Nectar Of The Gods @g3tfree - Tumblr Blog

❝Identity—Go and weep. You’re the cause of all this grief.❞

in which, he is in love with you, though you’re clearly in love with another…

ft. Everyone except ortho, silver, and sebek.

RIDDLE had spent his entire life following a script written by someone else—his mother's rules, the Queen's laws, the rigid structure that held his world together like bones beneath skin. But you were an anomaly his rulebook couldn't account for, a variable that disrupted every equation he'd memorized since childhood. At first, he tried to categorize what he felt: accelerated heartbeat (normal physiological response), heightened awareness of your presence (basic survival instinct), the way his voice caught when you said his name (temporary vocal strain, surely). But denial was a luxury even the strictest rules couldn't afford him forever. He watched you with the precision of someone who'd been trained to notice imperfections, except with you, he searched for them and found none that mattered. Your laugh was too loud for a proper tea party—and he wanted to hear it every day. You forgot the proper fork for dessert—and he'd already decided to teach you, slowly, patiently, for as many years as it took. You challenged his decisions, questioned his logic, pushed against boundaries he'd never thought to examine—and instead of anger, he felt something dangerously close to admiration. But Jade Leech had been watching too, with those mismatched eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing. Where Riddle approached you like a puzzle to be solved through proper methodology, Jade moved like water finding cracks in stone—subtle, inevitable, irreversible. Riddle noticed it in increments: how Jade began appearing wherever you studied, offering help with that serene smile that never quite reached his eyes. How your conversations with him stretched longer, punctuated by inside jokes Riddle couldn't decode. How you started looking for teal hair in crowded hallways instead of red. The day Riddle saw Jade's hand ghost across your lower back, guiding you through a doorway, something cracked in his chest with the finality of a gavel striking wood. It was such a small gesture—barely visible, lasting perhaps two seconds—but Riddle recognized possession when he saw it. Jade had claimed you in that quiet, understated way of his, and you had let him. That night, Riddle stood before his mirror and practiced confessions he'd never speak. "Rule 53 states that honest feelings should be expressed before the last petal falls," he told his reflection, watching his face contort with emotions he'd been taught to suppress. But there were no more petals to count, no timeline to follow. The season had already changed, and you had bloomed in someone else's garden. He began cataloguing his symptoms like a medical student documenting disease: chest constriction when you mentioned Jade's name (consistent, severity 7/10), involuntary jaw tension during your shared classes (chronic, worsening), insomnia on nights after seeing you together (frequent, treatment-resistant). He wrote it all down in precise penmanship, as if naming the affliction could cure it. As if there was a rule somewhere that could undo love once it had taken root.

The cruelest part was that Jade was careful with you, respectful even. He couldn't rage against mistreatment, couldn't justify his fury with neglect or harm. Jade held you like something precious and breakable, and Riddle had to watch, had to smile, had to pretend his world hadn't reorganized itself around an absence. Sometimes, late at night when the dormitory was silent, Riddle wondered if this was his punishment for years of tyranny—to want something desperately and be denied not by law or logic, but by the simple fact that hearts chose their own paths. He'd collared so many for minor infractions, enforced every rule with merciless precision, and now he was collared by something far more binding than magic: the knowledge that you loved someone else, and no amount of authority could change that fundamental truth. So he remained the Red Queen in his tower of rules, watching through windows as you walked through gardens with another, learning the hardest lesson of all: that control was an illusion, and some things—like the way you smiled at Jade, soft and sure and sacred—were never his to command.

TREY understood the mathematics of baking better than the arithmetic of attraction. Two cups of flour, three eggs, a precise temperature for a specific time—these things made sense. They followed patterns, yielded predictable results, could be adjusted and perfected with practice. But watching you drift toward Malleus Draconia was like watching sugar burn despite following every instruction perfectly. No amount of careful measurement could fix what was already careening toward inevitable. He'd noticed you first during one of Riddle's exhausting tea parties, where you'd snuck three tarts when you thought no one was looking. He'd seen, of course—Trey always saw the small things, the human things that others missed. The way you licked frosting from your thumb, the guilty glance over your shoulder, the satisfied sigh that followed. He'd made extra tarts after that, always ensuring your favorites were within reach. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable. That was his way. For months, he let himself believe in the possibility of slow-burning affection. You came to him for advice, for comfort food after long days, for the steady presence he offered without condition. He taught you to fold butter into dough, to temper chocolate without seizing it, to recognize the exact moment a cake pulled away from its pan. Your hands would brush during these lessons, flour-dusted and warm, and he'd catalogue each instance like ingredients for a recipe he'd never complete. Then Malleus started appearing—not seeking you out, exactly, but allowing himself to be found. And you, brave in ways Trey could never quite manage, refused to be intimidated by the valley of power between you and the dragon prince. Where others saw centuries of magic and ancient bloodlines, you saw loneliness. Where others offered deference, you offered friendship, then something more.

Trey watched it happen in real-time, a spectator to his own unraveling. You started walking the grounds at night, knowing Malleus would be there. Your phone (finally fixed) had his number saved under a nickname that made you smile whenever it appeared. You spoke of gargoyles with genuine interest, learned the history of Briar Valley without prompting, stood beside him at events where others gave him wide berth. The thing about Trey was that he noticed everything but said nothing. He saw how your eyes tracked Malleus across rooms, how your posture changed when his distinctive footsteps approached, how you'd started wearing a thin silver chain that hadn't been there before—a gift, undoubtedly, though you never mentioned it. He noticed, and he continued making your favorite desserts, continued offering his steady presence, continued pretending his chest didn't cave in every time you spoke Malleus's name with that particular softness. During winter break, when most students had gone home, you stayed. So did Trey (telling himself it was to help Riddle, not to be near you). So did Malleus (who had nowhere else to go, or so he claimed). Trey spent those weeks watching you teach the prince of Briar Valley how to make snow angels, explaining human holiday traditions with patient enthusiasm, bridging centuries of isolation with your stubborn warmth. He watched from kitchen windows, hands buried in dish soap, as you pulled Malleus into experiences he'd only observed from afar. There was no moment of dramatic realization, no shattering revelation. Just the slow, steady understanding that you were building a future in which he was peripheral at best. You'd still come to him for advice, still eat his desserts with enthusiasm, still call him reliable and mean it as a compliment. But your heart had developed a taste for something he couldn't provide—the vast, ancient magic of someone who could reshape reality with a thought, who offered you not just affection but adventure, not just comfort but transformation. The worst part was that he understood. Malleus looked at you like you'd invented light itself, spoke to you with a gentleness that belied his power, protected you with the fierce devotion of someone who'd found their first and only friend-turned-beloved. How could Trey compete with centuries of loneliness finally finding its match? How could anyone? So he did what he always did: he endured. He smiled when you gushed about your latest midnight conversation with Malleus. He made special desserts for the small gatherings you organized to help Malleus feel included. He became the reliable third wheel, the steady friend, the background constant in your fairy tale romance. And late at night, in his too-quiet room, he finally understood why they called it heartbreak—not because it happened all at once, but because it fractured slowly, deliberately, one small observation at a time.

ACE had built his entire personality around not caring too much about anything. Effort was for overachievers, sincerity was for suckers, and feelings—real feelings—were for people who hadn't figured out that nothing really mattered if you kept moving fast enough. But you'd somehow slipped past every defense he'd constructed, settling into his thoughts like a song he couldn't stop humming. It started as annoyance, the way you'd call him out on his laziest lies, see through his showmanship to the insecurity underneath. Nobody was supposed to look that close. Nobody was supposed to care enough to bother. But you did, and somewhere between detention sessions and late-night study groups where he definitely wasn't helping, Ace realized he was absolutely screwed. Because he'd started waiting for your exasperated sighs, your eye rolls, the way you'd patch him up after whatever stupid stunt he'd pulled that week. He'd started creating more chaos just to watch you handle it, pushing boundaries to see if you'd finally give up on him. You never did. That should have been his first warning. The second should have been when you mentioned Epel Felmier with something approaching fondness. At first, Ace laughed it off—Epel, really? The pretty boy who threw tantrums about being mistaken for a girl? The same guy who needed Vil to teach him which fork to use? But then he started noticing things, and noticing things was dangerous when you'd built your whole identity on willful blindness. You admired Epel's contradictions—the delicate features hiding country roughness, the way he'd switch from perfect posture to slouching rebellion the moment Vil's back was turned. You found his determination endearing, his barely contained rage amusing rather than off-putting. Where Ace performed confidence, Epel fought for it, and apparently that made all the difference. The moment Ace knew he'd lost happened during a flying lesson. Epel had challenged some Savanaclaw students to a race—stupid, reckless, absolutely going to end in disaster. Ace was preparing his best I-told-you-so speech when Epel actually won, landing with wind-messed hair and the kind of genuine, unguarded smile Ace hadn't seen from him before. But what killed Ace wasn't Epel's victory—it was the way you looked at him, proud and fond and something else, something Ace recognized because he felt it every time he looked at you. After that, everything became a special kind of torture.

