Red stains atop white flowers⌠what fruits will come?
Welcome to my side of tumblr! I canât wait to share my writings with you!
Navigation: Masterlist(mixed fandom), Kin list <3, current events,
About me ?
Call me Mari, AA, nicknames, endearments- whatever you like! All terms are welcome apart from insults or slurs- get creative!
Who am I? Iâm female, queer, alternative and a minor (although I do still read and write nsft, if it makes you uncomfortable, simply dni) I love to trade headcannons, draw and write my favourite characters from various media (theirs a fav + kinnie list linked above if youâre curious!)
What do I do? You ask; I write, of course !! I write reader insert fanfiction for loads of fandoms- donât be scared to ask if I write for yours! I typically take on a romantic, flowery wording and focus my writing on accurate character depictions and non-sexual intimacy (although I am progressing into nsft fiction aswell)
Other Info⌠I LOOVEEE FASHIONâ Iâm huge into alternative fashion and all creative expressions <33 I also love music!! Especially industrial snd visual kei genres. I draw, watch shows, play games, write poetry as well as fanfiction and adore my current focus of keeping a commonplace book. I care for plants (partial inspiration for my new theme) my favourites are the venus fly trap, magnolias, lilies, red carnations and corspse flowers, although I adore all plants.
Rules / Requesting
Requests are best sent through my ask boxâ but dmâs work fine too !!
While requesting, be mindful that I retain the right to reject any uncomfortable suggestions. With that in mind, here are basic rules:
Requests must include character, genre(fluff,smut,angst) and any promptâ prompts can range from detailed paragraphs to single sentences- whatever you prefer!
Please be wary when requesting nsft worksâ I donât engage with heavier kinks such as cnc, incest/step-cest, or extreme bdsm so please donât request these topics. (I have no problem with minor bdsm with constraints and such, but I avoid heavier subjects like gun of knife play out of personal preference)
General blog behaviour:
Iâm open for constructive criticisms! Comments and dmâs alike are greatly encouraged so that I can improve! Donât be shy to share any tips or critiques.
Regular DNI rules apply to this blog- no racism, homophobia, classism, or otherwise xenophobia is welcome in my garden. I donât tolerate support of war, crime or frankly any unkindness here on this pageâ the solar garden is a safe space for everyone- as is most of tumblr. Letâs keep it this way.
Navigation / Tagging
To organise my posts, Iâm going to tag certain posts with different blog tags:
#AABater1es-Fauna = these cover announcements, events, important posts- any blog-community posts will be under this tag.
#AABater1es-Mar1! = any of my responses to asks, etc. Itâs the general yap tag.
And of course, my regular writings lack these tags, and instead will only use their fandom tags.
As for Taglistsâ just send a message, ask or comment and just say youâd like to be tagged in works for that fandom, character or just generally for my blog <3
Pairing(s): reader insert, romantic- Jason The Toymaker x reader, Laughing Jack x reader, Candypop x reader
Warnings!! : Jealousy, yandere themes (theyâre creepypasta- and apparently healthy isnât in their vocabulary), codependency(mild?),
A/N: small set of head cannons for my fav creeps! I havenât been able to write much recently but theyâre haunting me so I had to get smth down :p
Jason The Toymaker:
Instead of a heartbeat, when you lay on his chest you can hear the gentle tune of his music-box.
His âheartâ doesn't speed up the way a human heart does but instead his song plays slightly louder
-> so much so that it can be heard just standing beside him when he's especially flustered.
Jason is a very co-dependent lover, always craving to be attached at the hipâ and he expects the same from his lover. He overthinks often too, leading to jealousy of the idea of another man that heâs made up in his head.
Heâs easy to anger- overprotectiveness, jealousy and co-dependency makes for a ticking time bomb of a man.
Regardless of how easy he is to set offâ he refuses to argue with you. He gets mad, of courseâ and itâs visceral, screaming, thrashing and tearing until his workshop is a crime scene once more⌠â but when it comes to you heâll instead become avoidant- preferring to go quiet and huffy or even isolating himself for days rather than risk scaring his beloved.
As fitting for a toymaker, Jason made a doll in the image of his loverâ itâs a darling item, delicate and more intricate than anything you could think possible. Its accuracy is uncanny.. every minuscule detail pinpoint to perfection- down to the sparkle of its eyes and the freckles of its body.
-> itâs a small doll despite that, quaint enough to sit at the head of his desk as he worksâ keeping him company until he has the real thing by his side again.
He makes a smaller version first, until it no longer compares to his lover- then a life-size model is in order⌠anything to ease his worries.
Laughing Jack:
Jack has arms too long not to put them to use, and what better use is there than holding his darling?
-> I imagine his fingertips reach his mid-calf⌠so freakishly long; meaning they wrap around your torso almost twice each⌠Safe to say youâve got the prettiest, black and white striped blanket for bedtime !!
Speaking of which- total cuddle bug when it comes time to sleep! I donât think Jack needs sleep, being made as an angelic(?) toy originally, but he chooses to lay beside you all night as a comfort to himself.
-> I donât think I have to point out the major attachment and abandonment issues this clown has.. but feeling the breathing, beating heart of his loved one against him all night is enough to finally lull him out of his constant fear and paranoia.
Definitely the type to enjoy rubbing your noses together in a cute type of kiss, only his nose makes it difficult⌠I saw someone on tiktok head cannon his nose to be bendy- kinda like a doorstoper and that just makes this funnier to me !!
His nose makes regular kisses difficult to begin withâ craning your neck at an awkward angle is the only option. On top of that- this freakishly tall creep always scoops you up for a kiss! He knows heâs too tall to kiss normally, but heâs more than happy to adapt if it means a few more smooches :)
Candypop:
He never really considered the possibility of him having a lover.. not since he fused with Terrors anyway. And yet here he is, and heâs never been happier.
Sees his s/o as his best friend, wants to spend every moment together even if itâs in silence..
Candy rarely tires of conversation, with anyone, but especially not with his lover. When he does go quiet itâs nothing short of eerie⌠seeing your giant, jingling jester stare into a wall lifelessly isnât exactly a comforting sight when you first stumble across itâŚ
-> The quickest way to recharge his battery is to just sit with him. Much to the surprise of many- as much as he loves jokes he would much prefer to lay with his most trusted in silence until heâs ready to run his gorgeous mouth again.
This demon is shameless, and has no restrictions on flirting. Any time, any place, the moment a witty line enters his head itâs straight off his tongue. He lives for entertainment, and finds it in the fear of his victims all the way to the flush of his darlingâs face.
Considering how many âwivesâ heâs had in the past, marriage, children and promise of domestic life mean nothing to him. There wonât be a wedding.. unless you really want one.. but regardless, even without a bride and groom, rings and bouquets⌠heâs sworn himself to you; heart, body and soul, forever.
-> No ring can bind a couple as inevitably as a demonâs will can, anyway. Nothing will separate you now that heâs found how sweet love can be⌠heâll make sure of it.
âNo signalâ deviders by the lovely @kodaswrld and the darling black lace dividers by @strangergraphics !! <33
HOLY SHIT. I absolutely adore how descriptive the Rook fic is. I also liked the mutual orgasm at the end quite a bit... Reader just loves him too much, as Rook does them.
AWHHHH Yesss they absolutely adore eachother!! Rook absolutely deserves someone who can pour as much love into him as he give out <33
Iâm so so sooo happy you liked it! I was really nervous with it being my first nsft fic but I think it turned out pretty good! Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts it means the world !!
ROOK HUNT MY BELOVEDDDD canât believe rook fans get out freaked we need to fix this (but this is my first time writing smutâ limited freak-o-meter until skill unlocked)
Pairing: Rook Hunt (twst) x reader
CWs: afab/fem!reader, obsessive? Idk itâs Rook, first time writing smut bare with me, minor predator/prey reference(again itâs Rook), oral (fem receiving), multiple mutual orgasms, unprotected sex, rook has no pull out game
Translations: mon coeur = my heart, ma trĂŠsor = my treasure, ma chĂŠrie = my dear/darling, mon dieu = my god, mon chou= my sweet/sweetheart. Forgive grammar mistakes (fem/masc changes) my french is rough around the edges :)
âOhh⌠mon coeur..â
The words part his lips as an aching gasp, sweet and longing as the sun glazing morning dew. His hands, sweltering, strong, curl around your thighs, settling over the skin with a gentleness only he could know.
A kiss, pressed into the plush of your stomach. The flutter of blonde lashes breathtaking as he melts into your skin. A hunter has no business breaking down like so⌠no reason beyond his bleeding heart to place kiss after kiss into your flesh, mumbling out whispered praises far closer to prayers.
