, "you're my first" your eyes suddenly find the floor interesting before going back to your scrolling.

Your first.

Ardour closes his eyes, taking a sharp breath.

Your first infernal cock to stretch you open and fill your insides with his cum. The big bad tiefling defiling the pretty human, pouring sin down your throat.

"Have you tasted a tiefling's cum before? Would you like to?"

No.

Inviting him to your house, allowing him to see you in your comfortable clothes, complimenting his horns.

Being such a fucking tease.

Heats build up inside him. Putting a small pillow on his lap to cover the growing tent between his legs as he scoots over to you.

"You've never had a cock littered with bumps before, You've never been properly fucked so just bend over and-"

Shut it.

Behave. Act normal. He can't fuck up another date with a human.

...maybe if he starts innocently? You don't know much about tieflings so he can always play that card.

Ardour's tail leaves his leg as it wraps the other way towards you, settling on your lap and brushing against your stomach.

The strange sensation makes you glance down at it, a questioning look on your face.

"Oh sorry!" He fiegns ignorance, "it does that sometimes, it has a mind of its own."

He watches as you take in the false information he's feeding you at face value. Smiling and saying it's no problem.

"Is it okay if I-" your other hand moves towards your lap.

"You can touch it." Ardour immediately replies, "I don't mind. You can even kiss and lick it, shove it down your throat to get it wet enough so I can use it to open up your tight-"

Stop.

"And my horns too, if you want. I saw you glancing at them" he says instead.

You beam at his words, delightful surprise in your eyes before a conflict of embarrassment washes over you at realising he noticed your glances.

Still, you nod eagerly.

The sight of you has his heart in a vice grip. Is curiosity really this adorably intense in humans?

He scoots even closer, his knee brushing against your own as he lowers his head to present his horns. His position's slight resemblance of a bow doesn't go past him as his his sharp pointy teeth bite his lower lip to suppress a whimper.

A tiefling bowing to a human. It feels fitting in a way. It was your race that was slutty brave enough to get fucked mate with demons, gracing the tieflings with the gift of existence.

Worshipping the humans is a thought many races would scoff over. The notion by itself is enough to send a high elf into hysterical laughter.

Yet all he can think about is kissing up your feet, licking your ankle, gnawing at your thigh with his razorsharp teeth until you have mercy and spread your legs open.

"Do I have to beg to sleep with you? Do you want to see me kneeling on the floor pleading for your permission to touch myself?"

He can't make up his mind if he wants to worship you or put you in your place the same way his demon ancestors must have.

Just what kind of humiliating acts the humans submitted to in order for the demons to agree to breed them? What kind of degradation did the human kind endure while being stuffed with burning hot cum or being milked for all of their worth?

...do you miss it? Do you want him to replicate it?

"I'll ruin you to anyone else. Fuck all of your holes and plug the cum inside with my tail. Make you nothing but a pathetic fleshlight for me to use and squeeze like my ancestors have always done to your kind, human."

His thoughts are cut short by the feeling of your finger tracing up his horn, testing the waters.

The feeling is electric on his end. His teeth dig deeper into his lips as he suppresses any sounds threatening to slip out.

"Please touch me. Fuck please please, I want you to pull them. Pull my horns. I don't care if you break them. Just don't stop."

Bit by bit, your touches get bolder, abandoning the remote to wrap both of your hands around his horns. Stroking up and down, brushing the tips and experimenting with this new texture to your heart's content.

This new position presses your chest against his face without realising it. Ardour feels his hands shaking as he stares in front of him.

The urge to touch you, squeeze you and bite you. Mark every corner of your body until you can't look in a mirror without the ghost feeling of his touches hovering over your skin.

This was his plan. This was his doing, so why does it feel like he bit off more than he can chew?

A throbbing between his legs, his cock painfully hard. His claws tear through the pillow on his lap as he drags his fingers dow, imagining it's your plush thighs instead.

"That weird elf wasn't kidding when he said the human body was made for nothing but sex." His hand slips underneath the pillow to press against his aching cock for any sort of relief. "You're not even aware of how much of a slut you're being, are you? That's how in your nature it is."

Ah.

His eyes open wide in panic as your hands abruptly stop touching his horns.

He said that out loud.

[moondim]

We Do Have Reputations

Request by @jakiicomics: Hiya can I ask for a request can you do like the other overblot boys and that the scenario is that they were making out with there s/o and things were getting heated with the smooches 💋 until like BAM 💥 someone interrupted them and like what would there reactions be plus would they still continue even after hehe 😜 P.s I hope you accept lots of love 💖💖💖💖💖

Warnings: Kind of suggestive; not explicit, just a lotta kissing and intimacy. Also Rook is outright stalking you both in Vil's.

(GN!reader)

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

• Riddle is actually a pretty romantic guy in private.

• Of course, in public, he has both his image and the rules to uphold. I'm not sure if the Queen of Hearts' rules have any restrictions on PDA, but even if they don't; the school rules almost certainly do. He'll still touch you, it's just kept very proper.

• I don't think he's quite as uptight in private as I may have been tempted to originally think. I still think he's clueless, but he's not a brick wall, either.

• So, yes, inexperienced kisser for obvious reasons. You'd probably have to take the lead, which he'll let you do, because he just isn't sure what is and isn't acceptable. He'll mirror your actions - if you hold him, he'll hold you back - and before you know it, he's actually learning.

• He was just about getting the hang of it when you two were interrupted by-- "Whoa."

• Riddle's eyes snapped open in an instant, meeting Ace's wide-eyed, jaw-dropped expression. He takes a second too long to actually push you off of him, his face burning as the first year continues to just stand there in shock.

• "Get OUT!" Riddle shrieked, and that seemed to snap Ace out of whatever daze he was in, because he raised his hands in surrender and slowly backed out of the room like he was trying to escape a wild animal.

• "Don't EVER come into my room uninvited! Have you any clue how rude that is?!" - "Dude, I'm sorry!" - "A-and the audacity to just stand there and gawk-- if you tell anyone, Trappola, by the Seven, I won't just be using my Signature Spell to remove the head from your shoulders!"

• Just when you think Ace is finally leaving and Riddle is going to close the door again, the boy just had to get one final quip in. "Didn't know you had it in you."

• Riddle turns impossibly redder at that and marches right back out the door to chase Ace down, and you sit with your head in your hands, knowing you'll have to continue where you left off some other day.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

• Leona, despite spending most of his days lounging around, is near constantly stressed out and exhausted. Of course, he's got his Dorm to fret over, as well as the Spelldrive team, but most of it comes from being way too in his head and having no-one around to take him out of it.

• This changes in a relationship, and I have no idea what the popular consensus is on Leona as a boyfriend; but I see him as surprisingly clingy.

• Not in public, but I mean that whenever you're around him, he'll pull whatever tricks he has to in order to make you stay. He's a terrible influence on this front because he will encourage you to skip classes and any other responsibilities too.