Watching you help Epel practice his manners for Vil's endless etiquette lessons, biting back laughter when he deliberately messed up. Seeing you sneak him apple juice when Vil had him on another ridiculous diet. Noticing how you'd learned enough about farming to hold actual conversations about soil acidity and harvest seasons, topics that made Ace want to bang his head against the nearest wall. The thing about being the class clown was that nobody expected depth from you. So when Ace started pulling back, making fewer jokes at Epel's expense, showing up to things less, everyone assumed he was just being typically unreliable Ace. Even you didn't notice, too wrapped up in your growing whatever-it-was with Epel to recognize the careful distance Ace was constructing. He became an expert at strategic absence, always having somewhere else to be when you and Epel were together, always busy with some made-up obligation that nobody questioned because hey, it was Ace—since when did he explain himself? But he couldn't avoid everything. Like the night you all went to Sam's shop after hours (definitely against the rules, but when had that stopped anyone?), and Epel challenged everyone to arm wrestling. Ace watched you watch Epel systematically destroy opponents twice his size, his delicate appearance making each victory more absurd. You were trying not to smile too obviously, but Ace knew every tell you had by then—the way you bit your inner cheek, how your fingers tapped against your thigh, the slight tilt of your head that meant you were charmed beyond saving. He left early that night, claiming Riddle would kill him if he missed curfew again. Nobody questioned it. Nobody noticed he was lying. That was the benefit of being a chronic liar—when you finally told the truth about needing to leave before you said something stupid like "I love you" or "pick me instead," everyone just assumed it was another performance. Later, alone in his room, Ace shuffled cards with mechanical precision, building houses that collapsed at the slightest breath. It felt appropriate, somehow. He'd built his whole identity on being unserious, untouchable, unbothered. But you'd touched him anyway, bothered him in ways he couldn't joke away, made him serious about something for perhaps the first time in his life. And the punchline? You were too busy falling for someone else to notice the greatest performance of his life: pretending he didn't care.

DEUCE had worked so hard to bury the boy he used to be—the one with scarred knuckles and a reputation that preceded him down every alley. Every good grade, every successful spell, every day that passed without a fight was proof that he could be better, could be someone his mother would be proud of, could be someone worthy of… well. Of you, though he'd never quite found the courage to say that part out loud. He practiced conversations in mirrors, stumbling over words that seemed so simple in his head but turned to stones in his mouth whenever you were actually there. You made him want to be better in ways that had nothing to do with redemption. When you laughed at his mistakes instead of scorning them, when you helped him study without making him feel stupid, when you saw him lose his temper and didn't flinch—you made him believe that maybe the person he was becoming could be enough. He started carrying your favorite snacks in his bag, memorizing your schedule so he could accidentally run into you between classes, learning to bake because you'd mentioned loving fresh bread. Small things. Careful things. The kind of things someone did when they were building up to a confession that might change everything. But while Deuce was busy trying to become worthy of you, Azul Ashengrotto had apparently decided you were worth pursuing. And Azul didn't stumble over words or second-guess himself or practice conversations he'd never have. Azul identified what he wanted and strategized how to get it, and apparently, what he wanted was you. It started innocently enough—study sessions at Mostro Lounge where Azul would happen to appear, offering assistance with that smooth confidence that made Deuce feel like a clumsy child. Where Deuce struggled to explain magical theory, Azul could break down complex concepts into elegant simplicity. Where Deuce got tongue-tied trying to ask about your day, Azul could weave conversations that lasted hours, pulling thoughts from you that you hadn't even realized you'd been thinking. The first time Deuce saw Azul adjust your collar—such a simple gesture, fingers barely grazing fabric, but so casually intimate—he felt something in his chest crack like ice under pressure. Because Azul touched you like he had the right to, spoke to you like he knew he'd be heard, looked at you like a future investment he'd already calculated the returns on. And you let him. More than that—you welcomed it. Deuce tried to compete at first, in his fumbling, earnest way. He'd show up to study sessions early, bring coffee exactly how you liked it, offer to walk you back to your dorm even when it meant breaking curfew. But for every gesture Deuce managed, Azul had three more—elegant, thoughtful, perfectly timed. Where Deuce offered protection (remnants of his delinquent days, the instinct to put himself between you and danger), Azul offered solutions. Where Deuce promised effort, Azul delivered results. The worst part was watching you realize what Azul already knew—that beneath his businessman exterior was someone genuinely brilliant, genuinely caring in his own calculated way. You started defending him when others called him shady, started understanding the insecurity that drove his ambition, started seeing through his contracts to the person underneath. And that person, apparently, was exactly what you wanted. Deuce found himself reverting to old habits—not the violence, never that, he'd promised—but the isolation. He'd skip study sessions, claiming he needed to practice spells alone. He'd take the long way to classes to avoid seeing you and Azul walking together, his hand on your lower back in that proprietary way that made Deuce's fists clench. He threw himself into his studies with desperate intensity, as if good grades could somehow change what had already been decided. His mother called one night, asking about you—he'd mentioned you so many times she felt like she knew you already.

Deuce couldn't find the words to explain that you were happy, just not with him. That you'd chosen someone who could offer you more than a reformed delinquent with good intentions and clumsy hands. That all his efforts to become better had made him good enough to be your friend but not enough to be your choice. So he lied, said you were doing well, said everything was fine. He'd gotten good at lying lately—smiling when you gushed about Azul's latest successful venture, congratulating you both when Azul rather publicly declared his intentions, pretending his chest didn't feel like it was caving in every time he saw Azul's hand in yours. The honor student path he'd chosen had taught him discipline, restraint, how to swallow pride and keep moving forward. It hadn't taught him how to stop loving someone who'd never loved him back. But then again, maybe that was just another lesson in becoming better—learning to lose gracefully, to hurt quietly, to watch someone else claim what you'd wanted most and still manage to smile. Even if the smile never quite reached his eyes.

CATER had perfected the art of being everywhere and nowhere at once—present in every photo, absent from every moment that mattered. His life was a carefully curated feed of smiles and hashtags, each post more vibrant than the last, each caption deliberately lighthearted. Nobody questioned the boy who was always laughing, always posting, always moving too fast for anyone to notice he was running from something. Or toward someone. You, specifically, though he'd never admit it without three layers of irony and a filter to hide behind. You were the first person to comment on his posts with something more than emojis, the first to ask what he meant beneath the hashtags, the first to notice when his smiles didn't quite sync with his eyes. It terrified him, honestly—being seen like that. But it was also addictive, the way you'd look past his performance to something rawer underneath. He started crafting posts just to see how you'd respond, each one a little more honest than the last, breadcrumbs of truth scattered between selfies and sunset shots. But while Cater was building bridges one carefully edited photo at a time, Kalim Al-Asim crashed into your life like sunshine through a window—sudden, warm, impossible to ignore. Where Cater offered curated moments, Kalim offered unfiltered joy. Where Cater calculated every interaction, Kalim just… was. Authentically, unapologetically, overwhelmingly himself. The thing about competing with Kalim was that there was no competition—not because he'd already won, but because he didn't even know there was a race. He invited you to parties because he wanted you there, bought you gifts because they reminded him of you, sought out your company because it made him happy. Simple. Direct. Everything Cater had forgotten how to be. Cater watched through his phone screen—always through screens, never direct, never without that digital barrier—as you fell into Kalim's orbit. He captured moments you'd never know about: you laughing at Kalim's ridiculous magic carpet races, you patiently explaining things Kalim's tutors had given up on, you wearing one of the many accessories Kalim had gifted you without thought for their value. Each photo was perfectly composed, devastatingly beautiful, and completely unpublished. His hidden folder grew into a monument to everything he wanted but couldn't reach for. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent years avoiding genuine connection, and the first time he wanted one, truly wanted one, you were already wrapped up in someone who'd never learned to hide behind anything. Kalim loved openly, generously, without fear of being hurt or rejected or misunderstood. He loved the way Cater had forgotten was possible—or maybe had never learned at all. During one of Kalim's legendary parties (which were really just Tuesday nights that got out of hand), Cater watched from behind his phone as Kalim taught you some traditional dance from the Scalding Sands. You kept stepping on his feet, laughing apologies, and Kalim just grinned wider every time, adjusting his movements to match your mistakes until it became your own unique dance. Cater got the perfect shot—golden light, genuine smiles, two people who fit together without trying. He added seventeen filters, twenty hashtags, and deleted it all. The worst part was that Kalim genuinely considered Cater a friend. He'd pull Cater into group photos, invite him to private dinners, ask his opinion on surprises planned for you. And Cater would smile, offer suggestions, play the perfect supportive friend while something in his chest withered with every interaction. He became an expert at third-wheeling, at finding the perfect angles to capture your happiness with someone else, at adding heart emojis to posts that made his own heart fracture.

Late at night, when the likes had been counted and the comments had been answered, Cater would scroll through his hidden photos—hundreds of moments where he'd almost been brave enough, almost been honest enough, almost been real enough. But almost wasn't enough, not when Kalim offered you everything without hesitation, without pretense, without the exhausting performance that Cater couldn't seem to stop even when it cost him everything. He kept taking pictures though. Because if he couldn't be part of your story, at least he could document it. And maybe someday, when the ache had faded to something manageable, he'd be able to look at them without wondering what would have happened if he'd put the phone down, stepped out from behind the screen, and just… been himself. Whoever that was. He'd hidden behind personas for so long, he wasn't sure he'd recognize himself without them. Maybe that's why you'd chosen Kalim—at least with him, you always knew exactly who you were getting.