He sinks down, eyes glowing in the candlelight. Another kiss, burning now, against your waistband.
âThere is no treasure finer⌠no greater gift.â He breathes, fingertips trailing over the lace before he guides it down, down, to your ankles and across the sheets before it ends on the hardwood floors.
Heat pours from his palms as they inch higher, returning to their perch on your thighs- if only to pull them around his scalp.
Another kiss, searing, atop your eager bundle of nerves. Passion, love, seeping through his lips with every touch. Kisses, flicks, he progresses swiftly, trailing his tongue through your slick, plunging inside for a tasteâŚ
âMmh..â He buries himself deeper, eyes fallen shut it bliss. The bed gives him away, creaking quietly beneath his subtle thrusts. How cute⌠getting off between your legs.
He worships from the inside. Tongue made for loving, stretching your leaky, sweetened walls apart. Licking and kissing and eating like a man starved. âMa cherie.. so sweet..â he cries out, gasping for air and blinking the adoring haze from his eyes. Sweet? Sweet, he claims, as if he werenât the one giving so generously. As if he werenât the one losing his breath to your cunt.
It doesnât take long, not with a man so devote to your pleasure. He makes quick work of you- knees shaking, thighs wrapped âround his skull and yet thereâs no complaint. Rook cradles your hips, burying his maw into you, lapping every drop. Itâs steaming, dizzying⌠you can feel the thoughts melting from your head, the tension spilling from your chest- tying a sugary knot in your stomach.
And then it snaps.
He coaxes it out with the tender promise of pleasure. Deeper, hotter, stronger. It washes over you in waves- scorching ecstasy flowing through you, drenching his lips between your shaking thighs. And- by god- Rook really was made for loving⌠made to kiss your stress away through your dripping cunt and drink your syrupy arousal until neither of you had a thought in your skulls.
He sighs in delight, rocking slowly still, hips rolling into the bed. The sheets are damp now, from the both of you, but the feeling is ignored for this sight, Rookâs hair astray, cum dripping off his lips and over his chin, down the curve of his throat⌠And his cheeks- red, puffy and streaked. Tears had been shed, the reason clear as he burrows into your thigh, letting out shuttered breaths between quivering kisses. â..hah.. mon trĂŠsor..â he slurs, splayed out in your lap as he grinds into the sheets. â⌠I- oh.. love-â
âShh.. I know, I love you too.â You coo, carding through his hair, blond locks splitting around your fingers, knots falling apart under your focus, just as the rest of him does.
He chokes- some noise caught between a moan and a gasp. He clings tighter, fingers shaking along your skin, hips twitching forward again and again. Desperate and yearning, fresh tears tumbling down his freckled cheeks. â-dieu.. mon dieu.. mon dieu..â he babbles, emerald irises fighting to stay on yours. He loses, a pathetic whimper choking out his throat as his eyes roll into his skull.
His cock twitches, sweltering, as it pumps out his load. Throbbing and crying out pearly beads of white, trembling out droplets before the dam bursts- sticky streams of pleasure leak out of him, staining his sheets with the evidence of passion. His eyes- dewy viridian hues wet and delirious- rolled back and fluttering. His mouth, slick and drooling, wears arousal like a gloss, lips parted in a pretty little âoâ.
âTrĂŠsor, belle, amourâ ohhh- Fuuckk..â he spews, a broken record. Repeating cracked, wobbling adorations between brainless whimpers. Tears stain his cheeks, rolling down your neck as he nestles himself there. All the while, thump, thump, thump, against your depths. His cock- sweet and desperate as Rook himself- spilling lengths of syrupy arousal with every stroke.
Heâs rough. Despite the poetry tumbling from love-drunken lips. He pins. Youâre prone against his bed- sobbing out into plush pillows and leaking over designer sheets. Rook makes loveâ but he still cages you like prey, your back pressed to his chest as he fucks into you. Heâs flush against you- not an inch apart except for his hips, hitting harder, faster, splitting you apart.
Full, is a suiting word, stuffed another. Youâre left drooling- from both ends, a mix or spit, slick and the combined orgasms spill from your cunt with every thrum of his hips.
He calls to you again, murmuring hiccuping praises between kisses to your throat. Hot, searing presses while his hips burn into yours, rocking with the strength of a hearth and the passion of a blaze. Rookâs arms strung taught as the bow he wields, laced around your body, palms burning with his love as they pin you back into him. He buries deeper. Melding your flesh together, binding your hearts, merging your souls.
âAhâ chou- darlingâŚâ he pleads, hips twitching, rhythm faltering. Every searing clench, every sugared moan has him teetering on the edge of orgasm. His hold tightens, angled thrusts turn to messy rolling- humping really. Anything to feel your embrace when heâs so, so close..
His hand reaches lower, abandoning the flesh of your waist to rub at your swollen clit. He places kiss after kiss to your throat- his body wrapped around yours. Rook whines- broken mewls and quivering breaths against your shoulder. âCouerâ mon couerâ please dear- I- oh!ââ
Itâs timed perfectly.
He spills, red tip pulsing, filling, pouring out streams of hot cum straight into your cunt as it tightens- fluttering, leaking, begging for more. White flashes take over your sight, stars lining your vision until your eyes flutter shut. Your knees buckle, thighs quaking into the sheets with every pulse. Rook does too, collapsed onto you and grinding- as if he could plunge his cock any deeper than he already has. ââŚbeauâ beautiful..â he whispers through swollen lips.
Thereâs a moment of quiet, flustered breaths. The simple rise and fall of Rookâs chest, while heâs still twitching ever so slightly inside. The moment is soft. Gentle in the press of his lips to your jaw the cradle of his hands to your form. And thenâŚ
âJust once more, ma chouâ he promises, âLet me feel you⌠just once more.â He swears.
But with a man with love so undying as Rook Hunt, once more could never suffice.
Lowkey the quickest fic Iâve written⌠mildly concerning. Any advice greatly appreciated (I have no clue how smut should be written send help)
Character divider by myself and the black lace dividers by @strangergraphics !! <33
It was your biggest fear, and little did you know, it was Cater's as well. It was morbidly funny the way you both would dance around your insecurities, being both clingy yet distant in fear that you would be too much. One moment you'd both be smothering each other with cuddles and affection, both wondering how much longer this may last, then the next there would be some distance, tense smiles and forced laughs as you wonder if this was it.
The wishy washy moments become too much for you, and as much as you want to cling onto him like you have nothing to lose, you know you are going insane with the dynamics in your relationship. So, instead of talking it out like mature adults, you decide to pull the plug, bring both your biggest fears into reality, and it's only then when the facade breaks.
Tears fall down both your cheeks as he kneels down before you, arms wrapped around your waist as he hold onto you like you're the only thing anchoring him (you are). He's a blubbering mess, asking what he did wrong, what he could do to fix it, how he can be who you want him to be. It's wrong, this is not what loving relationships should be built on. You know you shouldn't continue, this isn't healthy for either of you, you both should work on yourselves before trying again, but that part deep in your heart that is begging you to be selfish, just for once, wins over any rational thinking.
"I just want you, Cater," You admit, kneeling to meet his embrace. Your heart flutters as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, you feel content as you gently rake your nails gently through his hair. Cater doesn't fully believe you, he doesn't think he would believe anyone who said those words, but it seems that trying to be the person you want wasn't working, so he'd try. He'd try to be himself for you, even if he doesn't fully know who that is anymore.
He'd do anything to keep you with him, be anyone. And if you wanted him, who was he to deny you that?
Summary: A WISE operative is assigned to infiltrate Yuri Briar under the guise of a harmless relationship.
Warnings: Obsessive and controlling behavior (This is Yuri, what else is new), implied imprisonment, handcuffs, mission gone wrong.
Authorâs Notes: I was astonished to find out how little yandere fic there is about him.
Yuri Briar.
The name had already circulated through WISE channels. Yuri wasn't just a cog in the Ostanian bureaucracy; he was a wolf in civil servant's clothing, a high-ranking SSS officer masking his teeth behind a desk at the Foreign Ministry.
That was where your assignment began; you didn't like it.
Not the mission, you were no stranger to grim work, and you'd done far colder things for far less reason. But this was different. You were being asked to step willingly into the orbit of a man described, with zero hyperbole, as a loose cannon.
"Yuri Briar is... emotionally driven," Loid Forgerâknown to the agency as Twilightâhad noted during the briefing. "Highly loyal and intensely reactive when it comes to personal attachments."
A quieter addition, almost as an afterthought:
"He's sharp."
