𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡 𝙅𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨
𑣲 characters: (separate, Heartslabyul dorm) Riddle Rosehearts, Trey Clover, Cater Diamond, Deuce Spade, Ace Trappola
𑣲 cw!: Gender neutral reader, not proofread
𑣲notes: omgg i love writing these, they're so fun. but this will likely be my last post for the next week or so, so hope you all enjoy!
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Riddle Rosehearts
𑣲 Jealousy manifests as overcorrection into politeness: clipped, formal tone, and stricter enforcement of "rules" than usual.𑣲 Will not admit he's jealous; insists he's "concerned" or "ensuring you're not being taken advantage of." 𑣲 Tell: mutters his mother's rules under his breath when the other guy is around. 𑣲 Eventually cracks with a passive-aggressive comment, then turns red and pretends he didn't say it. 𑣲 If teased, goes full Queen of Hearts mode and storms off to compose himself.
The Heartslabyul lawn is set up for a casual afternoon croquet match, nothing official, just dorm members blowing off steam before exams. You're recruited as scorekeeper, which mostly means sitting on a garden bench with a little notebook and getting heckled by everyone who loses a point.
One of the first-years, a genuinely sweet and harmless kid named Ellery, keeps ending up next to you. At first it's innocent, he asks you to double-check a measurement, asks your opinion on which wicket he should aim for. But by his fourth trip over to "consult" with you on something he clearly doesn't need help with, it's obvious even to you that he's just looking for excuses to talk.
Riddle notices on trip number two.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look particularly bothered, if you're being honest, his expression stays perfectly neutral, mallet resting over his shoulder, posture straight as ever. But when Ellery lines up his next shot and it goes even slightly wide of the wicket, Riddle's whistle is in his mouth before the ball even stops rolling.
"Foul. Mallet made contact with the wicket post before the ball passed through. Point forfeited."
Ellery blinks. "...I don't think that's actually a rule-"
"It is Rule 14, Subsection C, of the Official Croquet Handbook of the Heartslabyul Dormitory, revised this term." Riddle's voice doesn't waver. "I would be happy to recite the full passage if you require it."
He does not require it. He also does not get another shot near the wickets on your side of the lawn for the rest of the match, because Riddle has, with terrifying efficiency, started calling fouls on him with a level of scrutiny nobody else on the lawn is receiving. By the end of the match Ellery has given up trying to make conversation with you at all and is instead just trying to survive long enough to finish the round without getting sent to detention for a made-up infraction.
You catch up with Riddle afterward as everyone packs up the mallets. He's very intently coiling a length of rope that does not need coiling.
"That was oddly intense for a casual match," you say, leaning against the garden gate.
"I was simply upholding the rules of the game." He doesn't look up. "Fair play matters, regardless of the stakes."
"Uh-huh." You cross your arms, fighting a smile. "Funny how the rules only seemed to apply to Ellery."
His hands still on the rope. "...He did not need your input that many times. The wicket placement was clearly marked."
"Riddle." You step closer, delighted. "Were you jealous?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." His ears have gone bright red, all the way to the tips, and he's suddenly very interested in a completely un-tangled section of rope. "It is nearly time for tea. We should go. Now. Tea time is not something to be late for."
He's already walking toward the castle at a pace slightly faster than a stroll. You have to jog a little to catch up, grinning the entire way.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Trey Clover
𑣲 Composed on the surface, stays polite, keeps baking. 𑣲 Gets quietly, precisely petty, the rival "mysteriously" gets burnt cookies or the worst chores. 𑣲 Tests the waters with dry humor ("Should I be worried?"). 𑣲 Most emotionally mature once pressed: owns up to it calmly, no drama. 𑣲 Might playfully "claim" you in front of the rival while smiling pleasantly at them.
A visiting student from Scarabia — Farid, polite and well-spoken, there on some dormitory exchange arrangement for the week — has taken to finding excuses to stop by the Heartslabyul kitchen whenever you're in there helping Trey bake. He compliments your knife work. He asks what tea pairs best with lemon tarts. He lingers by the counter a beat too long every time you hand him something.
Trey stays perfectly pleasant through all of it. Warm smile, easy conversation, not a hint of tension in his voice. He also, somehow, runs out of tarts the exact moment Farid asks for one.
"Ah- sorry, that was the last one," Trey says, sliding the final tart of the batch onto your plate with a smooth, practiced motion, not so much as a flicker of hesitation.
This happens again fifteen minutes later, with a fresh batch. And then a third time, twenty minutes after that, with a batch Trey definitely did not need to make.
By the time you're both cleaning up and Farid has finally wandered off to go find literally any dessert in the entire dormitory, you round on Trey with your arms crossed, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
"You've made four batches of tarts today. Four. And somehow, every single time, they run out exactly one tart before Farid gets one."