LEONA had learned long ago that second place was his birthright, his burden, his defining feature in a world that only remembered winners. He'd perfected the art of not caring, of sleeping through opportunities, of rejecting things before they could reject him. It was easier to be lazy than to try and fail, easier to snarl at the world than admit it had beaten him before he'd even started. But you—you made him want to try, and that was perhaps the cruelest thing anyone had ever done to him. You didn't treat him like a prince or a problem. You stepped over his sleeping form in the botanical garden without deference or disgust, just mild annoyance that quickly became fond exasperation. You challenged him when he was being particularly insufferable, ignored his royal status when it suited you, and somehow made him feel more seen than any amount of groveling ever had. For the first time since childhood, Leona found himself making an effort—small things, barely noticeable. Staying awake during classes you shared. Offering to help with practical magic when you struggled. Not growling at you when you disturbed his naps. But while Leona was conducting his careful campaign of minimal effort masquerading as disinterest, Cater Diamond was apparently playing an entirely different game. Where Leona offered gruff protection, Cater offered easy laughter. Where Leona communicated in grunts and eye rolls, Cater spun words like silk, making you smile at your phone even when he wasn't there. Where Leona was all rough edges and barely contained violence, Cater was smooth surfaces and carefully managed charm. The first time Leona saw you checking your phone during one of his rare moments of actually engaging with you, something primal snarled in his chest. You were smiling at whatever Cater had sent—some ridiculous selfie or meme or perfectly crafted message designed to seem effortless. Leona recognized calculation when he saw it (took one to know one), but you were too enchanted to notice the performance. What killed him was that Cater understood something Leona didn't—how to exist in your world. He knew your favorite apps, your preferred filters, the jokes that made you laugh-snort in that unflattering way you'd immediately cover with your hand. He documented your life together in a way that made it seem inevitable, each post building a narrative that didn't include surly princes who couldn't be bothered to learn what Instagram was. Leona tried, once, to play that game. He let you take a photo of him—just one—sleeping in the garden with sunlight doing something apparently magical to his hair. You'd posted it with some caption about "sleeping beauty but make it grumpy," and the likes had poured in. But when Cater commented with some perfectly crafted response that made you laugh, Leona realized he was playing a rigged game. He could be in your photos, but Cater was in your direct messages, your group chats, your digital life that existed beyond what Leona could see or control.

The thing about being second that nobody understood was that it meant you were always watching the winner. So Leona watched as Cater slowly, methodically, digitally worked his way into your affections. He watched you start using Cater's ridiculous slang, watched you plan your days around his photo shoots, watched you become part of his online narrative as naturally as breathing. He watched Cater teach you to perform happiness so convincingly that maybe you started believing it was real. Or maybe it was real. Maybe Cater, with all his filters and hashtags and surface-level charm, made you happier than Leona's grumbling authenticity ever could. Maybe you didn't want someone who saw through your pretenses—maybe you wanted someone who'd help you build better ones. Maybe depth was overrated when surface-level was so much easier to maintain. During Magift practice, Ruggie mentioned you'd been spending time in Savanaclaw—but not to see Leona. You were helping Cater with some project, something about authentic cultural documentation that required access to their dorm. Leona had to watch you trail after Cater with his phone, directing shots, adjusting lighting, completely absorbed in his world. You never even noticed Leona watching from the shadows, which perhaps said everything that needed saying. He stopped trying after that. Went back to his naps, his calculated laziness, his practiced disinterest. Let you become another thing he'd lost to someone better at playing the game. Because that was the truth about second place—you only got to keep it if you stopped trying to be first. And Leona had learned long ago that some games weren't worth playing, even if losing them felt like having his heart ripped out through his chest. At least he could pretend to sleep through that pain too. He'd had plenty of practice.

RUGGIE understood hunger in ways that had nothing to do with food. The gnawing emptiness of watching others have what you needed, the constant calculation of what you could afford to want versus what you needed to survive, the way desire became dangerous when you couldn't afford its price. He'd learned to take what he could, when he could, without shame or hesitation. But you weren't something he could steal, pocket, or scavenge. You were a different kind of hunger entirely, one that no amount of clever scheming could satisfy. It had started practically—you always had extra food, were too generous with your meal points, didn't calculate the exact value of every transaction. Ruggie circled you like a hyena finding an unguarded feast, all charm and calculated helpfulness. But somewhere between you sneaking him extras from the cafeteria and patching his uniform when it tore (again), something shifted. You weren't just a mark anymore. You were… dangerous. Because you made him want things beyond his means, made him imagine futures he couldn't afford. You treated his survivalist mentality not with pity but with respect. You understood that pride was a luxury not everyone could afford, that sometimes taking handouts was its own form of strength. You never made him feel small for needing, never held your generosity over his head like debt. You just gave, freely, as if he deserved it. As if he deserved you. That terrified him more than any overblot ever could. But while Ruggie was calculating the exact exchange rate of affection to security, Trey Clover was apparently playing a completely different economy. Where Ruggie offered scrappy resourcefulness, Trey provided steady abundance. Where Ruggie hoarded moments with you like precious resources, Trey spent time with you lavishly, carelessly, as if there would always be more. Where Ruggie's care came with visible price tags, Trey's seemed free—though Ruggie knew nothing was ever really free. The first time Ruggie saw you wearing Trey's club apron, flour in your hair and frosting on your fingers, something in his chest shriveled.

Because Trey could feed you in ways that had nothing to do with survival. He could offer you sweetness without calculating its cost, could teach you to create rather than conserve, could give you abundance instead of just enough. Trey's kitchen was always warm, always full, always welcoming. Everything Ruggie's life had never been. What killed him was how Trey never seemed to notice his own wealth. He'd casually mention family recipes passed down generations, holiday traditions Ruggie couldn't imagine, a childhood where food was expression rather than currency. And you'd listen with stars in your eyes, asking questions about stability that Ruggie could never answer, making plans he could never afford to promise. During one of Leona's mandatory dorm meetings (that Ruggie mandatory attended for him), you'd stopped by with Trey to deliver something—cookies, because of course it was cookies. Ruggie watched you move through their space carefully but not fearfully, Trey's steady presence making you brave. You'd brought extras specifically for Ruggie, remembering his preferences without being asked. It was kindness that cut deeper than any cruelty could have. "Trey's teaching me to make donuts from scratch," you'd mentioned, casual as breathing. "You should come by sometime." Ruggie had laughed it off, made some joke about not trusting his cooking skills around expensive ingredients. But the truth was heavier—he couldn't bear to watch Trey provide what Ruggie could only dream of offering. Couldn't stand to see you settled into Trey's comfortable life like you belonged there, because you did. You fit into Trey's stability like a missing ingredient finally added to a recipe. The worst part was that Trey was genuinely nice about it. He'd offer Ruggie leftovers without condescension, include him in group plans without obligation, never once acted like he knew Ruggie was dying inside every time you chose Trey's kitchen over anywhere else. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe secure people never had to notice when others were starving right in front of them. Ruggie started taking extra shifts at Mostro Lounge, telling himself it was for the money. But really, he couldn't bear to have free time that might accidentally overlap with yours. Better to stay busy, stay hustling, stay in motion. Because if he stopped, if he let himself think about what he'd lost—or rather, what he'd never had a chance of affording—he might do something stupid. Like confess. Like beg. Like admit that for all his clever resource management, he'd never learned to budget for heartbreak. So he smiled, made his jokes, took what scraps of your attention came his way naturally. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers, and Ruggie had been a beggar all his life. Why should love be any different from everything else he'd learned to live without?