In the photographs, a man with crimson red eyes caught mid-expression in most of them. There was something restless in the way he held himself, like tension coiled just beneath the surface, waiting for a reason.
A man so dedicated to his cover that his own sister never suspected the SSS badge in his pocket. That was your target. To catch him, you couldn't just be a face in the crowd or a passing neighbor; those were threads he could easily snip. You had to become something permanent that he couldn't simply cut ties with when the wind changed.
"Your task is to insert yourself into his life as a romantic interest," Twilight had instructed, his voice devoid of sentiment. "If he keeps sniffing around me, every one of our active operations is at risk."
"And the secondary objective?"
He said simply. "His clearance within the SSS is a goldmine. Siphon whatever data you can, but do it quietly."
Of course.
It was never about a direct hit.
Your real pastâthe one where you grew up in the cold, grey shadows of the Berlint underworldâwas now buried under layers of a sunny, slightly clumsy newcomer to his neighborhood and the unassuming archives job.
_
You found him exactly where the file said you would.
It was almost disappointing.
The scene around him was perfectly, boringly normalâthe evening sun casting long shadows over a street of unhurried people and idle chatter.
His posture was plain, his clothing forgettable, just like any other face in the Berlint rush hour. Looking at Yuri Briar then, it was terrifyingly easy to believe the lie, that he was nothing more than the unremarkable bureaucrat he pretended to be.
You watched him for a moment, cataloguing the details you'd been told to expect and the ones you hadn't. Then, you approached anyway; hesitation had never once saved anyone in your line of work.
"Excuse me," you said.
His reaction was instantaneousâa pivot that was far too alert for a simple clerk:
"Yes?" he replied.
You forced a small, practiced smile to your lips. "I'm sorry, but you look so familiar. Have we met?"
It was a clumsy hook, one you'd usually be embarrassed to use, but it served its purpose as a non-threatening entry point.
"I doubt it." Yuri didn't bite it, already shifting his attention away.
"I'm sorry, that was incredibly awkward," you said, offering a look that was both sheepish and sincere.
"...Do you do this often?" he asked.
"...Not usually," you said, which was technically true in a way that didn't matter.
He seemed to accept that, if only because it wasn't worth pressing.
"I'm in a hurry," he stated flatly. "If you have business, be direct."
And then, with a slight nod that was more dismissal than courtesy. He moved to brush past you, but you weren't ready to let the thread snap yet.
"Waitâ"
"Would you like to go out with me?"
The words slipped out, jarring against the mood. Yuri halted mid-stride. When he turned around, the professional facade had faded, giving way to a sharp gaze filled with suspicion.
"...Absolutely not," he said.
You stared at him, feeling a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic that you were failing. Again. Twilight would have shared a witty story about Ostanian politics, while you're going to get a restraining order.
"Okay, that's fair." You nodded slowly, shifting your weight, then immediately shifted it back, realizing too late that you were fidgeting like a guilty toddler. No wonder they stuck me at this 'low-risk' desk, you thought bitterly. It's obvious WISE sent you on this mission because they were short on staff.
So you decided to double down on the disaster:
"I could just start over, pretend none of that happened."
There was a tiny crease between his eyebrows now. He wasn't even angry yet; he just looked deeply concerned for your mental well-being.
"...It already happened." Yuri blinked; it was a very judgmental blink.
"Yes," you said, with a small, strained smile. "I'm aware. I just meantâwe could both agree to ignore it."
"No."
The 'no' hit like a brick, your professional dignity fraying at the edges, seconds away from a total meltdown. But retreat wasn't an option in the WISE handbookâespecially not when Yuri was already pivoting to leave.
If he walked now, this disaster of an opening would be all you'd ever have.
"...I think you're interesting," you said.
Yuri stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't respond yet, waitingâperhapsâfor whatever strange behavior would come next
"Interesting?" he repeated, his tone flat. "Based on what, exactly?"
"Based on the way you handled that stray cat by the entrance this morning," you said. Since you couldn't pass as a master spy, you leaned hard into the role of a very nosy, very bored neighbor.
"You've been watching me?" His eyes narrowed just slightly.
"I live in 4B," you said. "I moved in last week. My kitchen window overlooks the main entrance, and since the radiator in my unit makes a sound like a dying bird, I spend a lot of time standing by that window and saw you... well, very efficiently negotiating with a tabby for hallway access. It was the most disciplined interaction I've seen all week."
"...That's a strange thing to notice."
"I notice strange things."
Another pause.
He didn't smile, but the predatory edge in his eyes flickered, replaced by a glint of genuine, bewildered intrigue. He'd spent his career dealing with two types of people: terrified suspects and scripted diplomats. You were neither. It was so absurd it was disarming.
"Disciplined," he echoed, a small, huffing sound escaping him that was close to a laugh. "4B, you said? The radiator in 4B has been broken for years; the landlord is a cheapskate. You have to hit the pipe twice with a heavy object to settle the valve."
"Oh, thank you, I'll try that method later," you blinked, letting a look of genuine surprise wash over your face. "I'll go back to my whistling radiator now. Sorry for being the 'weird neighbor' on day seven."
You started to turn away, but you felt the air change. He hadn't moved to leave yet.
"Wait," Yuri said. "If you're going back to that building anyway... it's on my way."
"Oh... right. Yeah, sure," you stammered, your voice higher than usual. "I'd like that. I mean, it would be weird if we both walked in the same direction exactly ten paces apart like two strangers stalking each other, wouldn't it?"
You immediately wanted to swallow your tongue. Stalking? Why on earth did you use the word "stalking" in front of a counter-intelligence officer?!
You fell into step beside him, your heart was drumming against your ribs so hard you were certain Yuri, with his SSS hound-dog ears, could hear it echoing off the surrounding buildings. And you knew deep in your gut that this ten-minute walk was going to be the longest ten minutes of your entire (unimpressive and currently crashing) career at WISE.
"You never answered my question," he said.
You glanced at him. "Which one?"
"Do you do this often?"
"...No," you said again. "Just today."
That, too, was true.
_
Your relationship was nothing more than a series of carefully timed "accidental" run-ins.
You made sure to cross paths with him in the dim hallway or at the front entrance at least once a day. At first, it was just a quick, polite nod as you pretended to be distracted by a heavy bag of groceries or a stack of mail. Slowly, those nods turned into small, clumsy acknowledgments. You'd drop your keys right as he walked by, or offer a shy, tired smile after a long shift at the archives. So he began to return the gesturesâa stiff, professional tip of the head or a brief "Good evening."
Then the turning point came when you snapped the valve on your radiator on purpose. It had cost you twelve minutes of frozen toes and a bruise on your elbow from crawling under the unit, worth it. Yuri spent the next hour on your floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, attacking the plumbing. When he finally finished, you handed him a towel and told him he was "the most reliable man in the building," he flushed a deep, embarrassed red.
It's the first time the SSS mask slips.
After the radiator incident, you started small, placing a Tupperware container of cookies left at his door. Then, faked running into him at the local market and asking for his "professional" opinion on which brand of canned soup.
It wasn't as if he lacked options. Objectively, Yuri Briar was the epitome of Ostanian beautyâsharp, aristocratic features paired with a youthful glow that suggested he still believed in the inherent goodness of the State. He was the kind of man mothers pointed out in the street. At the Ministry, younger female clerks often swooned when he walked by, and youâd seen more than one woman on the street coyly drop a handkerchief in his path.
But there was a reason Yuri Briar was still single.
The girls would stay for the face, but they fled for the personality. By the first day, she would be charmed by his looks. By the second, sheâd realize that behind those handsome features sat a man whose only true hobby was a borderline-religious devotion to his sister. By the third, he would inevitably say something so socially tone-deaf or subtly menacing that sheâd leave a "itâs not you, itâs me" note and change her phone number.
And if you were being honest, if WISE hadn't been paying your rent and the peace of the East wasn't hanging in the balance, you would have been the first one out the door.
But where every other woman saw a collection of red flags, you had to see an opportunity. So you forced yourself to listen to his hour-long rants about Yorâs cooking as if it were the most fascinating topic in the world, and noted when he mentioned his brother-in-law, Loid, his jaw clenched so hard you feared for his teeth. By absorbing the personality traits that drove everyone else away, you became the only one "cool" enough to handle the real him.Â
And Yuri, starved for a connection that didn't require him to hide his intensity, fell for the lie hook, line, and sinker.