• Leona is honestly kind of manipulative lmao. If you two are cuddling and you need to leave, his strategies for making you stay vary. Sometimes he'll try to act "cute". I mean talking very softly in your ear, suddenly deciding he wants to lay his head on your chest or in the crook of your neck (and he's just sooo comfortable now, please don't disturb him), big cat-like stretching, intentionally swishing his tail a bit, overall playing it up in the hopes of tempting you into staying for longer. And no, he does not feel any shame about this.

• Other times, he takes a more direct approach. Why would you ever choose to go to your boring-ass classes over making out with your very attractive boyfriend? Do you like history more than having his tongue in your mouth? I didn't think so.

• The problem with doing this in the botanical garden is that it is a very public and easily accessible area. And there are certain people who know they can find Leona there.

• "Leonaaa! C'mon, time to get up, you've got-- Oh."

• Leona turns his head, keeping his arms around your hips, not bothering to move you off of him. He sighed, exasperated. "Leave, Ruggie."

• "Shishishi, no need to get all aggro on me! I'm only here 'cause you're gonna miss another Alchemy class - not like I could've known you were getting busy in here."

• Leona scowled, and to your surprise and slight mortification, he grabbed your face and went right back to kissing you as if there wasn't a live audience stood right there. Thankfully, this seemed to have the desired effect, because the next thing you heard from Ruggie was a loud "ew, man! Fine! No skin off my back!" Followed by him quickly scampering away.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

• Azul is a lot of fun to distract.

• He doesn't mind having you in the same room as him as he goes through the Mostro Lounge's necessary paperwork for the day, he's good enough at multitasking that he can usually hold a conversation with you while he works. But when it's been a while since he's last looked up at you, maybe you start to feel a little neglected.

• You move your chair closer to his and he goes stiff for a brief second when you rest your head on his shoulder, but relaxes soon after. Just as he starts to write again, you snake your arms around his waist, lips pressing against his neck.

• He goes still again, face burning up as he tries to look like he's casually re-adjusting his glasses. "What are you up to?" You don't miss the way his voice wavers, and he finally meets your eyes, blushing more at the realisation that you've been staring at his face.

• "You're not paying attention to me." Azul gives a shy little laugh at that, turning around in his chair to face you. "Well, I am now."

• You kiss him, and he kisses back, either pulling you closer to hold in his lap or, if you're taller than him, being the one held in yours. Things were just barely getting started when you hear the door creak open and he shoves you away in record time.

• "Oh my," Clearly his save didn't do much though, because Jade can still see the two of you standing there red-faced and dishevelled, and puts the pieces together on his own. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

• "No," Azul claims, fixing his glasses that were hanging lopsided on his face. "What do you want?"

• "Oh no, I'm sure it can wait until you two are done here. Clearly this is more important than customer feedback." - "Jade, just tell me what it is." - "It is not as if Floyd and I were working ourselves to the bone running the Lounge in your absence while you were busy entertaining yourselves in here." - "Jade."

• By the way, yes Jade will tell Floyd about this, and no you both will never escape the teasing.

JAMIL VIPER

• Jamil is often too busy to have as much alone time with you as he would like, and given a lot of his job is dedicated to making sure Kalim doesn't die, he can't really afford any distractions. Though he has absolutely considered leaving the Housewarden to his own devices for a while so that he can sneak off to be with you, the fault would be entirely on him if anything did go wrong, so alas.

• Still, there are moments where he can have his guard down. As long as there's no threat of any potential danger, and his work then more-so becomes making sure the dormitories are clean. He really would much rather be spending his time with you on the occasions you visit the Scarabia dorm though, which is why he doesn't complain when you shove him into a nearby broom closet, close the door behind both of you and start kissing him.

• He knows he can't remain in here with you for long, so he's making the most of the time he does have. Jamil likes to be the one taking the lead, so that's exactly what he does, and no words are exchanged as he passionately steals kiss after kiss from you, with a kind of hunger you've seen on him plenty.

• The problem with getting too lost in the moment, is that neither of you notice the footsteps approaching the broom closet until it's too late and the door opens, revealing none other than Kalim.

• Jamil detaches himself from you, practically hugging the wall behind him to put as much distance between the two of you as possible, as Kalim's expression morphs quickly into one of pure shock-horror.

• "SORRY!" He yells, far too loudly, and Jamil winces at the thought he may have alerted some of the other students. Kalim slams the door again, though you can still hear him behind it. "Sorry! I'm so so sorry!"

• Silence falls then. Jamil sighs, running a hand down his face. Thinking you were alone now, you whisper, "So... You wanna keep going?"

• Before Jamil can answer, there's a knock on the door of the broom closet. "Jamil, can you give me the brush and shovel from in there? You can just slide it under the door if-"

• "Kalim! Go away!"

VIL SCHOENHEIT

• This actually happens quite frequently to the point you don't even question it anymore.

• It doesn't matter how private you two think you're keeping it. You could be in his room, knowing for certain that there's no urgent business or anything that can interrupt you, and you could even be absolutely sure that nobody saw you entering the Pomefiore dormitory and making your way to Vil's quarters.

• Because as you're on his bed, back against the headboard as he straddles you, you have full view of his bedroom window behind him. Usually, you wouldn't be looking anywhere but his gorgeous face; but you can't help it when you notice what look like a pair of eyes standing out amidst the trees and the dark of night.

• Your stomach drops and he seems to notice your gaze has drifted elsewhere. He turns around himself to see it. "What?- Oh, for the love of..." Vil groans, moving off of you and walking over to the window, rapping his knuckles angrily on the glass. The eyes retreat, shooed away like a startled bird, and he pulls the curtains closed, lips still pressed into a thin line when he turns back to see you.

• "Was it Rook again?" You ask, and he sighs deeply, returning to his bed.

• "Of course it was. Who else?"

• "You should really talk to him about doing that." You say, and he kisses you again, effectively silencing you.

• "No more talk of Rook, dear," he murmurs. "I'd much rather focus on you tonight."

IDIA SHROUD

• Idia is not a romantic. He frequently refers to you as "bro," "dude," has called you "oomf" over messages before and one time even called you "chat". Like a streamer. He's definitely the kind of guy to make fun of couples who do overtly romantic things, like pet names or holding hands, and I also have my own thoughts on his sexuality that I'm not gonna fully get into here.

• Basically, I don't think he's a very romantic or touchy person, and he won't be the one to initiate anything with you. He's more reliant on emotional connection rather than physical (and is quite needy on that front).

• That's not to say he's against it if you are the type to initiate make-out sessions with him. Just be aware that he is embarrassingly inexperienced, and nowhere near as adept at just picking it up as you go along as Riddle is.

• The ends of his blue hair flare pink as you kiss him again and again, not minding in the slightest the sloppy way in which he tries to return them. Eventually, Idia will ease into letting you do all the work, figuring that he's better this way, too.