JACK had always trusted his instincts. They told him when danger lurked, when someone was lying, when to push forward and when to retreat. But around you, his instincts turned into white noise—everything screaming at once, no clear signal to follow. You made him feel like a pup again, all awkward limbs and too-big paws, trying to act casual while his tail betrayed every emotion he tried to hide. He'd never learned to lie properly, and around you, that honesty felt less like strength and more like vulnerability. You were the first person who didn't comment on his lone wolf act, who didn't try to force him into pack dynamics he wasn't ready for. You just existed in his periphery, respecting his space while somehow always being there when it mattered. You studied beside him in silence, ran laps at dawn when words felt too heavy, and never once made him feel like his quietness was something that needed fixing. It was perfect. You were perfect. And Jack was absolutely certain he was going to ruin it if he tried to name what was building in his chest. So he didn't. He just… was. Present in your life in all the ways that felt safe. Walking you to class when the halls got too crowded. Sharing his notes when yours were inevitably covered in doodles. Standing slightly behind you at events, a silent guardian you never asked for but never rejected. He told himself it was enough, being useful to you. Being needed, even if not the way he wanted. But Sebek Zigvolt had never heard of subtlety in his life. Where Jack offered quiet protection, Sebek announced his dedication with the volume of a thunderclap. Where Jack respected your space, Sebek invaded it with passionate declarations about everything from proper posture to the optimal way to hold a sword. Where Jack's care was subtle as morning frost, Sebek's was bright as lightning, impossible to ignore or misinterpret. At first, Jack thought you were just amused by Sebek's intensity. The way you'd bite back smiles when he launched into another tirade about Lord Malleus's superiority, or how you'd gently correct his assumptions about human fragility. But then something shifted. You started seeking Sebek out, drawn to his unwavering certainty in a world that often felt too complex. You admired his dedication, his refusal to compromise his values, his ability to commit wholly to something without hesitation. The moment Jack knew he'd lost was during combat training. Sebek had challenged you—not to hurt you, but to "demonstrate the vast gap between human and fae capabilities." It was ridiculous, pompous, and you'd accepted with a grin. Jack watched from the sidelines as Sebek systematically dismantled your defenses, but also watched him adjust his strength, create openings for you to learn, turn it into a teaching moment rather than domination. And you were glowing—exhausted, bruised, but radiant with the thrill of pushing yourself against someone who wouldn't let you fail. Afterward, Sebek had helped you up with uncharacteristic gentleness, praising your "adequate performance for a human." You'd laughed, bright and breathless, and something in the way you looked at him changed. Like you were seeing past the bluster to someone worth knowing. Jack recognized that look. It was the same way you'd once looked at him, before Sebek's louder presence had drawn your attention away. The hardest part was that Sebek didn't even realize what he was doing. His interest in you seemed entirely practical at first—someone to educate about fae superiority, to train into a worthy ally for Lord Malleus. But Jack's sharp senses caught what Sebek himself seemed oblivious to: the way his voice softened fractionally when correcting your form, how his eyes tracked you across rooms, the pride that leaked into his tone when discussing your progress. Jack tried once to warn you, in his awkward, roundabout way. Mentioned that Sebek's intensity could be overwhelming, that his loyalty to Malleus would always come first, that you deserved someone who could put you at the center of their world.

You'd smiled at him, touched his shoulder gently, and said, "That's what I like about him, though. That complete dedication. Imagine being someone's chosen loyalty, not just their default." And Jack understood, with crushing clarity, that Sebek offered you something Jack never could—the grand gesture, the public declaration, the refusal to hide feelings behind stoic practicality. Where Jack protected his heart like soft belly exposed, Sebek wore his loyalties like armor. And you, apparently, preferred armor to vulnerable truth. So Jack did what wolves do when territory is lost—he retreated. Slowly, carefully, making it seem like natural distance rather than heartbreak. He still ran at dawn, but on different trails. Still studied in the library, but at different tables. Still watched over you from afar, but never close enough for you to notice the way his ears drooped when Sebek's voice carried across campus, always saying your name like a battle cry he was proud to sound. Being a lone wolf had always been Jack's choice before. Now it felt like his sentence. But at least he could bear it with dignity, with the same stoic strength that had made you feel safe once, before you'd found someone whose feelings burned too bright to ever be mistaken for mere friendship.

AZUL had built an empire from insecurity, transformed weakness into leverage, turned every slight he'd ever suffered into motivation for one more contract, one more deal, one more proof that the octopus who couldn't swim straight was worth something after all. He'd learned to weaponize charisma, to calculate the exact interest rate on kindness, to treat every interaction like a transaction that needed to balance in his favor. But you were an investment he couldn't quantify, a variable that made all his spreadsheets meaningless. You'd walked into Mostro Lounge that first time looking lost, and instead of seeing a mark, he'd seen something dangerously close to salvation. The way you actually read the contracts he offered, questioned the terms, negotiated with a smile that suggested you saw through him but didn't mind what you found there. You made him want to offer fair deals, to prove he could be more than the schemer everyone expected. For the first time since he'd stopped crying into his tentacles as a child, Azul wanted to be seen as himself—not the businessman, not the honor student, just Azul. But while he was carefully calculating the risk-to-reward ratio of vulnerability, Vil Schoenheit had already decided you were worth pursuing with the same perfectionist intensity he applied to everything else. And Vil didn't deal in contracts or con games—he dealt in transformation, in potential realized, in beauty that went deeper than any potion could reach. You became Vil's project, but not in the way Azul had seen others become his victims. Vil saw something in you that needed polishing, not changing, and he approached the task with an artist's dedication. Where Azul offered you carefully worded deals, Vil offered you growth. Where Azul promised to solve your problems for a price, Vil taught you to solve them yourself. The day Azul watched Vil adjust your posture during some mundane conversation—fingers on your spine, gentle but firm, reshaping you into something more confident—he realized he'd already lost.

Because Vil touched you like clay he was sculpting into something magnificent, and you let yourself be shaped with trust Azul had never figured out how to earn without contracts. In Mostro Lounge after hours, Azul would review the books and find your name in the margins of his thoughts. He'd started dozens of contracts that would guarantee your presence—nothing nefarious, nothing that would hurt you, just… insurance. But every time he imagined sliding that paper across the table, he saw Vil's disapproving stare, heard your disappointment, felt the weight of being exactly who everyone thought he was. Vil made you luminous in ways that had nothing to do with appearance. He taught you to carry yourself like royalty, to speak with conviction, to demand space in rooms that tried to make you small. And you bloomed under his attention like some rare flower that only responded to precise care. Azul knew about pressure—he'd lived under crushing depths—but Vil's pressure created diamonds while his only created desperate grabs for power that dissolved the moment someone looked too close. The worst part was watching you defend Vil's harsh critiques to others, explaining that he only pushed because he believed you were capable of more. You understood Vil's caustic care as love language, something Azul recognized with the bitter clarity of someone fluent in the same tongue but unable to speak it without accidentally drawing blood. During one of Vil's endless photo shoots where you'd been recruited as an assistant, Azul had stopped by with some transparent excuse about business. He'd watched you anticipate Vil's needs, adjust lights before he asked, exist in his space with the easy intimacy of someone who belonged there. And when Vil had finally smiled—not his public smile, but something smaller, realer, just for you—Azul felt his three hearts break in sequence, a triple rhythm of loss that echoed in his chest like drowning. He retreated to his VIP room, surrounded by contracts that could buy him anything except what mattered, and understood with crushing certainty that some things couldn't be negotiated, couldn't be stolen, couldn't be earned through clever loopholes. Love, apparently, was one of them. And Vil—beautiful, terrible, perfect Vil—had won it fair and square, without a single contract required.

JADE cultivated interests the way others collected stamps—methodically, precisely, with an enthusiasm that never quite reached his eyes. Mushrooms, mountains, the subtle art of making people uncomfortable with his smile—all hobbies designed to make him seem approachable yet alien, interesting yet impenetrable. But you weren't supposed to be a hobby. You were supposed to be another amusing observation, another specimen to catalog in his mental collection of human oddities. Instead, you became something far more dangerous: genuine fascination. You didn't flinch when he shared particularly morbid mushroom facts, didn't step back when he loomed with that practiced smile, didn't flee when his heterochromatic eyes studied you like something he wanted to dissect and preserve simultaneously. You met his strangeness with curiosity, his veiled threats with amusement, his careful distances with patient proximity. It was thoroughly inconvenient. While Jade was busy cataloging every micro-expression you made, building detailed mental files on your preferences and habits with scientific precision, Silver was doing something far simpler—he was just being kind. Not the calculated kindness Jade employed like a scalpel, but the drowsy, genuine sort that came from someone who'd never learned to be anything else. Where Jade offered elaborate tea ceremonies with mushrooms that might be poisonous (but probably weren't), Silver shared simple lunches with earnest concern for your wellbeing. Where Jade's help came with invisible strings attached, Silver's came with nothing but the sleepy satisfaction of being useful. The first time Jade saw you brushing Silver's hair back while he dozed against your shoulder—such casual intimacy, such unearned trust—something in his carefully ordered world tilted off-axis. Because Silver didn't work for your affection, didn't strategize or manipulate or carefully orchestrate scenarios. He just existed in your space with the serene confidence of someone who'd never questioned whether he was wanted. And you, inexplicably, found his narcolepsy endearing rather than irritating, his straightforward nature refreshing rather than boring, his sleepy smiles more valuable than all of Jade's calculated ones. During joint training sessions between dorms, Jade observed with clinical detachment as you fretted over Silver pushing himself too hard. The way you knew exactly how he took his coffee (black, one sugar—simple, like everything about him). The way you could predict his sleep attacks, already moving to cushion his fall before he started swaying. You'd mapped Silver's patterns without trying, while Jade had been documenting yours with academic fervor yet somehow missed the moment you'd stopped being data and started being desire. The mountain hiking club became torture disguised as recreation. You'd joined, claiming interest in fungi, but spent most trips ensuring Silver didn't wander off cliff edges while sleep-walking. Jade would identify rare specimens, explain their properties with passionate precision, but your attention inevitably drifted to Silver's sleeping form, making sure he was comfortable, safe, warm. You looked at Silver like he was something precious requiring protection, while Jade—who could destroy threats with a smile—apparently didn't inspire such tender concern. What wounded most was the honesty of it all. Silver loved you openly, without pretense or plan, with the same earnest dedication he brought to his training. He didn't hide behind smiles or schemes, didn't calculate the optimal moment for confession. He simply told you, probably half-asleep, probably not even remembering it clearly, and you'd accepted it with the same gentle certainty that characterized everything about your relationship with him.