"Baking is an imprecise science." Trey doesn't even glance up from the dough he's currently kneading with slightly more force than strictly necessary. "Sometimes things simply... run out. It happens."
"Trey."
"Hm?"
"You've been making tarts since noon."
He finally looks up, and the easy composure slips, just slightly, just enough for something more honest to show underneath it, a small, wry twist at the corner of his mouth. "Fine. I don't particularly feel like feeding the guy who's spent the entire afternoon finding excuses to linger around my kitchen, and around you, while complimenting your knife skills like he's auditioning for something. Is that so unreasonable?"
"You could just say you're jealous, you know. Instead of quietly starving him out with pastries."
"I could." He goes back to the dough, and this time the smile that returns is fuller, more genuine. "I'd rather bake about it. It's more productive, and you get better tarts out of the deal." He nudges a still-warm one across the counter toward you. "Besides. I don't need to make a scene. I just need him to leave hungry enough to reconsider his priorities."
You laugh, picking up the tart, and he watches you with the quiet, satisfied look of a man who has just won a war nobody else even knew was being fought.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Cater Diamond
𑣲 Hides jealousy behind humor and social media: posts a staged "just us :)" photo fast. 𑣲 Fishes for reassurance through camera and physical closeness rather than words. 𑣲 Talks about it out loud pretty quickly because he hates sitting in bad feelings. 𑣲 Gets clingier, not colder. 𑣲 Underneath the jokes, genuinely afraid of being replaced or forgotten.
It starts small. A guy from Octavinelle — Rian, charming in the exact practiced way that makes you instantly suspicious — slides into your Magicam DMs after seeing you tagged in a group photo from a joint dorm event. Nothing crazy, just a friendly "hey, small world, we should hang sometime," the kind of message that could mean nothing or could mean something depending on who's reading it.
Cater is reading it. In real time. Because he follows literally everyone, including Rian, and his notifications light up the second the message lands, right as he's sitting next to you scrolling his own feed.
You don't even notice him go quiet at first. By the time you look up from your phone, he's already typing something with unusual focus, thumbs moving fast, brow furrowed in a way that doesn't match his usual easy expression.
Ten minutes later, a new story goes up on Magicam: the two of you, cheek to cheek, some ridiculous glittery filter slapped over both your faces, captioned "my person 🫶✨" in his signature bubbly font. He posts it, watches the view count tick up for a solid thirty seconds, then locks his phone and tries very hard to look like he wasn't just doing that.
"Did you seriously just post a couple story because of one DM?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"What DM." The words come out about a half-second too fast. "I just felt like posting something cute. Can't a guy post something cute. It's a free country, this is a free app-"
"Cater."
He cracks almost instantly, phone flopping face-down onto his lap, the easy performance dropping away all at once. "Okay, fine, yes, I saw it, and it's not like I'm, like, mad mad-" He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, and for once there's no filter on his expression either, just something a little more raw underneath the usual sparkle. "I dunno. I get kinda in my head about stuff like that sometimes. Everyone's fun to be around for like, five minutes, you know? I'm good at that part. But you actually stuck around, and every once in a while some guy slides in like that and I get this dumb little voice going what if this is the part where that changes."
You set your own phone down and bump your shoulder against his. "It's not changing."
"I know, I know, it's dumb-"
"It's not dumb. It's just not true." You lean your head against him. "You don't have to post a story every time someone tests that, though. I'm not going anywhere."
He's quiet for a second, processing that in a way that feels more genuine than his usual quick recovery. Then, slowly, the grin creeps back, a little softer than before, but real.
"...Okay, but can I still post one? Not 'cause I'm worried. Just 'cause you look really cute right now and I wanna capture the moment. For, uh. Documentation purposes."
"Cater."
"C'mon, don't make that face, that's a good face, hang on, let me get the angle-"
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Deuce Spade
𑣲 Terrible at hiding it: red ears, stiff posture, visibly awkward. 𑣲 Spirals into self-blame rather than getting mad at you. 𑣲 Might overcompensate by training or studying harder, like he has to "earn" being with you. 𑣲 If pressed, denies it twice then blurts out something painfully sincere.
It's a small thing. That's what makes it worse, somehow.
You're leaving the Mostro Lounge with Deuce and a couple of upperclassmen after a group study session, and one of them — Kaito, tall, easygoing, generally well-liked — glances over at you mid-conversation and says, offhand, "You've got a really nice smile, you know that?" It's not even flirtatious, really, just a friendly comment tossed into the conversation the way people say things without thinking too hard about them.