But he never tell you about his actual job, the most he would say was that his work at the Ministry was "exhausting but noble." He'd lean back on your sofa and vent about how annoying the office paperwork was while you rubbed his shoulders. You feel the tension in his musclesâtension from a man who spent his afternoon in a soundproof room at SSS HQâbut you just hum and tell him how he is working so hard for his country.
The best information never came when Yuri was careful.
Instead of asking about troop movements, you asked about his stressful job. He'd complain about his coworkers being sent on a "long trip to the countryside," and by that night, you'd be sending the location of a secret military exercise back to WISE.
Other times, you'd purposefully spill water near his open briefcase. While you both rushed to clean up the mess, your trained eyes would quickly memorize the logos on his papers or the coded names on his desk calendar, documenting every move he made.
Once a week, you meet Loid in the back of a crowded grocery store or a dim park. You hand him scraps of paper while pretending to check the price of eggs.
"SSS is shifting focus to the eastern docks," you whisper.
Loid's expression remains neutral, but you can tell the Intel is high-grade.
_
Until it started over a bowl of onion soup.
Yuri was sitting across from you, his jacket draped over the chair, looking every bit the weary but happy civil servant. He was in the middle of a rhapsodic praise of your cooking when you let it slip.
"The neighbor in 3C again," you muttered, stirring your bowl. "He cornered me in the hallway this morning. Apparently, my trash bag leaked a drop on the linoleum, and he spent ten minutes screaming at me, threatened to have me evicted by the end of the week."
You watched Yuri over the rim of your spoon. For a fraction of a second, the light in his eyes turned into a void that made hardened criminals weep in SSS interrogation rooms.
Then, the mask snapped back into place. He beamed at you, his expression softening into a look of pure concern. "Oh, how terrible for you!" he exclaimed, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. "Don't worry yourself. I'm sure the authorities will realize he's just a confused, bitter old man."
The next morning, there was no radio blaring from 3C.
When you left for your "job," you saw two men in nondescript grey overcoats carrying boxes out of the apartment. An official seal had been slapped across the door frame.
"Routine background check," one of the men barked when he saw you lingering. "Inconsistencies in his citizenship filings potentially tie to Westalis. He's been taken in for clarification."
That evening, Yuri arrived with a box of expensive chocolates and a bouquet of lilies. He looked refreshed, almost glowing, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"I heard about your neighbor," he said immediately, stepping inside before you could fully register his expression. "That must've been very stressful for you."
He sat at your table, watching you with adoring eyes while you served tea. His hands were pristineânails trimmed, skin scrubbed clean of the ink and sweat of the office. He looked so appealing, so warm, a perfect picture of Ostanian youth.
"But isn't it wonderful? The neighborhood is finally as peaceful as you deserve," he whispered, his voice dripping with a terrifying, earnest sweetness. "You're the most important thing in the world to me, second only to my sister. I won't let anything disrupt your happiness."
You smiled back, your clumsy neighbor mask perfectly in place, while internally you were already drafting the update to Loid:Â Target is beginning to use SSS assets to 'sanitize' the Reader's social environment. Subject shows signs of extreme possessiveness.
_
Yuri's clinginess had taken on a feverish quality. He didn't just want to spend time with you; he seemed to want to consume your time. During dinner, he was the picture of appealing warmth, pining for your attention like a puppy, begging for praise just like he did with Yor.
But if you stayed late at your job, he was waiting on your doorstep with a look of pure, unbridled distress, convinced you've been kidnapped or, worse, that you've grown bored of him.
"I was worried," he'd say, his voice soft but his eyes searching your face for the slightest tremor of a lie. "The streets aren't safe these days. I almost called in a... a few favors to come looking for you."
He began to insist on walking you everywhere; he'd hold your hand tightly like he never wants to let go. Every time you laughed at a joke from a male coworker or waved to a stranger, you could feel Yuri's sharp gaze that made the hairs on your neck stand up.
Those times like that, you would curse WISE under your breath.
Nothingânothing in the training manualsâhad prepared you for the absolute, unhinged psychological warfare of Yuri Briar's affection, which was enough to give a seasoned spy whiplash. You cursed the handlers who had handed you this file with a casual "he's a bit intense," and you especially cursed Twilight for that understated "emotionally driven" warning.Â
The nightmare finally arrived on a Friday evening.
"I told her!" Yuri exclaimed, seizing your shoulders. His grip pinned you in place like a steel shackle. "Sister is overjoyed. She wants to host us for dinner at the Forger apartment this weekend."
Your heart felt like it stopped entirely. The Forger house. The home of Loid Forgerâyour superiorâand his fake family.
"Yuri, isn't it a bit... soon?" you stammered, forcing the awkward smile. "I'm terrified of disappointing her."
"Disappointing her?" Yuri's voice dropped an octave, suddenly low and hauntingly serious. He trailed a hand up to caress your cheekâa gesture meant to be tender. "You are the greatest thing to happen to me after my sister. I want her to finally stop worrying about me."
He tilted his head, his gaze darkening. "Unless... you have a reason for not wanting to meet my family?"
"Of course not," you rushed to say, feeling the cold sweat prickle your skin. "I'm just... nervous."
Yuri instantly brightened, pulling you into a crushing hug. He buried his face in your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your hair with a terrifying intensity. "Don't be. I'll be right there. I'll protect you from that smug husband of hers. I just want the three of usâyou, me, and sisterâto be happy like this forever."
That night, you sent an emergency coded burst to Loid: "Target requesting family introduction. Direct collision at the Forger residence imminent. Subject exhibiting extreme instability and possessive behavior. Requesting contingency plan."
The air in the Forger apartment was so thick with lies it felt like it might explode.
Loidâor rather, Twilightâstepped forward with a perfectly practiced, friendly smile. Yuri's eyes immediately locked onto him with his usual pure hatred.
"A pleasure to finally meet you," Loid said, extending a hand. "Yuri hasn't stopped talking about his new neighbor."
"Likewise, Dr. Forger," you replied calmly. Your hand touched his for just a secondâa quick, professional greeting. Here were two WISE agents shaking hands right in the middle of the enemy's domestic fantasy. No one would have guessed that forty-eight hours ago, you had exchanged coded SSS troop movements in a grocery store.
"Oh, I'm so glad you could come!" Yor chirped, hurrying from the kitchen with a tray. She looked genuinely thrilled, her innocence acting as the only thing keeping the room from feeling like an interrogation cell. "Yuri is so sensitive, I was worried he'd never find someone as kind as you."
"S-SISTER! Don't say such things! Although... kind? Yes! She's very kind!" Yuri interjected, his voice rising with that manic edge. He pulled you closer, his knuckles brushing against your side. "I'm very lucky I found you before someone else did. I'd hate to think of you being 'kind' to anyone but me."
You felt Loid's gaze flicker to youâreading the tension in your shoulders, the way you were leaning slightly away from Yuri's overbearing heat. He saw the "clinginess" you had reported, and for a moment, you saw a flash of genuine concern in his eyes before the doting husband mask locked back into place.
Then, there was Anya, his adopted child.Â
She was sitting at the table, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates, darting between you and Loid.
"Anya? Is something wrong?" Yor asked, tilting her head.
"I... I want more cocoa," Anya squeaked, her voice trembling.
"So," Yuri said, his voice dropping into that appealing but dangerous tone as he looked at Loid. "How exactly is the hospital, Loid? Pretending to be busy while my sister does all the heavy lifting at home?"
"I assure you, Yuri, my work is quite demanding. It's a different kind of service to the state."
"Service? Please!" Yuri scoffed, leaning over the table, his face inches from Loid's. "You're a leech, Loid Forger! A leech on my sister's kindness!"
As Yuri continued his frantic, illogical rantâveering from Loid being a loser to the way he cut his steakâyou finally understood why Twilight was so desperate for you to join this mission.
The dinner proceeded like a high-stakes chess match. Every time Yuri fed you a bite of food or whispered how much he loved you, you could feel Loid judging you in silence. But then, in a rare quiet moment while Yor was busy getting dessert in the kitchen, the atmosphere shifted abruptly.
"There's one thing that's quite interesting," Yuri said, his voice low and steady, a tone that made Anya drop her spoon onto the floor. "I noticed that you always pause for a beat before answering personal questions."
Your heart seemed to stop. Opposite you, Loid was raising his wine glass to his lips, but you could clearly see his fingers tightening until his veins stood out. It was an elementary mistakeâthat tiny delay when your brain has to sift through a pile of fake memories to find the right lie.
"When I asked about your hometown, or your mother's old habits..." Yuri tilted his head, his eyes narrowing inquisitively. "That silence lasted about 0.5 seconds. It was as if you were..."
Loid gently set his glass down, preparing for the worst-case scenario. He shot you a cold, warning look.