Jade retreated into his terrarium habits with renewed vigor, cultivating specimens that thrived in low light, in careful isolation, in perfectly controlled conditions that bore no resemblance to the chaotic warmth you and Silver created together. He cataloged new species with Latin names that sounded like epitaphs, pressed samples between pages like keeping evidence of a crime only he'd witnessed—the murder of possibilities that never had the chance to bloom. Floyd noticed, because of course Floyd noticed, commenting with typical tactlessness about how Jade was "being weird, even for him." But Jade just smiled that practiced smile, offered mushroom tea that nobody would drink, and continued his performance of polite disinterest that fooled everyone except himself. He'd learned to find beauty in toxic things, in dangerous growth, in specimens that survived through adaptation rather than affection. It seemed fitting, somehow, that he'd become one himself—thriving in shadows while you and Silver dozed together in sunlight, perfectly content in your simple, honest love that required no strategy at all.

FLOYD had never understood the concept of consistency. His moods changed like tides, his interests flared and faded like bioluminescence, his attention scattered across whatever seemed most entertaining in any given moment. But you were different. You were the one fixation that didn't bore him, the one game that never got old, the one squeeze that never satisfied no matter how tight he held. You didn't run when he got too intense, didn't patronize him when he got too chaotic, didn't try to fix him when he got too broken. You just rode the waves of his moods like someone who'd learned to swim in rough waters, and somehow, impossibly, seemed to enjoy it. But while Floyd was busy being a hurricane, convinced you appreciated his particular brand of chaos, Riddle Rosehearts was offering you something Floyd couldn't even conceptualize—stability wrapped in structure, rules that meant safety, a world where tea time happened at exactly the same hour every day and that was comforting rather than suffocating. At first, Floyd found it hilarious. Goldfish was so rigid, so predictable, so easy to rile up. He'd crash your study sessions just to watch Riddle turn that particular shade of red, would drape himself over you during tea parties to see how long before the housewarden snapped. It was entertainment, pure and simple, until he noticed you didn't laugh anymore. You'd started defending Riddle's rules, explaining his reasons, understanding his rage as something more than amusing tantrums. Where Floyd saw Goldfish, you saw someone learning to be human after years of programming. Where Floyd offered anarchy, you chose careful revolution, helping Riddle reform rather than reject his structure entirely. The day Floyd saw you collar yourself—voluntarily, willingly, placing Riddle's magic around your own neck to prove some point about trust—something in his chest went cold in a way that had nothing to do with deep-sea genetics. You were choosing captivity over freedom, picking Riddle's calculated control over Floyd's wild currents, and somehow making imprisonment look like intimacy. In basketball practice, Floyd's game became erratic, violent, genuinely dangerous rather than playfully chaotic. He'd always been rough, but now there was something desperate in the way he played, like he was trying to prove that force could solve something strength couldn't touch. Jamil banned him from practice twice, but Floyd kept coming back, kept pushing, kept breaking things that weren't meant to bend that far. You tried talking to him once, concerned about his increasingly destructive behavior. But Floyd just grinned too wide, called you something between affectionate and insulting, and disappeared into the water for three days. When he surfaced, you were wearing a rose-shaped hairpin that definitely hadn't been there before, and Riddle was explaining proper flower language with the focused intensity of someone teaching scripture, and Floyd realized with crystalline clarity that he'd lost you to someone who could give you roots when all he'd ever offered was the promise of drowning. The worst part was that Riddle was good for you in ways Floyd couldn't deny even in his worst moods. He helped you study with patient precision, taught you to stand straighter while somehow also teaching you when to bend, gave you a framework to exist within that somehow made you more yourself rather than less. You bloomed in Riddle's garden with the steady certainty of something well-tended, while all Floyd had ever done was flood your roots and call it love.

During one of their inevitable confrontations, Riddle had called Floyd "dangerous" and "unpredictable" like they were accusations rather than facts. And you'd agreed, not meanly, but with the soft concern of someone who'd realized storms were better admired from safe harbor. Floyd had laughed until his ribs ached, then laughed some more, because what else could he do? He was exactly what they said—a natural disaster in human form, something to be weathered rather than welcomed. He took to swimming at night, when the pools were empty and he could be as violent as he wanted without witnesses. Sometimes he thought about squeezing until things broke, about what would happen if he just stopped pretending to be tame. But then he'd remember how you looked at Riddle—like he was something worth saving, worth solving, worth staying still for—and Floyd would dive deeper, hold his breath longer, stay underwater until the urge to destroy something beautiful passed. Because that's what love was for things like him—not a garden to tend or rules to follow, but an ocean to drown in alone, where the only thing left to squeeze was his own heart until it finally stopped fighting the current.

KALIM had never learned to recognize hunger. Born into abundance so vast it defied comprehension, he mistook appetite for appreciation, need for want, desperation for desire. He scattered gold like seeds, threw parties like prayers, gave gifts like breathing—automatic, essential, unthinking. When he first noticed you, it was with the same enthusiastic delight he brought to everything, but somehow you made that delight crystallize into something deeper, something that made him want to give you not just treasures but time, not just riches but reasons to smile. You were the first person who thanked him for small things—for listening, for waiting, for remembering your favorite song. You didn't calculate the value of his gifts, didn't network at his parties, didn't see him as a golden ticket to somewhere better. You saw him, just Kalim, and liked him anyway. It was intoxicating, being chosen for himself rather than his heritage. But while Kalim was showering you with the careless generosity of someone who'd never questioned where his next meal would come from, Ruggie Bucchi was watching with the intense focus of someone who knew exactly what one meal could cost. And Ruggie, who had spent his entire life calculating the exact exchange rate between dignity and survival, apparently decided you were worth the investment. Kalim noticed it slowly, the way he noticed most things—in bright bursts of revelation between distractions. How Ruggie started bringing you breakfast, nothing fancy, just protein bars and fruit that fit in pockets. How he'd mend your clothes without being asked, subtle fixes that made things last longer. How he'd teach you tricks for stretching meals, saving money, surviving on less. Practical magic, the kind Kalim had never needed to learn. At first, Kalim thought it was cute, like watching children play house. He even offered to help, to pay for proper meals, to buy you both new clothes instead of mending old ones. But the look Ruggie gave him—part pity, part contempt, part something else Kalim couldn't name—made him realize he'd misunderstood something fundamental. You weren't playing at poverty with Ruggie. You were learning to speak his language, one where every gesture had a cost and choosing to spend anything on someone else meant something. Where Kalim's gifts were weightless with abundance, Ruggie's were heavy with sacrifice. And you understood that, valued it, reciprocated in the same careful currency of consideration that Kalim couldn't counterfeit with all his wealth. During one of his parties—smaller than usual, you'd asked him to tone them down—Kalim watched you and Ruggie in the corner, sharing a single plate because Ruggie never took more than he needed and you'd learned to match his restraint. There was an intimacy in that sharing that all Kalim's banquets couldn't buy. You were learning Ruggie's hunger, letting him teach you appetite, and Kalim finally understood what Jamil had meant when he'd said money couldn't purchase everything. Kalim tried to learn. He really did. Started noticing prices, thinking about value, trying to understand the weight of want. But it was like asking a fish to understand thirst—the concept existed, theoretically, but the experience remained foreign. How could he appreciate single grains when he'd grown up swimming in harvests? How could he understand Ruggie's careful courtship when his own heart scattered affection like confetti, worthless from overabundance? The moment he truly lost you was painfully ordinary.

You'd been stressed about expenses—textbooks or something equally mundane to someone with Kalim's resources. He'd offered to help, of course, already reaching for his wallet. But you'd looked at Ruggie instead, and he'd nodded, and somehow that silent exchange contained more intimacy than all Kalim's declarations combined. Because Ruggie would work extra shifts to help you afford those books, and that meant something. Because struggle shared was love demonstrated in a language Kalim would never speak fluently. Kalim continued throwing parties, but they felt hollow now. He'd watch you and Ruggie navigate his abundance together, taking only what you needed, gratitude heavy with the understanding of what things cost. And Kalim would smile, would laugh, would play the perfect host, all while nursing a new kind of hunger—the starving realization that some things couldn't be bought, couldn't be given, could only be earned through deprivations he'd never experienced. He had everything except what mattered. And Ruggie, who had nothing, had you. The economics of it should have been simple, but love apparently followed its own exchange rate, one where Kalim's gold weighed less than Ruggie's copper, where abundance meant less than appreciation, where being everything to someone meant first understanding what nothing felt like.