Deuce doesn't say a single word for the rest of the walk back to the dorm. He nods at the right places when someone talks to him, but his jaw is tight the whole way, and he peels off toward the training grounds the second you're back on Heartslabyul's grounds instead of coming up to the common room like usual.
You find him an hour later, alone, running laps around the hedge maze in the cold with no practice scheduled and no coach in sight, breath fogging in front of him with every exhale.
"Deuce?" You pull your coat tighter. "It's freezing. What are you doing out here by yourself?"
"Training." He doesn't stop, sneakers slapping against the frost-hardened path. "Gotta-gotta get stronger."
"Stronger than what, exactly? You don't have a match for weeks."
He finally slows, hands dropping to his knees, chest heaving, still not looking at you. "That guy. Today. Kaito." He says the name like it costs him something. "He's tall, and he's got good grades, and he's on the Blot-sparring team's starting lineup, and he probably doesn't get detention every other week for losing his temper, and-" He cuts himself off hard, jaw clenched, clearly furious at himself for even saying it out loud.
You walk over and sit down on the low hedge wall, patting the space beside you. He hesitates, then drops down next to you, elbows on his knees, staring hard at the ground like it owes him an explanation.
"I know it's stupid," he mutters. "You're still here. You're standing right here, you picked me, and I'm out here running laps in the dark like an idiot because some guy said you have a nice smile. I know it's stupid."
"It's not stupid. It's just not necessary." You bump your shoulder against his. "I already picked you, Deuce. That's not up for a re-vote every time someone else says something nice to me."
"I just-" His voice drops, quieter now, more honest. "I don't want you to ever look at someone else and think, oh, I should've gone with him instead. Someone easier. Someone who doesn't come with, all this." He gestures vaguely at himself.
"I like you." You take his hand, cold from the night air, and hold it between both of yours. "Not some checklist of who's tallest or who has the fewest detentions. You. All of it."
He goes bright red, staring resolutely at your joined hands like he can't quite process it. "...Okay," he mumbles. "Okay. Good. That's- good."
You can feel him relax by degrees, the tension easing out of his shoulders, and after a moment his hand tightens gently around yours.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Ace Trappola
𑣲 Plays it cool with jokes, but it's a thin mask. 𑣲 Gets petty in small chaotic ways: hiding stuff, "accidental" spills, dragging Deuce into schemes. 𑣲 Gets quiet and genuinely insecure if it drags on, since he already feels "generic" next to guys like Riddle. 𑣲 Fishes for reassurance backwards: "Not that I'm bothered, but you'd tell me if you liked someone else, right?" 𑣲 If called out directly, jokes first, then admits it quietly and honestly.
The Potionology project pairings go up on the board, and your name ends up next to Kade — a Scalding Sands transfer student who's sharp, funny, and annoyingly good at making conversation feel effortless. It's not romantic on your end, just a good study partner, but by the second library session together it's clear he thinks it might be heading somewhere.
Ace notices before you even tell him about the assignment. He just happens to be walking past the library. Multiple times. On a night he has no classes near there and no reason whatsoever to be in that wing of the building.
The first time, he waves and keeps moving. The second time, he "forgot something" at a nearby table. By the fourth pass, he's stopped pretending entirely and just drapes himself over the back of your chair, chin resting on top of your head, watching Kade with a grin that's more teeth than friendliness.
"You guys almost done here?" he says, way too casual. "Wouldn't wanna keep you from your very important homework."
Kade, to his credit, reads the room immediately and makes a polite excuse to leave. The second he's out of sight, Ace drops the act and slumps into the now-empty chair across from you, all the performative confidence draining out of him at once.
"...You could've just asked to sit with us, you know," you say, closing your textbook. "Instead of doing weird library laps for forty minutes."
"I wasn't doing laps." He avoids your eyes, tapping his pen against the table in a rhythm that's a little too fast to be casual. "I was being present. There's a difference."
"Ace."
"Okay, fine, maybe there were laps." He exhales, shoulders dropping. "Didn't wanna seem clingy or whatever. Figured you'd think it was stupid."
You reach over and still his hand on the table. "It's not stupid. Mildly ridiculous, but not stupid."
He finally looks up, and for once there's no joke loaded behind it, just something quieter, a little unsure. "...Am I being clingy? Like, actually? Because I can chill, if you want me to chill."
"You're allowed to not want some guy flirting with your boyfriend. That's normal." You squeeze his hand. "You just don't have to do surveillance laps about it. You could just tell me."
"Yeah, well." A small, real smile tugs at his mouth. "Where's the fun in that."
i love writing these things but formatting everything to look how i want will always be the death of me i swear.
anyways love you guys, hope you enjoyed and feel free to request anything and ill do my best!