"Oh, Yuri, I'm sorry," you said, your voice trembling slightlyâa genuine tremor you didn't even have to fake. "It's just... sometimes those memories are painful. I told you I don't like talking about my old family, right? It feels like I'm just hurting myself all over again."
You lowered your head, your shoulders shaking slightly. For a moment, Yuri's inner detective fought with his heart, but his obsession won out.
"I'm sorry," Yuri said, immediately becoming frantic as he grabbed your hand, his cold attitude disappearing instantly. "I shouldn't have pushed you like that. It's just... I want to know everything about you, every tiny detail. I don't want there to be any gaps between us."
Anya, who had been holding her breath the entire time, suddenly blurted out: "I... I need to go to the bathroom!" before bolting away.
Loid finally let out an incredibly discreet sigh of relief. The mission was working; Yuri was blissfully unaware of the carefully hidden truths swirling around. But when you spotted the "Secret Police" badge discreetly tucked within the lining of Yuri's coat, you realized exactly how high the stakes had become.
As the dinner ended, Yuri insisted on walking you the tiny distance back to your own door. Your mind raced with questions, each more daunting than the last.
What might happen if Yuri ever found out the truth?
If he discovered that the one person he allowed into his heartâthe person who held his secrets and rubbed his shouldersâwas the very thing he spent his life hunting. Would your artificial bond withstand such a revelation, or would it shatter completely?Â
You looked at him out of the corner of your eye as he hummed a tune, seemingly at peace. You knew the SSS dossiers by heart. You knew that Yuri Briar didn't do moderate emotions. In his world, there was no middle ground between total devotion and total destruction. Youâd seen how he treated Loid for the mere suspicion of making Yor unhappy. You were certain that when he found out you were a vermin from the West, his reaction wouldn't be just a typical heartbreak. No, it would be a violent outburst, like a loose cannon, and he wouldn't hesitate to break every bone in your handsâthe hands that touched his dear sisterâs dinner plate.
The air tonight was thick and static. Somewhere a few streets over, a dog barked twice and went silent.
_
It's 11 PM. You were sitting in a shadowed corner of the kitchen, the only light emanating from the tiny screen of a signal decoder. A signal from WISE headquarters was scrolling: "SSS Squad 4 is on the move... Need target confirmation..."
Right then, a faint click echoes from the lock. Your heart stopped. Only one person has a spare key (which he "borrowed" to make a copy, fearing you might have an emergency).
Click.
"Honey? Are you still awake?" Yuri's voice rang out.
In less than a second, your brain kicked into high gear. You can't turn the device off in time because it's in the middle of an automatic data wipe. You scrambled to grab the diary on the table, slamming it down over the decoder, and slumped your head over it as if you'd drifted off from exhaustion.
"Up late again?" he walked in, placing a hand on your shoulder. His hand lingered there, and you can feel your survival instincts screaming as he glanced at the pile of items on the table. "What are you writing?"
He reached out, intending to lift the diary. Your heart beats so hard you think it might rattle the wooden table. Right beneath that notebook, the decoder is still emitting tiny beepsâall it would take is for Yuri to lean his ear a few centimeters closer...
So you let out a soft groan, feigning a slow wake-up, and turned to wrap your arms around his waist, pinning the diary firmly under your arm.
"Yuri... you startled me," you said, your voice thick with sleep (and genuine terror). You buried your head against his stomach, physically blocking his view of the table. "I was just trying to plan the next dinner with Yor. I want everything to be perfect..."
Mentioning Yor is always the best way to paralyze Yuri's analytical mind.
"Goodness, you really are..." Yuri exhaled, his suspicion replaced by a touched smile. He strokes your hair, completely oblivious to the decoder finishing its wipe cycle right beneath your elbow. "You don't need to put so much pressure on yourself. She already loves you."
He pulled you onto his lap on the sofa, wrapping you in a crushing, familiar embrace. You could feel his heart thrumming against your back and the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder on his coatâa smell he always lied and said was "old Ministry paperwork."
"What did you do today?" Yuri whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I missed you. All day, I could only think about coming back here, back to you."
You offered a practiced, mindless answer about household chores. The diary is lying slightly askew across the table. You felt a surge of pride; you had played him perfectly. The mission was almost done, and Yuri was completely blinded by his own heart.
"I used to wonder why someone like you appeared in my life at exactly the right moment," he said while burying his face in the crook of your neck, his voice low and rich with emotion. "It felt like a miracle. Or like a perfectly calculated plan."
Your heart missed a beat, then you felt something cold and heavy snap shut around your wrists from behind.
You were already handcuffed.
"Don't be so tense," Yuri murmured with a soft, airy chuckle.Â
He reached the coffee table nearby, slowly and deliberately pulling out the WISE decoder underneath the diary. He set it aside, glancing at it as if it were a harmless toy, before turning his gaze back to you.
"I have to admit. Of all the things I expected to find when I started digging into your life, Westalis was the most⌠disappointing. I thought you were just keeping secrets, maybe a past lover or a debt. But a Westalian? One of them?"
He turned your face toward him, forcing you to meet his crimson eyes. You braced yourself for his supposed furious outburst, expecting him to scream at you, to call you a traitor, acting out the "reactive" personality Twilight had warned you about and you were aware of. But Yuri was perfectly composed. He didn't even look angry. To your astonishment, you even sensed a hint of tenderness in his eyes, which felt even more unsettling.
"It actually hurt, for a second." He places his hands on your shoulders, his grip firm enough to keep you seated. "The idea that every word you spoke was scripted by some handler at WISE. That the person I was falling for was just a ghost conjured up by the West to weaken me. Iâm disappointed in you for being so clichĂŠâand I'm disappointed in myself for being so blind to the stench of the West on your skin."
"A joke? Yuri, this... this isn't funny," you said, forcing a nervous, high-pitched laugh that sounded thin even to your own ears. You twisted your wrists slightly, letting the metal rattle against your skin. "Is this some kind of roleplay? Because it's a little too realistic."
You tried to keep your expression wide and confused, the picture of a bewildered girlfriend. You even managed a tiny, playful pout, leaning back against his chest.
"This is just an old radio part I found at the market... for the radiator! You know how it screeches." You looked at him with watery eyes, praying that if you just acted innocent enough, his obsession would override his training one last time. "Come on, Yuri. Take them off. It's hurting me, and we still have to finish planning your sister's dessert, remember?"
"The radiator," he repeated softly, and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "You really are committed to the bit, aren't you? It's almost a shame. I was starting to hope you'd be honest with me, just once, before I have to take you into the office."
You stopped struggling. The rattling of the handcuffs died away, leaving only the sound of the ticking clock on the wall. You let out a long, shaky breath and leaned your forehead against his, closing your eyes.
"Fine," you whispered, feigning a cracking voice. "You caught me. It was a mission. It was all a calculation from the very start."
You felt his hand pause in your hair, but he didn't pull away. You opened your eyes, looking directly into that crimson gaze, and forced a false tear to slip down your cheek.
"But Yuri... the radiator? The tea? The way I wait by the window, not for the 'cats,' but because I'm terrified you won't come home from one of those night shifts? WISE didn't teach me how to feel that. I was supposed to trap you, but I'm the one who ended up caught. I love you. Please, if you're going to take me in, just... stay like this for one more minute."
For a second, the mask of the SSS officer seemed to crumble completely.
Yuri's breath hitched, and his eyes softened with a look of pure, agonizing relief. He pulled you into a desperate, bone-crushing hug, burying his face in your shoulder.
"I knew it," he now looked like the man who fixed your radiatorâthe man who loved his sister, the man who was lonely. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry. You were just doing what you were told, weren't you? I've already imagined this a thousand timesâfinding out who you really are and finding a way to keep you anyway. The way you looked at me... it couldn't have been part of the job. It was real. Youâre real. Thank God, youâre real."
He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in what felt like a forgiving kiss.Â
"Hold still," he murmurs. His tone is the same one he used when fixing your radiator.
The chain between the cuffs shifts with a soft clink as he turns your hands slightly, inspecting the angle. His fingers brush over the reddened skin where the metal has already begun to chafe.
"âŚTheyâre too tight," he said quietly, more like to himself than to you. "You always did have small wrists. I noticed it the first time I saw youâhow fragile you looked. I should have accounted for that in the hardware."
"Please, Yuri, you donât have to do this," you breathed.
Yuri ignored your plea. He adjusted the position so the edge no longer ground against bone. Air returned to your wrists in a slow, aching rush. âThat's better, I donât like seeing you in pain,â
"Yuri, look at me," you pressed, hoping to touch upon his soft side. "If you ever cared about the time we spent together... just let me go."