JAMIL had spent his entire life in careful control, measuring every action against its consequence, calculating every word for maximum efficiency and minimum exposure. He was the puppet master who'd forgotten he was also on strings, the backstage coordinator who'd grown comfortable in shadows, the vice who'd learned to find power in seeming powerless. Then you came along and made him want to step into the light, and that terrified him more than any overblot ever could. You didn't see through his servant façade—plenty of people had managed that. But you saw past it to something he hadn't even known existed, some version of himself that wasn't defined by what he could or couldn't be. You watched him dance during that first demonstration, and instead of commenting on his skill, you'd asked if he enjoyed it. As if joy was something he was allowed to consider. As if his preferences mattered beyond their usefulness. But while Jamil was carefully calculating the exact speed at which he could safely reveal himself to you, Floyd Leech had already decided you were interesting and pursued you with all the subtlety of a tsunami. Where Jamil offered careful doses of honesty, Floyd offered unfiltered chaos. Where Jamil revealed himself in layers, Floyd stripped himself bare within minutes of meeting you. Where Jamil planned every interaction, Floyd just… happened to you, repeatedly, with increasing intensity. At first, Jamil found Floyd's attention to you professionally irritating. It disrupted schedules, complicated plans, made his job harder. But then he realized what Floyd was doing—not courting, exactly, because Floyd didn't court so much as claim—but something far more dangerous. Floyd was making you comfortable with unpredictability, teaching you to swim in chaos, to find fun in danger. And you were thriving in it. The realization hit during one of Scarabia's training sessions. Floyd had crashed it, naturally, dragging you along because he was "bored" and you were "interesting." Jamil watched you handle Floyd's mood swings with easy grace, not trying to control or fix them but flowing with them, finding the rhythm in his randomness. When Floyd suddenly switched from playful to predatory, testing your boundaries with that sharp-toothed grin, you didn't flinch. You pushed back, made him laugh, turned his aggression into amusement with an ease that made Jamil's careful manipulations look like amateur hour. It wasn't that you chose chaos over control—you simply didn't need control at all. You could exist in Floyd's tempest without losing yourself, while every interaction with Jamil required careful choreography, measured doses of truth balanced against decades of trained deception. With Floyd, you got honesty by default because he didn't know how to be anything else. With Jamil, even his truths came wrapped in so many layers of protection they felt like lies. During the music club meeting where Jamil played his heart out, hoping you'd hear what he couldn't say, Floyd had dragged you away halfway through because something more interesting had occurred to him. And you'd gone, apologizing but going nonetheless, because Floyd's whims had become your adventures. Jamil finished his set to polite applause and an empty space where you should have been. The worst part was that Floyd didn't even realize he'd won. He pursued you the same way he pursued everything—with intense focus until something else caught his attention. But somehow, miraculously, you kept catching his attention.

Again and again, you remained interesting to someone who found everything boring eventually. And that inconsistent consistency, that chaotic devotion, was something Jamil couldn't compete with using any strategy in his considerable arsenal. He tried, once, to warn you about Floyd's nature. Mentioned, casually, how Floyd's interests never lasted, how his affection could turn to indifference without warning. You'd laughed—actually laughed—and said that was what made it exciting. That Floyd choosing you every day meant more because he could just as easily not choose you. That love without guarantee was the only kind worth having. Jamil wanted to scream that he could guarantee everything, that his love came with contingency plans and backup strategies and fail-safes. But he knew that was exactly the problem. His love was safe, measured, controlled. Floyd's was a force of nature, and you'd rather dance in hurricanes than stand in Jamil's perfectly climate-controlled environment. So Jamil did what he always did—he served, he smiled, he schemed in directions that didn't include you. He learned to appreciate the way Floyd made you laugh, even if it shattered something in him every time. Because that was his role, wasn't it? To facilitate others' happiness while managing his own disappointment. At least this time, he'd chosen his chains himself. That had to count for something, even if it counted for nothing to you.

VIL understood better than most that beauty was discipline, that perfection required sacrifice, that excellence demanded constant vigilance against mediocrity. He'd built himself into something magnificent through sheer force of will, transformed from merely pretty into absolutely unforgettable through decades of careful cultivation. So when he decided you were worth his attention, he approached you like he approached everything—with the intention of bringing out your absolute best, whether you thought you were ready for it or not. You resisted at first, which he'd expected. Most people didn't understand that his criticism came from care, that he only bothered to correct what he believed could be perfected. But gradually, you started to understand. You'd seek his advice on presentations, on posture, on presence. You let him teach you the difference between being looked at and being seen. You began to understand that beauty wasn't about features but about intention, about showing the world exactly who you meant to be. But while Vil was carefully constructing your chrysalis, waiting for you to emerge as something spectacular, Lilia Vanrouge was teaching you to find joy in remaining exactly as you were. Where Vil offered transformation, Lilia offered acceptance. Where Vil pushed you toward perfection, Lilia pulled you toward playfulness. Where Vil saw potential requiring refinement, Lilia saw completeness requiring only recognition. It started with small rebellions. You'd show up to Vil's carefully scheduled sessions with ridiculous accessories Lilia had gifted you—bat-shaped hairclips, oversized sweaters that destroyed your silhouette, temporary tattoos that Vil had to resist physically removing himself. At first, Vil attributed it to your inexperience, your inability to recognize quality. But then he realized what Lilia was doing: not destroying his work, but making it irrelevant. Lilia made you laugh during Vil's lectures on proper skincare. Made you forget his lessons on voice modulation by encouraging your natural expressiveness. Made you skip his carefully planned nutritional regimens to try whatever bizarre culinary experiment he'd concocted that week. And worst of all, you were happy. Glowing in a way that had nothing to do with his prescribed routines and everything to do with Lilia's chaotic affection. The moment Vil knew he'd miscalculated was during one of his film screenings—a carefully curated selection meant to illustrate various performance techniques. You'd been taking notes, asking intelligent questions, fully engaged. Then Lilia had appeared, upside down in the window, making faces until you dissolved into giggles that destroyed any semblance of sophisticated atmosphere. Vil had banished him, of course, but the damage was done. You spent the rest of the evening trying to suppress smiles, shoulders shaking with contained laughter, completely unable to focus on his instruction. And when you finally excused yourself, ostensibly to compose yourself, Vil had watched through the window as you met Lilia outside and laughed until you cried, all his careful poise abandoned for pure, unrefined joy. What killed him was that Lilia's approach shouldn't have worked. The ancient fae was contradictory, chaotic, completely unconcerned with conventional beauty or modern standards. He dressed like he'd raided several different centuries' wardrobes simultaneously, cooked like he was conducting chemical warfare, and had the aesthetic sensibilities of someone who found genuine beauty in things Vil would have burned on principle.

Yet you found him charming. Not despite these flaws but because of them. Lilia's centuries of existence had given him something Vil couldn't compete with—the complete security of someone who'd already been everything and chosen to be himself. During the cultural festival, Vil had prepared you for weeks. Your performance was technically perfect, every movement practiced, every note precise. The audience was appropriately impressed. But afterward, you'd immediately sought out Lilia, who'd been in the front row making increasingly ridiculous faces trying to make you break character. The way you collapsed against him, exhausted but exhilarated, seeking his approval above the audience's applause—it was the final proof that Vil had been training you for a race you weren't running. Vil continued to help when asked, because professionalism demanded nothing less. But he'd stopped seeing you as a project and started seeing you as a lesson—that sometimes perfection wasn't the point, that beauty could exist without refinement, that choosing chaos over control might be its own form of excellence. Lilia had won by not competing, had claimed you by not trying to change you, had made himself essential by making everything else seem optional. Including Vil. Especially Vil.

ROOK had dedicated his existence to the art of observation, to finding beauty in the hunt, to celebrating the magnificence of others with poetic fervor that bordered on religious. He'd catalogued countless forms of beauty, written sonnets to strength and elegance alike, found art in every soul that crossed his path. But you—you were not just another subject for his collection. You were the masterpiece that made all other observations feel like rough sketches, the beauty that rendered his vast vocabulary insufficient. He watched you with the focus of a hunter who'd finally found prey worth the permanent chase. The way you moved through space like you belonged everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. The way your voice changed pitch when discussing something you loved. The way you unconsciously mirrored the emotions of those around you, empathetic to the point of self-destruction. He documented everything in mental galleries, private exhibitions of moments only he had noticed, a collection that would never see light because even he, verbose as he was, couldn't find words worthy of their subject. But while Rook was composing epic poems to your existence, Leona Kingscholar was doing something far simpler and infinitely more effective—he was sleeping in your presence. Not near you, but with you, a vulnerability that the prince offered to no one else. Where Rook watched from artistic distances, Leona trusted you enough to close his eyes. Where Rook hunted beauty, Leona let beauty find him. Rook first noticed it during one of his regular observations. He'd been tracking you through the botanical gardens (not stalking, never stalking, simply… appreciating) when he found you with Leona. The prince was unconscious, head in your lap, while you studied quietly, one hand absently playing with his hair. The casual intimacy of it, the unguarded peace on Leona's face, the way you protected his sleep like something sacred—it was a tableau that even Rook felt guilty observing. What fascinated him was the reciprocity. Leona, who trusted no one, who slept with one eye open even in his own territory, was completely defenseless in your presence. And you, who helped everyone but rarely asked for help, let Leona provide for you in ways that weren't about money or power but about presence. He walked you to classes when he bothered attending his own. He threatened people who inconvenienced you with lazy efficiency. He shared his space, his silence, his rare moments of honesty that came just before sleep or just after waking. During one of his hunts, Rook overheard your conversation with Leona about beauty—how you found it in unexpected places, in imperfect things, in the discarded and overlooked. Leona had scoffed, called you naïve, but there'd been something in his voice that Rook recognized: the disbelief of someone being seen for the first time. You'd laughed, called him beautiful anyway, and Leona had gone so still that Rook thought he'd stopped breathing. Then he'd pulled you down beside him, mumbled something that might have been "troublesome herbivore" or might have been something else entirely, and fallen asleep with your heartbeat under his ear. Rook understood then that his appreciation, his poetry, his devoted observation—it was all performance compared to Leona's genuine need. Where Rook celebrated beauty, Leona surrendered to it. Where Rook composed sonnets, Leona offered silence that said more than words. Where Rook hunted, Leona had already been captured, and somehow that defeat looked like victory. The irony wasn't lost on him. He who found beauty in everything couldn't compete with someone who found beauty in nothing except you. He who celebrated all forms of magnificence had lost to someone who barely acknowledged magnificence at all. But perhaps that was its own form of poetry—that you'd chosen someone who needed your beauty rather than someone who'd simply worship it.