• When he gains the courage to open his eyes, he tries not to snicker at how silly you look with your eyes closed and your face so close to his, and just as he's comparing it to those 0.5x zoom pictures of cats in his head, the door to his room opens and in comes Ortho.

• "Big brother?"

• "MMMH!" Idia shrieks against your lips, scrambling away from you, pulling his bed sheets up to his face as if to shield him. Still, Ortho doesn't appear to react to what he just saw, continuing as normal.

• "Can I go to an arcade with Deuce, Jack and Epel? It's off-campus, but nearby!"

• "Y-y-yeah, yeah, go... ahead..." Idia nodded, wide-eyed, the pink burning at the ends of his hair slowly spreading upwards. Ortho beamed.

• "Thank you!" And with that, he left. To be honest, you thought this went over remarkably well, until you heard a loud squeak come from Idia.

• "Oh nooo..." He whines, flopping down on his back with his hands covering his face. "He s-saw everything! And he's just gonna try to ignore it! Ouuuuh, t-this is gonna be so awkwaaard...! H-he's too young to have been exposed to something like that... I can never face him again...!"

MALLEUS DRACONIA

• Malleus' affection is almost annoyingly proper.

• He does like to touch you, but it often feels more like you're being pet, if that makes sense. He never really initiates anything more intimate on his own, though you've discovered that he likes hugs.

• So, one day you snap and the next time he tries to (almost condescendingly) pat your head, you grab him and pull him in for a kiss. He makes an adorably startled noise, but then you can feel him chuckling a bit as he wraps his arms around you, kissing you back.

• You pull back and he smiles at you, tilting his head. "You're bold," he purred. "For a human to yank me around like that..."

• "Shut up," you mutter, meeting his lips with your own again. He hums, and the moment is blissful, but it doesn't last.

• "Lord Malleus! Ah, there you are! Lilia has been looking for--" Malleus turns his head, and you look over his shoulder at the disturbance. "E-EH?!"

• "...Sebek," Malleus didn't let go of you as he spoke. "Could you leave us? Let Lilia know I'm... occupied."

• "Y-yes... o-of course," Sebek nodded his head, bewildered and red-faced as he glanced between you and his Lord, still in each other's arms. "I-I'll do that right away!"

• And then he runs off, stumbling a bit on his way. Malleus watches him leave for a moment, then lets out a single soft, amused laugh. "My, he seemed startled. I wonder why. Is it really so shocking to see me with you?"

• "...I think he just wasn't expecting to interrupt us. He's probably mortified."

• "Well, I just hope he gets himself together in time before talking to Lilia. I suspect he may accidentally give away what he saw..."

[ramshacklemouse]

Erm hii

Would love a request based off the meme you made of "why does rollo flamme call you babygirl"

Untapped comedic potential i think

omg who could have sent me this .... I have no idea .....

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ princess treatment

summary: NRC students react to rollo sweeping you off your feet type of post: headcanons characters: rollo, then ace, deuce, leona, azul, and malleus being jealous asfuck information: romantic, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral (despite the title), 'rollo is a sweetheart' propaganda

When Rollo Flamme transferred to Night Raven College after the disastrous fire lotus ordeal, they'd been expecting chaos. Vitriol, hatred, fights, magic sparks flying, and definitely a lot of arson.

The Night Raven College students greeted him with magic pens drawn, a subtle warning: try it again and you're done for.

But Rollo Flamme is, in reality, a perfectly pleasant classmate when he's not trying to uproot the way of the world. A bit introverted, maybe a little cold and impersonal, but he wouldn't so much as sneer at the Night Raven College students in passing, and so all was forgotten (or, at least, put aside).

That was, until...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Heartslabyul

Ace and Deuce didn't like the thought of you sharing a dorm with that guy, not one bit!

It took a lot of talking (and cherry pie bribery) to get them to come around, and when a few months had passed with no incident to tell, they mellowed out

...Then, suddenly, you're inviting Rollo on all of your outings, and your trio (not including Grim) became a quartet

Tolerable until Ace and Deuce realized Rollo had not one bit of interest in them, and would only make pleasantries out of politeness, likely for their beloved Prefect's sake (he never leaves your side)

What's worse is that Rollo is doing all the gentlemanly stuff that they never bothered to- holding doors for you, pulling out your chair, offering to carry your things... why didn't they think of that!! He makes them both look like Grade A jerks without even glancing their way

Noble Bell College is all about manners and formalities, after all

They try to bounce back by doubling their gentlemanly behavior, but somehow always end up fighting about which one of the two gets to link arms with you while crossing the street, or give you his coat when it's cold

...Then Rollo goes ahead and does it anyway while they're busy bickering with one another

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Savanaclaw

Leona didn't have any interest in Rollo to begin with

Listen, he wasn't at the masquerade ball. He never broke his back weeding fire lotuses, never singed off his eyebrows while battling in the bell tower (sorry, Azul), and in Leona's world, this meant they had no personal beef, thus he had no reason to care about the strange new transfer student

He wasn't even bugged that Rollo was being a perfect gentleman for you- in fact, he thought it was a good thing. Someone has to look out for you around here

It wasn't until he spotted you walking with him in the botanical gardens, when Rollo held out an arm to stop you mid-step

Leona narrows his eyes- trouble?

...But Rollo only points out that your shoelaces have loosened, and he kneels to tie them for you without thinking twice

Something about the gesture (and how CASUAL it is) makes Leona's eye twitch

He'll have to keep a better eye on that Rollo guy...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Octavinelle

Azul didn't like Rollo to begin with, but now he's REALLY gotten on his nerves

The once kind, helpful Prefect, always willing to lend a hand (or an arm, or a leg, or a vital organ) to a fellow poor, unfortunate student, no matter the cost to themself?

...Suddenly saying no

Azul's art of the deal falls flat when Rollo is around, who delivers that steadfast and ready "No, thank you, good day," and whisks you away before Azul can even get a word in!

Not even the tweels are convincing- Rollo always makes you stand behind him when Floyd is around, and he refuses to even look at Jade

But it's not only that the Prefect is no longer an unpaid intern because of Rollo's intervention, it's that you actually listen to him

His judgments? His decisions? His muttered comments? You respect him enough to heed his warnings without question. You must think very highly of him...

...Azul can't help but feel a little jealous of that

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Diasomnia

Malleus was ready to put that nasty fire lotus business behind him

What? You thought he would be angry, vengeful, and possessive? Have you MET the guy? He takes no pleasure in hatred, violence is only a potential necessity, and, in all honesty, he was excited to have a member of the gargoyle studies club besides himself and the Prefect

...Maybe he puts too much faith in people, sometimes

Because Rollo Flamme maintained exactly zero interest in befriending, or even tolerating Malleus Draconia, and instead prefers following in your shadow, keeping his eyes pointed at potential threats to the magicless student he so adores

Malleus had never been particularly envious of your friendships with fickle, foolish boys, and besides that, your happiness was his happiness

...But this feels like Rollo is overstepping a boundary that Malleus didn't even know was there

He suddenly feels a great urge to have you closer, to impress you, to catch your attention

His displays of magic become even grander, his acts of chivalry even more dramatic, his kindness pushed to its limit (Sebek would kill hundreds to be in your position, but he was told to hold his tongue on the matter for the time being), and yet, still, you stay at Rollo's side

Malleus doesn't quite understand it. Cold, curt, and with more interest in old traditions than magical ingenuity, he seems like the very last person that you, of all people, would get along with

...And, yet...