He looked up then, his gaze unreadable. His hand brushed past the ring of keys, and for one heartbeat of pure, blinding hope, you thought you'd won.Â
Then, his hand dropped back into his pocket.Â
In one smooth, practiced motion, he clicked the device into a port on a small, black recorder he'd been hiding under his coat. He spoke into it with a flat, robotic voice:
acts of love, starring: VARKA â being the wife of mondstadt's famed grandmaster is akin to taking care of a big and clingy dog! but you won't trade it for the world. SFW!
varka adores you. he loves loudly, selflessly.
everyone he's ever met, even from all the way to nod-krai and inazuma, know about you. varka is an irritating chatterbox when it comes his wife, to the point it's become a defining trait for him. whenever he gets a chance, he makes sure to sneak in an anecdote about you. . .even if it doesn't have any connection to the current discussion.
the people of mondstadt are endeared by it. always amused by the ruckus he makes when his beloved is involved, and the way he fights for your name during those "who's the most beautiful in mondstadt?" debates in taverns? it's hilarious.
varka took those questions so seriously, got soo heated, that everyone had to add a specific rule: 'with the exception of the grandmaster's wife, of course'.
after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked â who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.
"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.
"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, youâ"
the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon â a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.
varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:
"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"
older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.
a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.
"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.
the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."
"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"
he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.
a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.
varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.
but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.
no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos â make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.
that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.
he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.
like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.
"hon! over here!"
you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.
"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.
you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.
"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy â ah, here let me.."
varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.
"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.
he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile â one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs â letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.
eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.
he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.
jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.
varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.
he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!
but he loves you.
he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .
it's different with you, it always is.
fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .
while writing.
he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.
he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper â and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.
sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something â he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.
perhaps long expeditions change people.
or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters â as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.
varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?
you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.
his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?
you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.
. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.
you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant â you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.
with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.
because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.
"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.
"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.
varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."
you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.
he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."
finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."
varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.
"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.
the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.
varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.
"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.
"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.
you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.
varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.
#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking â ....yes the phainon to varka pipeline is real and its coming FOR YOU. accept your fate. ive been obsessed with this man like holy shit. take this short drabble hehe.
fandoms would be a lot more peaceful if more people told themselves âokay but itâs fiction and it doesnât affect me or anybody in real life in any way, shape or form, and I can just block, mute, scroll past it as I pleaseâ every time they saw something they didnât like on the internet
yan!dating sim twst x reader. inexplicably, you awake in the dating sim âtwisted heartsâ as a run-out-of-the-mill side character. no worries, the love interests are already after yuu. you just gotta stay out of it all, right? đđđđ đ đđđ â book 3 prelude. previous part here.
⥠âWell, you look positively thrilled to be attending this class, pup.â
 ⥠Contrary to Professor Crewelâs words, you have the biggest scowl stretching your lips down, into a glower, into the most deepest suit of misery etched onto your face. Your eyes are foggy, words misty, and just as you hear Yuuâs foothall reverberate down the halls â the familiar bickering between Ace and Deuce, nearing you slowly but surely â you plead your case.Â
â.. Hide me.â
âI beg your pardon?â
Your head dips low. Since when were you type to stoop so low as to seek asylum from a first year, magicless, homeless student? âHide me. From Yuu. Please. Iâll turn in all my missing assignments. Please.â
⥠Thatâs exactly how youâve found yourself concealed behind his height, well-cloaked in whatever edges of his fur coat find you. The room is rife with suffocating quietness as the door creaks, slowly, taking its time, just so you can feel Yuuâs fingers graze the wood, and their eyes scavenge the vicinity for a trace of you. Closing your eyes tight-shut, you strengthen your grip on the fabric. Just this once - just this once - and youâll survive.Â
⥠âProfessor, have you seen them?â
âĄÂ Them. They donât name you, and painfully so, Crewel immediately recognizes who theyâre talking about. Nameless, colourless, faceless. There is no one here other than you.Â
âAs usual, no.â
âI can see them behind you.â
⥠Unfortunately, your breathing gave it away, and you're not exactly invisible, so you make do with just legging it again and stumbling into whatever room you get your hands on.
âĄÂ Finally you come across a good one, and remember one thing: donât breathe.Â
⥠Donât breathe. Donât let a single hint of your presence scrape against the floor, or taper off your lips. Donât breathe, donât look anywhere past the rows of ornate shelves or the very confused ghost librarian. Donât breathe as you shimmy inside a cranny of dust, untouched newspapers and shield the crown of your head forevermore. Donât breathe as you squeeze your eyes shut and imagine yourself anywhere else.
⥠Donât breathe when the door creaks open. A slow, inevitable croak gliding against polished panes.
âHi, mister. Have you seen -- well, uh -- a Scarabian student anywhere?â
⥠Donât breathe even when you know itâs pointing straight at you. Traitor.Â
âHey..â
⥠You donât look up.
âWhyâre you hiding from me?â Behind your lids, you imagine the dark cusps of their irises gleaming with sincerety. âIâm sorry. Did I do something wrong? Did I scare you?â
⥠You donât like it. You donât like the way theyâre talking to you, slow and genuine and all too dehumanizing, as though youâre but a small rabbit in their eyes. They donât know, they donât know youâre an actual human being - one with conscience, humanity and awareness. They donât know you know them, and they donât know who you really are, all thatâs left in their eyes is a perfect little image of a non-playable character - one thatâs bound to come in their hands, in a way, or a thousand others.Â
In lieu of a response, you clamp your lips tight shut. Your eyes cinch into a glare; one you hope is full of the aversion you feel. âI thought I made it clear I want nothing to do with you.â
⥠You donât know what to do. Give in. Youâre doomed. Rebel. Youâre doomed. Earning Yuuâs affection, or earning their loathing - neither option is good.Â
â...Oh.â
âListen,â You crack one eye open in spite of yourself. Yuu looks devasted - you have to save yourself. Brain straining for excuses, you spout out a career-ending one. â... Itâs not you, itâs just that..â
...
â...That?â
âThat youâre not my type.â
⥠Yuu blinks - okay, this is your chance. You canât just go into things that can be changed, look into things that are definitie. Look into.. ah, what would particularly steer your way clear of them?
⥠You look at the schedule in their hands. First year, huh?
âIâm into older people.â
â...How much older?â
You scramble. âA lot older.â
â...Like a year?â
âNo. I like mature people.â
Their shoulders relax - you take that as a bad sign. "I can be mature."
"No, no. They need to look like they have taxes."
"...Taxes."
"Taxes. I also like people who are tall."
Yuu visibly straightens.
"Very tall."
Yuu visibly un-straightens.
"Like, concerningly tall. Like if they stand up too fast they're a threat to low ceilings."
"..."
"And older."
"..."
"And emotionally unavailable."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Actually, preferably unhealthy. I like people who look at me and immediately decide I'm none of their business."
Yuu's face falls, a slope to their brows as they frown, unknowingly, to themselves. What youâve just said might just give you some time to prepare, because you, and any sane person in the world, know that a simple barrier like a preference wonât stop them. Thatâs how Yuu has always been. In a way, they need to get to you, no matter what. Thatâs how it always will be. "I like people who forget I exist."
It falls further, you realize. Something, the one thing, actually, that the latter is not able to do.
"I like people who don't text back. Oh, and they must have weird hobbies.. Like birdwatching, or growing mush-â
Ah. Hands clasped over your mouth, with horror, do you realize youâve begun matching your interest to a certain Mountain Lovers president. Mission abort, the withdrawal symptoms must really be getting to you, huh?
"And NOT teal hair."
Yuu touches their hair, hopeful.
"NOT first-years."
Yuu lowers their schedule, hopeless.Â
"NOT extroverts."
Yuu winces.
"NOT people who follow me around."
Yuu winces harder.
"NOT people who keep asking for my number."
At this point, Yuu looks like every word is physically striking them. Relishing in the blow, you stand up, pivot on your heels and leave them to wallow in the destruction youâve left in your wake. Not without picking up your belongings, which happen to a little journal you keep to maintain track of the plot, a chewed-up pencil, and an apple - shooting Yuu a confirmatory glare in case the thief is actually them. On the way, you realize the ghost librarian has tears in his gargantuan eyes. Oh-well, it seems like Yuuâs favoribility does not only extend to suitors, but ghosts as well.
⥠Something is going to go wrong today. Very, very wrong. Youâre sure of it.Â
⥠And no, you donât just say that because of your disastrous, almost-disastrous- encounter with Yuu.