During the joint tournament between dorms, Rook watched Leona fight with more intensity than he'd shown in years, all because you'd asked him to try. Really try. And when Leona won (barely, bloodily, with more effort than he'd put into anything), his eyes hadn't sought the crowd's approval but yours. And you'd smiled at him like he'd hung the moon, and Leona had smirked back like that was the only prize worth winning. Rook continued his hunts, his observations, his celebrations of beauty. But now they felt hollow, performative, like he was playing a role he'd written for himself so long ago he'd forgotten it was just a script. You'd shown him something beyond beauty, beyond art, beyond the hunt—you'd shown him what it looked like when someone stopped performing and simply lived. He envied Leona that, even as he composed mental elegies to his own unrequited devotion. Beauty was meant to be observed, after all. Not possessed. Even when the observation felt like slowly dying from a distance, one perfectly composed verse at a time.

EPEL had fought against being delicate his entire life, raged against the unfairness of genetics that had gifted him with features better suited to dolls than the rugged farmhand he knew himself to be. Every "pretty boy" comment was another weight on the barbell, every mistake about his gender another reason to prove his strength. He'd carved out spaces where his real self could breathe—late night gym sessions, back-alley arm wrestling, the kind of rough talk that would've made Vil wash his mouth out with something expensive and thoroughly unpleasant. You never made him feel like he had to prove anything. From the start, you'd seen past the porcelain features to the farm boy underneath, recognized the calluses hidden under manicured hands, understood that his rage came from restriction rather than weakness. You encouraged his rebellions, helped him hide from Vil during mandatory skincare nights, cheered loudest when he won fights everyone said he was too small for. With you, he could be Epel—not the Pomefiore project, not the pretty boy, just himself. But while Epel was busy proving he could be strong enough for you, Deuce Spade was quietly proving he could be good enough. And where Epel's strength was all external force and stubborn pride, Deuce's was the harder kind—the strength to change, to grow, to become better than what he'd been. You'd noticed Deuce during his struggles, the way you noticed all struggling things. Where others saw a delinquent playing at honor student, you saw someone fighting himself every day and mostly winning. You helped him study without condescension, celebrated his small victories like they were grand achievements, never once brought up his past except to remind him how far he'd come. Epel watched you soften around Deuce in ways that made his stomach twist. The patient way you'd explain concepts multiple times without frustration. The proud smile when Deuce finally got something right. The gentle touch on his shoulder when old habits surfaced and he needed grounding. You looked at Deuce like he was something worth protecting, worth nurturing, worth believing in. During joint training sessions, Epel would push himself to exhaustion, trying to prove he could protect you better than anyone. But then Deuce would quietly walk you home afterward, making sure you were safe without making a production of it. Epel would win fights with vicious efficiency, but Deuce would lose fights protecting others, and somehow his losses meant more than Epel's victories.

What killed Epel was that Deuce wasn't even trying to impress you. His reformation was personal, his growth genuine, his feelings for you secondary to his need to become someone his mother could be proud of. But that authenticity, that struggle, that determination to be better—it was exactly what drew you in. You'd told Epel once that strength wasn't about how hard you could hit but about how many times you could get hit and keep going. He'd thought you were being metaphorical, philosophical. But then he'd seen you watch Deuce take hit after hit in training, always getting back up, always trying again, and realized you'd been describing exactly what you found attractive. The final straw was during a particularly bad day when Epel's dysphoria had been eating him alive. Vil had been especially critical, and some Savanaclaw student had called him "little lady," and everything felt wrong in his skin. He'd been ready to fight the world, to prove with his fists what his face couldn't convey. But you'd found him first, talked him down, told him he was man enough for you exactly as he was. And he'd almost believed it, until Deuce had appeared, checking on you both with that genuine concern that came so naturally to him now. The way you'd immediately relaxed at Deuce's presence, the way you'd let him take over calming Epel down, the way you'd looked at Deuce with such trust—Epel realized that's what you really wanted. Not someone trying to prove their strength, but someone strong enough to admit their weaknesses. During the cultural festival, Epel had performed perfectly, hit every mark Vil had demanded, been everything Pomefiore expected. But afterward, he'd found you with Deuce at his club's booth, watching him stumble through explanations of magical wheels with endearing enthusiasm. You were wearing his club jacket, oversized and warm, and Deuce kept glancing at you like he couldn't believe you were real. And you looked happy. Truly, simply happy in a way all Epel's dramatic gestures had never achieved. Epel continued to train, to fight, to rebel against everything that tried to make him less than what he was. But now it felt hollow, like he was fighting shadows while the real battle had already been lost. Deuce had won by not fighting at all, by being vulnerable where Epel was defensive, by growing where Epel was stubborn, by being exactly who he was while trying to become better. And you'd chosen growth over strength, progress over perfection, the boy actively becoming over the boy desperately proving. Epel's masculinity had never been in question. But apparently, neither was Deuce's, and his came without the exhausting performance that Epel couldn't seem to stop even when it cost him everything.

IDIA understood the world better through screens than windows, found more truth in code than conversation, felt safer in digital spaces where he could control the parameters and delete mistakes before anyone noticed them. He'd built entire kingdoms in pixels, commanded armies of players, achieved levels of mastery that made him legendary in circles that mattered to him. But you existed in the physical world, breathing and warm and impossibly present, and that terrified him more than any boss fight ever had. You'd first appeared in his life like a random encounter, low probability but high impact. You didn't judge his hermit tendencies, didn't mock his interests, didn't try to force him into uncomfortable social situations. Instead, you'd simply existed in parallel to him—playing games while he coded, reading manga while he built computers, sharing comfortable silence that felt less like absence and more like understanding. You made him want to be brave enough to exist in the same room without wanting to teleport away. But while Idia was calculating the statistical probability of you rejecting his affection (87.3%, accounting for variables), Jamil Viper was executing a completely different strategy. Where Idia avoided, Jamil maneuvered. Where Idia hesitated, Jamil acted. Where Idia offered tentative digital gestures—rare items, custom mods, perfectly curated playlists—Jamil offered tangible service, real-world solutions, the kind of practical care that didn't require WiFi to function. At first, Idia watched your growing closeness with Jamil like studying cutscenes he couldn't skip. The way Jamil would appear exactly when you needed help, always with exactly the right solution. The way he'd guide you through social situations with subtle touches and whispered advice. The way he made everything look effortless when Idia knew from extensive observation that Jamil planned every interaction like a speedrun route. What destroyed Idia was realizing that Jamil was playing a game Idia couldn't even compete in. Jamil operated in the physical world with the same expertise Idia had in digital ones. He could read people's expressions without needing emotion recognition software, could navigate social dynamics without a walkthrough, could make you laugh without rehearsing the conversation seventeen times first. During one particularly painful incident, you'd been struggling with some event planning, overwhelmed by the social dynamics involved. Idia had built you a comprehensive spreadsheet, color-coded and with automated reminders, the digital solution to analog problems. But Jamil had simply handled it, managed the people and the politics with invisible efficiency, made your problems disappear without leaving digital footprints.

And you'd looked at Jamil like he'd performed magic, not knowing that Idia's spreadsheet had taken him three sleepless nights to perfect. The worst part was that Jamil understood what Idia offered—he'd seen the custom programs, the thoughtful modifications to make your life easier, the digital devotion that Idia poured into every interaction. And he'd complimented them, genuinely, which somehow made it worse. Because Jamil could appreciate Idia's language but also speak ones Idia couldn't learn—body language, social graces, the kind of subtle communication that happened in the spaces between words. You started spending time in Scarabia, and Idia watched through security cameras (just to make sure you were safe, not stalking, never stalking). He'd see you help Jamil with his endless responsibilities, learning to anticipate needs the way Jamil did, developing your own kind of silent communication that made Idia feel like he was watching a foreign film without subtitles. You were learning to exist in Jamil's world of subtle gestures and hidden meanings, while Idia couldn't even exist in his own world without anxiety medication and noise-canceling headphones. During a rare moment when you'd convinced Idia to leave his room for a movie night, Jamil had been there too, and Idia had watched you two communicate entire