Rollo walks you through the courtyard with linked arms, he always lets you have your first pick of the pastries he gets shipped from home, and he's sure to wrap an arm around your waist when he feels tension in the room, as if his first priority is always and forever keeping you safe

He speaks to you in that soft tone (reserved only for you, when he thinks no one is listening), and calls you dear Prefect

It would have angered Malleus, if it were anyone else- but this is someone he's beaten in battle before.... just on a different playing field

The competition is on

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

!! Southern Medic EJ Scribbles !!

Tried a slightly different rendering style and I think it looks pretty good :p

Shoutout @velvettfog for the concept it is SO scrumptious to me.

[velvettfog]

SAVE ME SAVE ME SAVE ME

Babs ily forever and ever ong.

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

HAHHAHA

[vero-lynn]

Just something random cuz I'm so unmotivated to draw but yuh

[swxnraii]

I LOVE GAANG SMM!! And yes, Suki is part of gaang. I can’t stand the suki under representation. I love my queen sm. ALL CREDITS TO THE ARTIST!! @schwesterchiz in Insta

[gloomrai]

‧₊˚ boyfriend!idia shroud

ෆ :: he wouldn't be the nervous guy he is with everyone else. to be honest, the fact that Idia has already gone through the whole process of getting into a relationship, and especially that he has let you into his world, says a LOT. there would already be enough trust for him to talk to you more about practically anything, obviously, he'd still get nervous at times, but simply because he sometimes struggles to process the huge step he took with you.

ෆ :: his room is a safe place for both of you. he would definitely make sure to create a safe space for you in his room. one of his favorite things is spending time in the same room without saying a word, so he would make sure to have your favorite drinks and snacks for those days when you're just too exhausted from being around people.

ෆ :: sometimes he's like a cat seeking your touch. ironically, there would be times when he'd seek your contact, maybe not in the traditional clingy way because that would be too cringe for a player of his level. but he'd love to feel you close, like practically not leaving any space between you when you're watching something together, or letting you play with his fingers while he's focused on doing something else.

ෆ :: he would use all his knowledge to give you the best possible experience in any technological aspect. Idia would use his technological skills to repair, or improve any of your devices. if you mention that your laptop has a problem, he would check it before you even had a chance to ask. if you want a mod in one of your games where your cows are pink, the next day you would have an installation file that he sent you. if his girlfriend wants a custom reminder app, he would make it himself and record the messages with his voice, even if he were internally dying of embarrassment.

ෆ :: you'd see that more talkative side of him that he only shows online. due to the level of trust he has with you, Idia would come quite close to the "extroverted" side he only shows online behind anonymity. you'd see him bragging about how amazing he is playing, complaining about things that bother him without any filter, or simply telling you without thinking what happened during his day while you were in class.

[nekonaps0]

This is just perfect🛐 (perfect characterization😩)

[yaoyaobae]

Happy Birthday Silver

[idiasplayertwo]

cries into my pillows i luv them.

[zeka-maki]

ʚɞ My moon, my moon, my man ʚɞ

⚘ Pairings: Ashveil x Reader

⚘ Summery: A strange phenomenon has occurred, one that you thought only happened in novels— you have been transported to a novel yourself! The memories of it vague to you but you only remember your favorite character, Ashveil. The narrative has doomed him, now it is your duty to save him.

⚘ Tags: SFW, fluff/light angst, fem!Reader, isekai'd!Reader, Duke!Ashveil, slow burn, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, mentions of death, war, wounds and stuff of this kind, Boothill and Rappa are his children, Reader and Narrator are stressed tf out, very light suggestive themes, writer cannot write

⚘ Word count: 16k

⚘ Side/mentioned characters: Rappa, Boothill, Coria, Cole, Robin Hood, Loretta, Robin, Tiernan, Acheron, Argenti, Evanescia, Narrator, Dan Feng

⚘ A/N: this took like a bazillion years to write and im still not proud of it sigh, forgive me if this is ass ong I can actually write 💔

“Marry me, Grand Duke.”

The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.

And then, silence.

It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.

Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.

The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.

An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.

A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.

To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.

But those warnings barely register in your mind.

How could they?

You know this world.

You know him.

Because this is a story you’ve already read.

Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.

But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.

Ashveil.

The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.

And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.

Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.

His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.

They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.

But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.

So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.

A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.

To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.

Not again.

Not when you have the chance to change it.

This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.

If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?

“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.

Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.

Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.

You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.

“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.

“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.

“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”

When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.

A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.

Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—

is true.

He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.

It is exhausting.

Everything is.

His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.

This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.

It makes sense.

So why does he hesitate?

Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.

You.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.

No one would care.

But you would be the one standing beside him.

Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—

if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?

A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.

Still waiting.

Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.

Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.

A decision.

“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.

There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.

Because this is where everything begins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.

For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.

One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.

You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.

The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.

But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.

The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.

The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.

The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.

The head maid— Loretta.

Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.

It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.

“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.

Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”

A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”

Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.

A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.

You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.

Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.

The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.

You rarely see your husband.

The thought lingers longer than you’d like.

It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.

Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.

The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.

Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.

If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.

No. This won’t do.

You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.

Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.

Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.

And then, you collide with something. Someone.

“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.

Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.

Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.

A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.

Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.

No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.

“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.

Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.

“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.

This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.

And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.

“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”

The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.

“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”

The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.

“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.

Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”

And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.

You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.

And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.

Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.

Argenti.

Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.

It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.

Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”

This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.

The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.

You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.

“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.

“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?

A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”

Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.

The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”

You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.

“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.

Yes, you’re certain of it.

Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.

Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.

Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.

Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.

Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.

The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.

And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.

It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.

Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.

It’s soft.

Softer than you expected.

For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.

You are married to this man.

You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—

—and then a hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.

Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.

“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?

But then—

he laughs.

The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.

“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”

Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.

“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”

You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”

But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.

He hasn’t been sleeping.

And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.

It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.

The reaction is immediate.

Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.

“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence follows.

He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.

Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.

And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.

“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”

It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.

He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.

“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”

You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”

The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.

And that is what breaks him.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.

Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.

As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.

His poor advisor.

Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.

Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.

But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.

A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.

From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.

“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”

For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.

You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”

The words land heavier than intended.

You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.

Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”

Strain.

The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.

You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.

“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.

“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”

That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”

You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.

“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”

Silence settles between you.

Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.

He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”

Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.

When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.

He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.

The thought warms you more than it should.

You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.

“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”

He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”

The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.

You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.

Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.

Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”

His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”

The question does not surprise you.

But answering it… is another matter entirely.

“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”

The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.

Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.

And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.

“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.

He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.

His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.

You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.

“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.

“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.

For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.

“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”

And then— He goes limp.

Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.

Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.

You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.

And now, there is hope.

Your hand stings.

The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.

Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.

Just once.

You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.

Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.

You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.

He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.

He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.

You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.

Radiant.

It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.

The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.

You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.

As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?

Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.

Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.

A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.

And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.

“Moonveil Warden.”

The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.

But the hallway is empty.

There is no one else. It is meant for you.

Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.

“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”

Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”

The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.

Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.

But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.

A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”

The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.

Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.

And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.

Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.

You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.

Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”

And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.

Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Breakfast.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”

That is all she needs.

She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.

The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.

Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.

A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.

She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”

You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.

The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.

For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.

Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.

It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.

Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.

Of course he is.

No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.

“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.

Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”

You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.

Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.

He is avoiding you.

He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.

You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.

Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.

Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.

Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.

They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.

Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.

He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.

There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.

It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.

You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.

Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.

No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.

“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”

Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”

The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.

The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.

Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.

“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.

His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.

You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.

After a moment, you return to your meal.

It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.

You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.

Like something that cannot be satisfied.

You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.

Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.

“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.

Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”

Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”

Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”

“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”

Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.

The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.

No one knows. No one can.

Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.

So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.

By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.

It does not belong here.

In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.

You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.

It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.

Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.

The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.

And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.

The noise does not quite reach you.

Your thoughts remain louder.

You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.

Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.

Perfect.

The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.

You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.

The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.

You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.

Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.

The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”

The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.

Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.

“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”

The world stills for you.

Your name.

Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.

Just you.

The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.

You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.

You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”

The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.

You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”

Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.

It catches you off guard.

It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.

“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”

You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.

The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.

“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.

You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.

His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.

“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.

“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”

The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Acheron.

Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.

“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”

Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.

The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.

Then the thought breaks through.

“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”

The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.

Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.

There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”

Of course.

Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.

Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.

Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.

But your focus returns quickly.

“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.

Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.

“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.

The words fall heavy, despairing and final.

“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”

The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.

The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.

“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.

Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.

You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.

It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.

But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.

And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..

Why does he look at you—

as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain does not stop.

Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.

And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.

At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.

You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.

But there is nothing familiar here.

Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.

This wasn’t in the novel.

The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.

But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.

Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.

The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.

And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.

Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.

They linger around you more now.

Not in a way that draws attention.

Not in a way that disrespects your position.

But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.

They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.

The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.

Another soldier.

Another victim.

Another life reduced to a report.

Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.

The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.

Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.

Then what?

Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.

Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.

“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.

You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.

Names, units, histories.

Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.

It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.

Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.

“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.

This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.

You don’t remember leaving the room.

Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.

His office.

You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.

Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.

The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.

It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.

Alone.

Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.

“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.

You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”

That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.

When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.

He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.

“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.

The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.

“…What?”

“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”

Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”

The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”

The answer hits harder than you expect.

You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”

Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”

“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”

The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.

“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”

Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.

“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.

“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”

The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.

Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.

“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”

His hand tightens slightly at his side.

“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.

You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”

His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.

“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”

Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”

The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.

“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.

That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.

“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”

Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”

You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.

“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.

“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.

“You… what?”

A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.

“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”

You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.

“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”

Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.

“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.

“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”

You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”

The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”

The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”

“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”

Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”

“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.

A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”

“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.

“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.

Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.

The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.

Trust.

Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.

Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.

He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.

He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.

Yet you see what others cannot.

You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.

There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.

Because he trusts it.

Because he trusts you.

It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.

The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.

Then another appears.

Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.

Individually, they are nothing.

Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.

You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.

When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.

The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.

They are not servants.

Not truly.

The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.

A title emerges from the cracks.

“The One-Eyed Owl.”

It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.

You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.

They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.

What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.

Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.

Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.

“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.

Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”

The title lingers between you.

The One-Eyed Owl.

It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.

And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.

The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.

It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.

The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.

And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.

You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.

Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.

The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.

Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.

The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.

Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.

Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.

And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.

You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.

There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.

It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.

Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.

You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.

And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.

The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.

And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.

Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.

Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.

Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.

He talks endlessly.

Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.

And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.

Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.

Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.

His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.

There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.

And then there is Loretta.

Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.

Until one day, she does.

It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.

And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.

You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.

You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.

The message inside is brief.

The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.

You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.

And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?

The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.

You find him there, awaiting your arrival.

He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.

“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”

That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.

“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.

A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”

He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.

“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”

“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”

The words settle gently.

You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”

His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.

And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.

In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.

You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.

Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.

When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.

He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.

You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.

With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.

You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.

And it is everything you have ever wished for.

[citrusisticdreams]

THIS WAS SOOOO GOOD

[maruyamada]

Returned to the Source

Pairing: Jade Leech x Reader (Female Prefect)

Jade Leech is a man of standards. When it comes to giving hand cream to his beloved, you, he demands nothing less than the highest quality. However, the thought of the base ingredients coming from another male was utterly intolerable. Realizing that desperate times call for desperate measures, he steeled his resolve. After enduring the hellish ordeal of harvesting his own tail fin secretions, he successfully presented you with both hand and moisturizing creams.

Watching your hands and face become irresistibly soft and supple, a thought begins to take root in his mind: how much more wonderful would it be to hold you if your entire body were this velvety?

"Floyd, what am I to do?"

"I don't even wanna know, but I'm asking anyway 'cause I know you'll just keep repeating that intro until I do. What is it?"

"To make her entire body this soft, I would need to sacrifice myself as the ingredient. Yet, if I sacrifice myself, I will be unable to embrace her in her supple state. Oh, whatever shall I do?"

"Azul! Jade's saying he wants to fulfill his life's purpose as raw material!"

Later, in the cafeteria. After finishing your meal, you wipe your hands with a towel and begin reapplying the hand cream. You take the excess cream and gently rub it into Grim’s paw pads, creating a pair of moist, alluringly soft paws.

Jade happens to be watching this scene. Noticing his gaze, you look up, and when your eyes meet his, he offers a smile and beckons you over. Unable to resist, Jade is drawn toward you. Floyd and Azul watch from a distance with half-exasperated expressions, thinking you’ve truly mastered the art of being a beast tamer. His right-hand man and his twin have been completely captivated.

After chatting for a while, Jade returns to the other two. While he had just been showering you with a gaze full of affection and a heartfelt smile, the moment he steps back toward Floyd and Azul, his expression turns instantly cold and indifferent.

"What happened?" "Nothing… It is just that the Prefect said, 'I'll do it for Jade-senpai too,' and shared some of the hand cream with me."

Your small hands had firmly grasped Jade's, rubbing the cream in as if giving him a hand massage.

"Well, isn't that nice?" "No, well…"

With a complicated expression, he murmured under his breath.

"I couldn't help but think… that it has been returned to the source."

The moment they heard that, Floyd and Azul burst into fits of hysterical laughter, startling everyone around them.