⥠Your NPC sixth sense tells you thereâs double trouble on the horizon, waiting to get a taste of you. Double trouble.. you work your throat around the words, and try to imagine anything of the sort - but your brain stalls, because apparently, rolling out of bed (literally) and forcing yourself through the daily morning rituals was still as bad as ever. It didnât help Kalim was particularly loud today, something about the prefect, probably, you didnât quite hear. Ugh, Vilâs going to slime you out if he ever finds out youâre skipping yet again-
âAnd just what are you doing in that flower bush, spud?â
⥠Speak of the devil, and he shall come.Â
Pretty purple eyes do not bode well with you.Â
âUhh..â Tongue twisted, you crush one petal in the cusp of your palm, and bring it over your eyes, hoping to block out his face. Pretending very, very hard heâs just a figment of your imagination, because really, what are the chances you meet him in the very same place you thought heâd never come? âWell, er... Iâm doing something very important and class-related right now, so Iâd appreciate it if you left me alone.â
⥠Oh, no, heâs caught you dead in your right!  Above, the glass dome over the botanical gardens greets you;  limpid and beautiful, and if you squint your eyes just right, you can imagine the sky back at home. Homesickness, or whatever the afflicted call it, has taken a toll on you only after youâve come to realize just how much of your lifeâs gone into a perpetual state of destruction. Teeth gnawing on lip, tarnishing Vilâs self-care advice right in front of him as you revert back to sqaure one; it doesnât take a genius to figure out you want to vanish.Â
⥠Why exactly are you here? Somewhere in the middle of picking out a thorn from your thumb, you toppled over your boots and landed straight in a pile of.. whatever these are called. Now youâre just mulling your life over your tongue, wondering why youâve just lost every ounce of hope in your life -âJade (the scapegoat, you tell yourself) , normalcy, living in the shadows â and the blissful stretch of time in which you had not yet encountered Vil Schoenheit. Matter of fact, it seems heâs bound to run into you everday - much to yours and his very mutual chagrin.Â
⥠Hold on! The only reason heâs not turned on you is because heâs not yet privy to Yuuâs ever-growing and laughably one-sided affection for you, and the same can be said for everyone here.. youâre lucky heâs caught you alone, and not with Yuu, (the same person who confronted you outside your class, only to have you bolt away like theyâd just set you on fire).
âUnbelievable. I was out on my usual morning run and I see this.â Vil points a long, long nail at you. You shudder, but donât make a move, needle-like thorns prickling your uniform. âYouâre sprawled over the Convallaria majalis batch, the very things Iâve planted. Dear me.. why am I not surprised? It seems your inclination of spelling ruin comes naturally.â
⥠Oh! By the miracle of the Sevens, it seems the damage you did to Vilâs Corona Marvellous or whatever theyâre called, is mild. Otherwise, heâd not be letting you off with a mere shoo and one of those signature scowls. Taking his sweet time to inspect the bell-shaped heap with gloved digits, he tuts.Â
âHm.â
â..What?â
âNothing that should be of concern, to you, of course.â He says, reading your mind. â.. These look like they withered long before your weight.â The slope of his brows deepen into a fully-manifested, vexed frown. âUnbelievable! Whoeverâs in charge of groundskeeping hasnât been tending to them properly. Again.â
You blink. âWait. So Iâm not the floral equivalent of a hit-and-run?â
Vil exhales through his nose, already sounding exhausted by your existence. âYou flattened perhaps three stems, Iâd say thatâs hardly catastrophic.
âThatâs the nicest thing anyoneâs said to me all week.â
âDonât flatter yourself. It was anything but a compliment.â
âOkay, but the Corolla-â
âConvallaria majalis.â
ââŚBless you.â
⥠Vil pays you no heed, opting to not dwell on your eccentricity any longer.Â
 âWell. Since youâve already made yourself part of the issue, you may as well prove useful.â Bells retreat to their home as the male ponders it over his tongue. Something sparkles in those of eyes of his before he straightens with a satisfied hum, glancing over at you.
 â Poor maintenance, trampled soil, half-dead rootsâŚâ Vil dusts off his gloves with visible disdain. âWhy am I not surprised? Honestly, spud, you have a remarkable ability to entangle yourself in things beyond your understanding. Come along.â
âWait- where-â
⥠In place of a response, he grabs your hand.Â
⥠And unlike the feeling you had when Kalim did the same, this one action has chills dancing down your spine. Frigid air pushes your words back in as Vil - suddenly - rotates your wrist, brow quirking. Tipped nails perch upon exposed skin as he momentarily gives you a look.Â
âHm. New bracelet?â
âNo-â
âYou run away from me, yet youâve no qualm catering to Al-Asim. I suppose he is your housewarden, after all..â Purple coalesces into an inscrutable suit. âBut loath as I am to admit, do you realize just how terrible it is to take up so much of the precious time I spare you?â
âĄÂ Huh? Squeezing your eyes open, you realize his focal point is.. a traditional Scalding Sands bracelet - one of the many Kalim had gifted you during his visits. Oh.. shit, you mustâve accidentally put it on rather than-
..âTake up?â you repeat carefully.
Vil stills. For the briefest second, something unreadable crosses his face, then it dissolves.Â
âDonât misunderstand.â His grip loosens, though not entirely. âYouâre the one repeatedly neglecting your studies. Naturally, the responsibility falls upon me when you fail to meet basic academic standards.â
âWow,â you mutter. âYou almost sounded a little emotional there.â
âIâd sooner drink diluted apple vinegar.â
âIsnât that, like, healthy?â
Whether he seems apalled or disgusted by you, you canât place your finger on it. âWhy, you... Forget it.â
⥠Before you can formulate a viable escape plan involving perhaps a sudden, career-ending tumble down the nearest staircase, Vil pivots on polished heels and expects you to follow as naturally as one expects ducklings to trail after their mother. Oh, no.
 ⥠You want to bolt off, hide beneath the benches or do anything, instead- blurs streel your legs forcibly in the wake of his footsteps, and you chew the thick clump of dread down your throat. Glass arches overhead catch the amber spill of drowning afternoon sunlight, drenching Vil in celestial phosphoresence.
âĄÂ Why is it so hard to just.. refuse him? You donât know. Eyes straining, vision skewed, you try to focus on anything. But the slivers of parted sunlight bend around his frame, the back of his head, and itâs almost as if, painfully so, your attention is tethered towards him.Â
âĄÂ  Hmph! No one should look this gorgeous while actively ruining your life. Which begs the question: where exactly is he taking you?
âAhh⌠there you are, Roi du Poison.â
⥠Your soul exits your body.
Vil barely pauses at the interruption, though the minuscule quaver in his brow suggests heâd hoped to avoid this exact scenario. Through the hanging curtains of ivy emerges another Pomefiore student, feathered hat unfurled and eyes glinting beneath panes. Rook - so, your luck has decided youâd do well being hunted for sport.Â
âRook,â Vil says flatly, not even turning. âI shouldâve known youâd be here.â
âCan a devoted admirer not seek the radiance of his beloved housewarden?â The hunter places a hand dramatically atop his chest. âCruel, cruel Vil. I merely wished to deliver the pruning records and instead discover a most enchanting tableau.â
When his gaze lands on you, your muscles go rigid, being pinned to a board and encased without mercy. He seems to take pleasure in the way your gaze tries to settle on anything but him. Weirdo.Â
âAhhâŚâ The hunter breathes. âSo there is our elusive little evader.â
âIâm an evader?â you ask, then chew down your words. Well, you are actively trying to act uninteresting, arenât you?Â
âYou vanished from Professor Crewelâs classroom through a window last Tuesday, did you not?â
Vil pinches the bridge of his nose. âDonât remind me.â
ââŚHuh, I thought that was last Wednesday. Oh well.â
You donât question how he knows, how the both of them know. Itâd be futile as it is. Miraculously, as if reading your mind (which youâd argue he can), he directs at you a content little smile. âAs a hunter observes the rustling of grass, the flight of birds, the trembling of leaves, so too do I observe the habits of those around me.â
Rook circles once around the Convallaria patch, boots silent against the stone path. His sharp gaze skims over the crushed flowers, then the dirt shrouding your weathered sleeves, the bite-rife state of your lips, and the fatigue pulling down your lids into a perpetual scowl. It takes less than three seconds for the both of them to concur on one, concrete agreement.Â
Vil starts. âIâve said as much already. They insist on treating their body like an afterthought.â
âMm.â Rook nods solemnly. âA neglected garden wilts all the same.â
You stare at the both of them. âOh, cool. So this is an intervention now...â
âFar from it, actually. It would only qualify as an intervention if you intended to listen,â Vil replies smoothly. âYou absorb perhaps one sentence out of every five.â
⥠Rook laughs then, rippling across the greenhouseâs feather-light air. It pulls his attention back to you again, unbearably focused.Â
âThe way you shrink whenever attention settles upon you.â Pointing, tipping his head back, Rook croons. âAnd yet, despite this, attention finds you endlessly. Oh, what a haplessly ardent predicament youâve found yourself in!â
Before you can recover, Vil abruptly thrusts a pair of gardening gloves against your chest. You stumble, and your belongings kiss the ground, thrown out of your bag. Vilâs left to wonder how such a light nudge could have you one with the ground, bare confusion written over those features before ebbing away with an ahem.