MALLEUS had existed for centuries in a bubble of isolation so complete it had its own atmosphere. He'd grown accustomed to the weight of silence, the way rooms emptied at his approach, the particular flavor of loneliness that came from being too powerful to be loved rather than feared. Time meant nothing when every moment was exactly like the last—empty, eternal, endless. Then you'd appeared, ignorant of who he was, what he was, why everyone else treated him like a natural disaster in princely form. You'd called him by a silly nickname, invited him to things nobody had ever thought to include him in, treated him like he was just another student rather than a kingdom's worth of magical nuclear weapons barely contained in flesh. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Malleus felt time move forward rather than simply around him. Each interaction with you was logged in his memory with painful clarity. The first time you'd laughed at something he'd said (not from nervousness but genuine amusement). The first time you'd sought him out (not from obligation but desire for his company). The first time you'd fallen asleep near him (trust so profound it made his chest ache with something ancient dragons had no name for). He collected these moments like dragons collected treasure, hoarding them against the inevitable day when you'd realize what everyone else already knew—that he was too much, too intense, too other to love safely. But while Malleus was carefully rationing his interactions to avoid overwhelming you with the full weight of his attention, Rook Hunt was pursuing you with the single-minded determination of someone who'd never met a boundary he couldn't elegantly overstep. Where Malleus offered you the terrible honor of his time, Rook offered you the overwhelming experience of being witnessed in your entirety. Where Malleus watched you like you were the only light in centuries of darkness, Rook watched you like you were art requiring documentation from every possible angle. At first, Malleus found Rook's attention to you amusing, the way ancient beings found mortal pursuits amusing—brief, intense, ultimately insignificant against the span of time. But Rook's humanity was precisely what made him dangerous. He could offer you things Malleus couldn't—normalcy dressed in eccentricity, mortality that made every moment urgent, the kind of romantic pursuit that belonged in the stories you'd grown up with rather than the fairy tales that warned children about creatures like Malleus. During one of your midnight walks (the only time Malleus could guarantee having you to himself), you'd mentioned how Rook had been teaching you archery. Your eyes had lit up describing it—the patience of his instruction, the way he'd position your arms with careful precision, the praise he'd shower upon even your failed attempts. Malleus had offered to teach you magic, real magic, the kind that could reshape reality. But you'd laughed and said Rook's lessons were less likely to accidentally level buildings, and Malleus had realized with crystal clarity that you saw his power as something to be carefully managed rather than shared. The turning point came during a storm Malleus had not caused but certainly hadn't calmed. You'd been frightened—not of the weather but of the way the thunder reminded you of overblots, of battles, of times when magic had almost killed you. Malleus had been about to dissipate the entire weather system, to reshape the sky for your comfort. But Rook had appeared first, drawn by some hunter's instinct to your distress. And instead of stopping the storm, he'd simply sat with you through it, narrating its beauty until you could see past your fear to the artistry of nature. He'd made you brave without changing the world to accommodate your fear, and that was a magic Malleus didn't possess.

Watching Rook court you was like watching the sun move across the sky—inevitable, bright, impossible to stop without consequences that would destroy everything. He wrote you sonnets that were genuinely terrible but somehow charming in their enthusiasm. He appeared at random moments with observations about your beauty that should have been creepy but weren't because he believed them so completely. He made you feel witnessed in a way that Malleus's ancient attention couldn't replicate—not the weight of centuries focusing on you, but the surprise of being discovered anew every day. The moment Malleus truly understood his loss was quieter than storms or festivals. You'd gotten a minor injury during flight class—nothing serious, just a scrape that drew blood. Malleus had immediately begun weaving ancient healing magic, the kind that would not only mend but perfect, erase any possibility of scar or memory of pain. But you'd flinched away from the green glow of his power, and Rook had knelt beside you instead, cleaning the wound with the kind of tender inefficiency that belonged to mortality. He'd bandaged it with practiced hands while telling you how scars were beauty marks life left on those brave enough to live it. And you'd looked at Rook like he'd hung the moon Malleus could have literally pulled from the sky. Later, you'd shown Malleus the bandage with shy pride, explaining how Rook was teaching you to see your vulnerabilities as proof of your humanity rather than flaws to be magically erased. Malleus had nodded, understanding with the terrible clarity of the ancient that you feared his perfection more than you could ever fear Rook's beautiful imperfections. The cruel irony was that Malleus could have competed with another dragon, another fae, another being of comparable power. But Rook was mortal, human, temporary in ways that made every second significant. His love had an expiration date that gave it urgency Malleus's eternal devotion couldn't match. How could "I'll love you for centuries" compete with "I'll love you with every numbered heartbeat I have left"? Malleus continued to visit, to walk with you, to exist in your periphery like a guardian gargoyle come to life. But he'd stopped hoping for more, understanding finally that sometimes love wasn't about power or time or even compatibility—it was about finding someone whose particular brand of insanity matched yours. And while Malleus offered you the terrible sanity of eternal devotion, Rook offered you the beautiful madness of mortal love pursued with immortal enthusiasm. Even dragons, it seemed, could be outmaneuvered by a hunter who understood that the best prey was the kind that chose to be caught.

LILIA had lived through enough centuries to understand that patterns repeated, that love was cyclical, that every story had been told before in different costumes. He'd loved and lost in ways that modern hearts couldn't comprehend, had buried feelings so deep archaeologists would need new sciences to find them. So when you sparked something in his ancient heart, he'd approached it with the wisdom of someone who knew better than to rush, better than to push, better than to repeat the mistakes of several lifetimes. You were refreshingly unpredictable in your reactions to him. Where others found him unsettling or amusing in turns, you found him fascinating—asking about historical events he'd lived through, challenging his perspectives with modern ideas he hadn't considered, treating his age as experience rather than antiquity. You made him feel both ancient and renewed, like a story being retold in a language that finally did it justice. He courted you in old ways disguised as new—leaving subtle tokens rather than grand gestures, building comfort through proximity rather than passion, telling you truths wrapped in jokes so you could choose which to believe. But while Lilia was playing the long game perfected over centuries, Idia Shroud was speed-running affection with the desperate efficiency of someone who'd memorized every possible dialogue tree. Where Lilia dropped hints like breadcrumbs through a forest, Idia left digital trails fluorescent with intention. Where Lilia's experience made him patient, Idia's anxiety made him urgent in ways that circumvented traditional courtship entirely. You found Idia's intensity endearing rather than overwhelming. His passionate rants about obscure interests, his elaborate theories about everything from ancient curses to modern gaming, his absolute inability to hide his feelings despite desperately wanting to. Where Lilia offered you curated pieces of himself, Idia accidentally gave you everything—every thought, every fear, every hope spelled out in text messages sent at 3 AM when his anxiety overwhelmed his self-control. The first time Lilia realized he'd underestimated the situation was when he found you in Idia's room—a sanctum even he rarely breached. You were there physically while Idia attended virtually through tablets, and somehow this strange hybrid of presence and absence worked.

You'd adapted to Idia's needs rather than forcing him to adapt to yours, and there was something beautiful in that accommodation that Lilia's centuries of experience hadn't accounted for. Idia created entire digital worlds for you—coded gardens that bloomed at your command, virtual spaces where you could exist together without the physical world's limitations, games designed specifically to make you smile. Where Lilia offered you history, Idia offered you futures limited only by imagination and processing power. Where Lilia had stories of what was, Idia had simulations of what could be. During one evening where Lilia had been teaching you ancient fae music, Idia had joined virtually, adding electronic accompaniments that shouldn't have worked but did. And you'd looked at the tablet with such affection, like Idia's digital presence was just as valid as Lilia's physical one, and Lilia had realized that love evolved with technology in ways his traditional approach hadn't considered. The worst part was watching you bridge Idia's isolation in ways Lilia never could. Not through patience or wisdom or centuries of experience, but through simple acceptance of his limitations as features rather than bugs. You entered Idia's digital world rather than trying to drag him into the physical one, and in doing so, you'd found a connection that transcended the binary of present or absent. When Idia finally managed a physical appearance—trembling, overstimulated, but there—you'd looked at him like he'd conquered kingdoms rather than just left his room. And Lilia understood that this was a different kind of love than he'd been offering—not the steady affection of ages but the fierce triumph of overcoming personal demons just to exist in the same space as someone you loved. Lilia could offer you centuries, but Idia offered you something more valuable—growth, change, the willingness to rewrite his entire code for compatibility with yours. Where Lilia's love was stable as stone, Idia's evolved like software updates, each iteration better configured for your needs. The ancient fae found himself in the peculiar position of being outmaneuvered by someone who could barely maintain eye contact, whose anxiety was palpable through screens, who loved with the graceless intensity of someone who'd never learned to hide their feelings because they'd never expected to have them. In his many lives, Lilia had learned that love wasn't about experience or time or even compatibility—it was about finding someone whose damage aligned with yours in ways that created something functional. And while his centuries of experience had taught him every conventional approach to romance, Idia's unconventional existence had created new paths Lilia hadn't known existed. So he withdrew with grace that looked like friendship, offered support that felt like blessing, and watched you navigate Idia's digital labyrinths with the dedication of someone who'd found home in unexpected places. Even ancient hearts, it seemed, could learn new ways to break.

IK I’VE BEEN GONE FOR LIKE A MONTH BUT I SWEAAAAR IM BACK FOR GOOD 🫩.

and the reason there r so many parentheses is cuz i’ve been reading My Husband by Maud Ventura and they’re like EVERYWHEREEEEEE, i guess i picked it up

(ㆀ˘･з･˘) : mannn some of these were so corny but yall seem to eat a lot of it up, so it’s not getting changed anytime soon lmao

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