"Mu-mucus reduction!" "Returned to the source!"

They clutched their stomachs, wheezing with laughter. From a distance, you simply watched them, a question mark practically floating over your head.

---------------------------------

A little bonus. I’m way too obsessed with unhinged Jade.

[cursedcola]

!! VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ!!

Hello, everyone! Can you believe that it's been nearly 5 years since I started this blog on a whim, wanting to write for TWST and post silly things about visual-novel development? I never thought that my writing would attract thousands of wonderful people, neither that my little hobby would lead to writing well over 500K words of content. Between fics, head-cannons, a visual novel, and now a mystery romance that I plan to publish on ao3. It's kind of wild, y'know? I've made some good friends on this site, shared work with some really great mutuals, and really just found lots of love in exploring communities.

Which...now leads me into the second part of this announcement. The part that took days of convincing myself to make, because I was stubborn and prideful and a bit ashamed.

If you've followed me for years, interacted with me, or are one of my good friends -- you know that back in 2023 I was diagnosed with a chronic, autonomic nervous system disorder called POTS (Postural-Orthostatic-Tachycardiac Syndrome). As the years have progressed, it's severity has only gotten worse. I've found my entire life flipped upside down, and when paired with cardiac problems and other issues...ah, it's been a difficullt journey. I had to drop out of college, take loans to pay my bills, and have lost 6 jobs while trying to find one that I can function with. Some I lasted a bit of time at - others I barely started before an accident happened that lead to resigning. One was this past week. My sixth opportunity, I nearly caused an accident that I likely would not have recovered from.

So, I'm out of work with no clear direction for a time. Between my loans, medical costs, and other needs from the past three years - I need to raise about 30k to make a clean slate going forward. I know. It's a hefty sum, but I need to start finding a way. A dollar from ten different means makes 10, which is 10 more than what I started with.

And...I know it's kind of silly. This idea just came to me while I was brainstorming for hours, because I've been writing on here for many years, and I thought 'If I could do a commission for every person who follows me, then it may just be enough'. I feel like those commercials on cable tv that go 'if everyone gave a dollar then all the puppies can have shelter for the winter' - and I used to hate those commercials because they'd make me so sad. Except I understand why they air, because it's true. If everyone who watched them DID donate a dollar, then I bet a lot of dogs would have a warm bed.

Ah. That was slightly off track. My apologies.

SKIP HERE IF YOU DON'T CARE FOR ALL THE CONTEXT. TLDR OR WHATEVER ACRONYM IT IS.

I'm opening commissions. Not just the ones that I had before for fun, but a LOT of quality commissions for what I hope is a fair price.

I'll write pretty much anything.

Character x Character, Character x OC, Character x Reader. Crack fics. Romance fics. Adventure. Fantasy. SFW. NSFW. First Person. Second Person. WHATEVER IT IS. Original ideas or defined tropes. Specific or non-specific. A fic of mine you want another part for? A series of mine you want rehashed or continued? You just want a surprise for the hell of it?

You got it, dude.

You want quality, human written, works? Fueled with love, time, and honestly sheer gratitude that a commission was even made? You got it. My keyboard and brain are yours to command.

At some point I'll be opening for art and comics too. I'm working on a portfolio.

Below are all the options available along with their rates.

Fanfiction

Options: Character X Character; Character X OC; Character X Reader

Comes in two shapes: 500 words and 1,000 words (Note: I try to write beyond the word benchmark as a curtesy to the commissioner)

Price: $10 for 500 words; $15 for 1000 words

Examples of my works (not of the length, but my quality) : Here ; Here

2. Character Letters

A letter written to you (or to an oc, or another character, etc) from a chosen character, following any prompt you wish!

Comes in two shapes: 250 words and 500 words (Note: I try to write beyond the benchmark as a curtesy to the commissioner)

Price: $5 for 250 words; $10 for 500 words

Examples of my letter work (quality) : Here

3. Snippet Fiction!

A head cannon set or small imagine ficlet for a character or pairing of your choice! Written as a small scenario!

One Shape: 150 words

Price: $3

-

I can write for a wide variety of fandoms! The ones I am most well-versed in are: Twisted Wonderland, Baldur's Gate 3, Palia, Dragon Age, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (All Variants), Genshin Impact, and Tears of Themis!

Others I do but not as often - Stardew Valley, Sun Haven, Persona, Fire Emblem, Pillars of Eternity, Fields of Mistria, My Time Series, content for otome games (olba, error 143, a date with death, bloomic, etc)

Is a fandom you want not listed? MESSAGE ME. Chances are I know it or can study it.

All commissions are accepted on my Ko-Fi! CLICK HERE FOR LINK!

Should you purchase anything from me, I will not consider it a job done until you are absolutely satisfied with the result. I'll be working in batches to ensure quality.

If you've enjoyed any of my works over these years - thank you. Thank you so much for reading and interacting. I hope I can keep writing and spending time with you all here. If a commission is out of your reach, please share in hopes to get the word out.

With love,

CursedCola

[su-rodriguez]

Ma chérie, are you missing meeeeeee

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

You write Habit so good oh my gosh

Since Habit sees reader as a pet, how do you think he would react if the reader just..disappeared. Like he knows reader would never run away- he’s done a good job keeping them happy. But he can’t find them anywhere, he’ll call their phone no answer, search every room in his house, the works.

In reality reader just went for a walk and accidentally turned their phone on DND safe and oblivious. How would Habit handle that? And also, how would he handle finding reader again?

Thank you for reading bae xoxo

- 🧁

Okay I got so carried away with this drabble but my heart yearns for him <\\3

Whether he talks about it or not, he does worry !! You are his bunny, and your well-being is his responsibility. So if you go missing, what is he supposed to do?

— ^ ^ —

Habit was going to fucking kill you.

He had just gotten home, and you were supposed to be there. Yet, you weren’t. That alone would’ve been a problem, but there had been multiple issues leading up to now.

You’d arrived earlier in the day, with the plan being to spend the weekend, relax and do all the stupid couple shit- the works. Everything was on track, smooth sailing, until some fucker had gotten too nosey.

The man had knocked on the door, questioning about disappearances in the area. Which would’ve been fine, if he had stopped pushing after the first two minutes. Rambling on and on about if Habit had “seen anything out of the ordinary.” He knew what he was doing.

He was suspicious, an officer working the case. The bastard probably thought he was so smart coming here, pressing him at his door, just to see if he’d crack. The worst of it?

He was making you nervous.

The longer he went on about victims, and the dangers of the surrounding woods- the more anxious you got. Looking at Habit with worry, you even reached out to hold the hem of his shirt. A weird tendency you’d picked up when you started dating.

When you got a little too overwhelmed, you’d hold onto him. And that meant all of what you considered to be “Habit.” His hand, his sleeve, clinging to his arm, the bottom of his open jacket. Any part of him you could get to.

It ticked him off, this was his home. The one place you were the safest, and you were stressed enough to fidget.

He didn’t care about your stupid feelings, it’s just that the only person aloud to make you anxious was him. It was a respect thing, a territory thing. Obviously.

So after the guy left, he waited about ten minutes before telling you he had to run errands. You’d pouted, which he resolved by cupping your face, and shaking you a little. Such a simple minded creature, you were so easily pleased. Giggling, your upset facade dropped within seconds, and he sealed it off with a peck.

However, as he walked out the door, you had called after him. Saying “The ice cream truck is coming later, I’ll get you some.” He’d nodded, and brushed it off. You included him in dumb shit all the time, even when you didn’t need to. Why would he question you now?

Which brings him to the present. Realizing that he, in fact, should have fucking questioned you.

The first blaring red flag was the lack of noise. When he’d leave to do whatever, you’d occupy yourself with movies, or music, or busy yourself in the kitchen making some god awful, way-too-sugary snack.

The second, was that you hadn’t greeted him immediately. See, his bunny was a stage six clinger. Couldn’t pry you off if he tried, and you’d always be on him the second he stepped through the door. Throwing your arms around him, face smushed into his chest. All doe eyed and excited, you’d beg for a kiss, too.

Tonight though? Nothing. Nada fucking zilch. Initially, he had assumed you were napping, it wasn’t uncommon for you to pass out on the couch or wherever- but he couldn’t find you.

Not on the sofa, not in the kitchen, the bed was empty, and you weren’t in the bathroom. So where the fuck were you?

Habit tore his house upside down in his search, growing more and more frustrated. Spamming your phone, only to be met with your voicemail. He was losing his mind. It had been hours since he’d left, and he had no idea when you’d gone out.

Going down a list of reasons why you would suddenly disappear, he paced.

Had you run away out of fear? That couldn’t be right, he’d be able to tell if you were scared of him. Basically smell it on you, and your poker face was pathetic at best. Maybe you’d gotten bored of him, and saw this as your chance to leave? But then why would you even come over in the first place? Shit, you pissed him off.

None of this made sense. He had your emotions- your ups and downs memorized and orchestrated to a T. He knew you were happy with him, he made sure of it. Everything he had ever done was for the balance of your heart. So why the fuck were you not fucking here.

Then it clicked. The ice cream truck.

Still, ice cream only took about a few minutes to grab, it didn’t make sense for you to still be away. Unless, something happened to you.

That would explain your lack of response, your prolonged absence, the indistinguishable change in your personality prior.

Because there hadn’t been a change.

You were still as infatuated with him as you’d always been, innocently wishing to bring back dessert for you both- when some decrepit fuck decided they had plans for you. He could picture it.

You, standing alone with the frozen treats in hand, when out of nowhere, a car pulls up next to you. And you’d genuinely try to help when they’d ask you fake bullshit like:

“Can you give us instructions?”

The survival instincts of a fucking idiot. It’s not your fault, but it still irritated him.

Habit was seething, jaw tense with violence thrumming in his blood. He was mad at you, mad at the dumbass that was bound to die in the most gruesome way possible- and he was mad at himself. He should’ve told you to stay put. The equivalent of leaving the house with the hamster cage open.

The sun was beginning to set, and you were still outside. God knows where, and probably being subjected to stupid shit that would leave you traumatized. Were you scared? Would you call out for him in your final moments?

In the back of a dingy truck, with tape over your mouth. Eyes wide and frantic as you shook in fear, cowering as they hurt you. With bruised skin and scraped knees, would you say his name quietly to yourself? Trying your best to pretend he was there, protecting you- just like he had promised?

Time and time again, he’d swore to keep you safe. So where was he, right? When they would do terrible things to you, things that’d make you scream, beg for your life. Would you think of him as a liar?

Broken on cold cement, would you wish for him to hold you?

The image had him grinding his teeth together, shoulders tense, and he headed out the door. Hands twitching, ready to strike, he scanned the empty streets for you. Growing more agitated and desperate as the minutes ticked by- he was going to tear the spine out of these people.

Rip them apart until there was nothing left, gut them alive and force it into their gaping mouths.

He followed the path that the truck would have usually taken, trailing the sidewalk, combing the environment for anything that could possibly hint at your whereabouts. Nails sinking into his palm, when he saw it. Saw you.

Crouched down in the distance, completely fine, and staring at a fucking rock.

Habit was going to kill you.

He stalks up to you in record time, his shadow looming in your periphery, and you glanced up.

Above you, stood a very tall, and very angry Habit.

Smiling, not a single thought being your eyes, you informed him of your great discovery.

“I found a rock, it looks like you. I like it a lot.”

Taking the biggest deep breath, he sighed with his whole chest. Nearly yelling into the exhale. Vein popping out of his neck, and he raised a hand. Shaking with barely contained rage, he grasped your head like a basketball. Lugging you up by the face until you were standing, he squeezed.

“Why the fuck are you out here- do you have any fucking idea how late it is? It’s like you’re trying t’get kidnapped- I mean, just how fucking stupid are you—“

Lecturing you, he ranted for a solid five minutes before letting go. Glaring, he grabbed your wrist, dragging you forward. “We’re going home- god, you piss me the fuck off.” You were very confused, but your boyfriend had the strangest flare ups, so you went with it. Thoughts interrupted when you collided with his back.

He had stopped mid walk, clearly still fuming, and scolded you some more.

“I called you thirty fucking times. Thirty. Why the fuck didn’t you pick up?”

Blinking at him, you pressed your lips together.

“My phone died, I’m sorry if you got worried- I got distracted.”

Your answer apparently worsened his mood, because he scowled. Glaring at you, Habit scoffed. “I’m not- I wasn’t- Jesus fuck. Why didn’t you go home if your shit was dead?”

In your defense, you hadn’t even noticed the thing had died until about ten minutes ago, completely focused on finding interesting stones and weeds in the grass.

“I don’t know, I- I just got distracted.”

Your meek admission made him feel weird. Defeated, when you stared up at him. You just seemed so sad. And not in a good way. Not in a fun way. It wasn’t your fault, you were born with a weak mind, frail human body and all that.

He should’ve factored in your stupidity, and need to wander off when listing off the possibilities. What the hell was he supposed to do with you, huh? With your moronic trust in him, the want for his approval when you mumbled out, “Are you mad at me?”

He hated when you got like this, made his stomach heavy. Pet care was no joke.

After walking home, he had physically picked you up, placing you on the bed. Changed into your pyjamas, he poked a stern finger against your forehead. “Stay.”

Returning with water and fruit, he knew you’d complain about wanting something to chew on. Proactive, or whatever the fuck people said.

And for some reason, the odd gnawing feeling had yet to leave him.

Cozy on top of the fluffed duvet, you munched quietly on the diced fruit. The mattress dipping behind you as Habit pulled you into his lap. Leaning against the headboard, with your back to his chest, he rested his chin on your head.

“You piss me off, bonbon.”

The edge of his words softened by the kiss he placed by your temple. His arms were looped around your waist, and you shifted to look at him. Grouchy as ever. Your hand slid up his jaw, holding his cheek. Brushing his skin with your lips, you hummed. “Sorry.”

Mouths slotting together, he moved slower than usual. Parting after a few seconds, he sighed. And you knew the moment was ruined when his signature smirk returned.

Sharp and cunning, like he knew something you didn’t. Wolfish, in a way.

You yelped when he pinched your hip. Fast, and just hard enough for it to sting. He laughed at your pout. Mocking you with feigned sympathy till you shoved his arm, turning away.

If only you knew that you were stuck with him until the sun burned out.

His favourite rabbit, through and through.

— ^ ^ —

This got way sappier than I intended- I couldn’t help it. 🥀🥀 Habit is lowk a chronic worrier though 😭😭😭 brushes it off w fake nonchalance, but it gets to him sometimes.

[octavinellis]

BACK OFF! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!

By an unfortunate twist of fate—and your boyfriend’s carelessness—he ended up mixing ingredients that definitely shouldn’t have been used together. The result? A slightly over-the-top explosion, a very angry Professor Crewel, and of course, your boyfriend affected by the smoke, which, to add to his suffering, didn’t leave him in a very… sober state.

# CHARACTERS: Ace Trappola, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto.

# A/N: okay, Azul’s part got longer than I wanted, but ughhh I just love writing abt him 😞

ACE TRAPPOLA

Even though it hadn’t been anything too serious, you went to his side as soon as he decided he could get down onto the bed by himself, even though he was visibly dizzy.

“It’s all your fault, Deuce—if you had just listened to me—” Ace froze the moment his vision became a little less blurry, his eye twitching when his brain finally processed the image.

Not Deuce. A girl. A girl.

You startled at how harshly he yanked his arm away, shrinking back on the bed as if you had burned him with hot coals. “Ace, what the—”

“I’m taken! Who do you think you are, touching me like this, huh!?” He had never wished so badly for Deuce to be nearby to save him from that possible misunderstanding. What would you think of him if you saw him with a girl touching him so casually!?

You tilted your head to the side, confused by his behavior for a few seconds, until you remembered it could be the smoke’s effect, since his face was still flushed.

“Look, I’m warning you, my girlfriend is going to kill you—and then kill me too, but that doesn’t matter! She’s going to kill you if you keep leaning all over me like that!”

You sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

You found your boyfriend far more comfortable than you expected, his hands behind his head, eyes closed, and tail swaying lightly, showing he couldn’t care less about missing a class.

“At this rate you’re going to repeat another year, Leona,” you murmured. “Are you still running a fever?”

His ear twitched slightly, and he cracked one eye open to look at you—but when he felt the mattress sink, his eyes widened, his brows furrowing at the audacity of you sitting on the same bed as him.

“Hey, herbivore! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” He didn’t push you, but he immediately got off the bed, leaning against the one right next to it. “Ruggie!” He looked around, searching for the hyena.

“Hm?” You blinked, terribly confused by his reaction. You crossed your arms. “Leona, I just came to check if you’re feeling better—”

“I don’t care,” Leona practically growled, his cheeks warm and his breathing still uneven. “Who do you think you are to—Don’t touch me!” He took a step back when he saw you circle around to get closer to him.

“Listen to me carefully—I don’t flirt, I don’t cheat, and I hate herbivores who don’t know how to respect hierarchy and keep their hands to themselves.” He pointed a finger, looking completely serious about what he was saying, but you only rolled your eyes as you called Ruggie.

“…He did what!? BAHAHAHAH—” The hyena’s laughter was so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

“Just come help me deal with him already,” you cleared your throat. “At least he’s loyal.”

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

You hummed softly to yourself as you walked toward your boyfriend’s dorm, not in much of a hurry, since Jade and Floyd had promised to keep an eye on Azul in case he woke up before you got back from the cafeteria.

The corners of your lips curled into a smile when you saw he was already awake and doing well, despite his flushed cheeks.

“Azul, I brought you a snack,” you said, sitting down on the chair beside his bed, not noticing how stunned he seemed by your arrival.

His eyes slowly widened, following your every movement as you placed the small package on your lap and began opening it carefully.

“…Wh—What are you doing?” he asked slowly.

You looked up. “You didn’t eat earlier. I thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

Azul choked when you lifted the spoon to feed him. His face went from a soft pink flush to a deep red, then turned pale as a ghost.

“NONONO—!” He pressed himself further into the pillows, hands gripping the blanket and covering his mouth as if he were being offered poison. “Th—This is extremely inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate?” You glanced at the twins, but they looked just as confused as you.

“YES!” he insisted, his voice cracking in pure panic. “You cannot simply walk in here and—and attempt to feed me like some sort of— of—”

Floyd grinned, as if he had just found his new entertainment for the rest of the day. “Shrimpy, you’re makin’ him all red.”

Azul’s head whipped toward him instantly. “WHY,” Azul demanded, pointing a shaking finger at Floyd, “are you not removing her from the premises?!”

Jade placed a hand against his cheek. “Remove her, Azul?” He repeated. “Whatever for?”

Azul groaned, feeling tortured by the slowness of the two. “She is attempting to feed me—!” he cried, his voice pitching upward in pure distress. “This is disrespectful.”

“That’s super lovey-dovey, isn’t it?” Floyd laughed, leaning forward. “Must be nice not havin’ to bother using forks and spoons with your own hands… I wanna be fed too!”

“Stop encouraging this behavior!” Azul snapped, clutching the blanket to his chest.

You frowned softly, lifting the spoon a little. “It’s just food,” you said gently. “You’re still dizzy.”

“…No,” he whispered weakly. “No, this cannot be happening…”

Your lips parted in surprise when you saw your boyfriend—normally always so composed—with his eyes filled with tears.

“…Azul?”

His lower lip trembled. “My beautiful, stunning girlfriend will leave me because of you!” he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this would create? Being fed by another person… in my own dorm…! My soulmate, the love of my life, my pearl will leave me thinking that I allowed this!”

You and Jade exchanged looks in complete silence, watching him cry miserably and sniffle. Floyd’s smile, however, only grew when he realized what was going on.

“Yeah, she will!” Floyd cackled. “I’m gonna tell her. ‘Hey, hey—your boyfriend’s lettin’ other people court him!’”

“Floyd!”

“NO!” Azul shouted in despair, burying his face into a pillow as he cried. “I’m going to fry you, you… you damn eel…”

Jade covered his mouth politely.

You sighed, placing the forgotten snack on the table and turning toward him. “…Azul.”

He sniffled dramatically, refusing to look at you. “She’ll leave me…” he muttered weakly.

“Do you think he’ll remember this when the effects wear off?” you asked, looking at Jade, your hands patting your boyfriend’s back.

“Probably not, but I will.” he replied with a smile.

[citrusisticdreams]

THEYRE SO CUTE 🥹🥺