âSince youâve already ruined my morning, youâll assist us.â
Your jaw drops. âUs?â
Rook beams. âBienvenue.â
âBird Avenue? I dunno what that means.â
âDonât absorb your setences. For all your resistance,â Vil says with immense satisfaction, âyouâre staying right here.â
âSeriously?? Just ask Rook to use his signature spell and track the- ah..â You realize the chances of him setting a mark on the culprit beforehand are slim to none, cinching your lips shut. âNevermind, but Iâm sure we have some sort of camer.... donât give me that look, please.â
⥠Silence.Â
⥠You close your eyes shut. Good golly, this is probably about the signature spell bit, isnât it? Ugh, heâs going to be all up in your face within a minute, demanding you tell him why you know such a thing. This makes room for one more entry in your journal.. and wait, your journal-
⥠As if on cue, you hear papers rustle.Â
⥠âInteresting.â
⥠Double trouble.Â
âSo this is where your prowess lies. Story-writing?â
Though he tries his best to pull his brows together, thereâs a little glister in his eyes. A relieved one, a midlly proud one, a..
âHow original.â
⥠Your Scarabia room is really, really bland. Thatâs the first thing you notice. In the middle of your bed is a journal you exert all your pent-up vexation and guides in - and in a shelf by the side, you keep your belongings (which are, admittedly, lessening by the second. Youâve no clue whose wreaking havoc upon them. You have absolutely no idea who's responsible. Frankly, you're too tired to investigate, and  if somebody wishes to steal your half-finished notes and collection of mediocre pens, then they deserve whatever curse comes with them.) Tomorrow is a new day, and judging by your luck, tomorrow Yuu will probably discover your class schedule, blood type and favorite brand of toothpaste.
⥠You sling your bag at the bed when you enter your cave of hiding.
 ⥠As you dive face-first into the mattress, you ponder on todayâs events. Jade Leech has officially stood you up - thereâs been no sign of him at all. He does not deign to loiter beside your class after its conclusion, he does not show up to your club (though you know, somewhere, heâs still fixating on his hobby without you). Your plans have gone awry, haywire and well...Â
⥠You donât need another anomaly.Â
⥠Right on cue, knuckles rap against your door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Your housewardenâs airy voice bursts in:
"Hey! Are you awake?"
Even if you were, with the sheer volume of his voice, you'd be forced to come to. You groan- delving deeper into the plush mattress. If you were to pretend to be dead right now, youâd be steered clear of this burden. Fatigue coaxes your lids down, spots gyrating in your vision - but with another knock, Kalim shoves you off balance.Â
âYou wouldn't happen to know why Yuu was wandering around Scarabia asking strangers what toothpaste you use, right?â
As falsely naive as Kalim seems, you quickly find out he knows just the right way to usher you out. Ripping the barrier between you open, he greets you with his ritualistic smile. âAha!â
âHousewarden.â
⥠This is the first time youâve had anyone over, and this is also the last. Seeing him without his sullen retainer is a novel sight, but to dissuade you from the anomaly, he places a basket of fruits in front of you.
⥠Well, there you go. Your arms now teem with different colours and hues - but you donât tell him to leave, because well..
âAnyway, I brought fruit.âÂ
âThank you. You can leave now.â
âWhat? Why?â
âBecause you've already delivered the fruit.â
âBut we haven't hung out yet.â
âClose the door on your way out-- wait, what? Why?â
⥠After your little opportunistic venture, you doubt heâd listen to you so easily, and you donât particularly want him  to leave as well. Those pouches and jewellery he gifted you have all gone missing, and.. well, you'd be lying if you said you didnât want him to compensate the loss.Â
⥠Inviting him in as per hospitable custom, he makes himself at home quite easily. You donât know what youâre doing, you have a whole Housewarden in your room - albeit he did mention something related to friendship.. you suppose you have no complaint here, then - (except one related to the fact heâs in the middle of an excuse for a room while donning his sleepwear. He looks so out of place itâs actually shameful.)
âOh, man!â He gives a bright laugh. You stand near, not wanting to admit youâre awaiting his approval. âI sat on the bed and the frame nearly fell through!â
âOh...âÂ
Kalim laughs again, bright and unbothered. "Sorry! I didn't mean it in a bad way. It just surprised me."
He gives the bed frame an experimental shake. The bed responds with an alarming creak, and you wince. It doesnât do that when you lay on it, in your defense.
"There it is again."
"Don't."
You don't understand why he's so amused, your room isn't funny, itâs a room. A rather miserable, downtrodden room, perhaps, but still a room. Instead of criticizing it further, however, Kalim cranes his neck around, taking in the sparse shelves and barren walls.
âHuh.â
You brace yourself. âHuh?â
"It's kind of nice. It looks like someone forgot to move in, but I think thatâs where its charm lies, yâknow?â He points at your empty shelf. âThereâs practically nothing stored there! It must be so easy to access whatever you need.â
âThereâs nothing I need.â
⥠Somehow, your very loud exchange has, inevitably, amassed the scrutiny of yet another boy, and there he is, door opening, posture taut in the entry. This is arguably the first time youâve ever seen Jamil in his sleepwear, and with his long tresses trickling down his shoulders in mild disarray, you get the feeling youâve woken him up from his sweet slumber. As if you havenât already garnered enough of his dislike, the universe still manages to blindside you with more.
âKalim.â
âJamil!â
âHow many times do I have to tell you to-â
Though, you suppose Kalim didnât intend for it to come out as such, the way it was worded seems to inevitably grab Jamilâs compliance. You donât miss the way he stares at you, though, completely and utterly aware that misery will bring its company. Reluctance brews itself upon the tip of his tongue, and he wants to refuse, you can tell. At one point, he may have tried to veil it beneath his usual exterior, but now, after a most unexpected turn of events, he knows you know, and you know he knows you know, so whatâs the point in putting up a façade?
âCome!â Kalim makes space on your bed, mind you. Your bed. âLoosen up a little, and play with us.â
Oh, no. You do not need this right now.
He trudges in, a breath of incredulity blooming in the air before he lowers himself to your level. Seated comfortably, he tries to get a good look at your surroundings.
At one point, his gaze lands straight on your journal. But before he can comment on it, you let a hand jut forward and snatch it away just as quickly. Now, heâs eyeing you openly, tenfold the usual suspicion he has.
âIâm surprised youâre awake at this hour.â He deadpans when you point at the fellow white-haired culprit. âIâm talking about you, not Kalim. Given his track record of doing the same, he doesnât rouse as much disbelief as..â He pauses for a moment. âYou.â
You droop. âI sleep when I can.â
âAh, well, that explains nothing.â
âYou're welcome.â
âNo need for the formalities,â A crease in his brows as he looks at you, lips jolting. âFor what itâs worth, I was expecting that answer.â
⥠Five minutes later, the board is spread between the three of you. You still arenât entirely certain how this happened.  One moment you were trying to sleep, and the next youâre participating in what appears to be an ancient strategic game involving polished stones. Eyes combing through its structure and language, it appears to be a Scalding Sands tradition, and with the way they both speak of it, dwelling in the past and mulling the game over their tongues, you realize theyâre already familiar with it.Â
âRemember when we played this when we were kids? Huh, Jamil?â
âYes. I remember you taking up half the pieces.â
⥠Kalim explains the rules, he then explains them again, then gets distracted halfway through his own explanation when you pester him with another question. Jamil finishes it for him - though, and even now, he has yet to relinquish that look in his eyes, that look, rife with wariness, caution and the feeling that heâs treading very, very carefully with you. Jeez, he probably thinks you have some sort of Kalim-assassination or tax fraud plan cooked up in that head of yours. Which you do. Just not as severely.
âYou need to protect your centre, that's your only objective. Do you understand it now?â
âSure do.â
âĄÂ Anyways, three rounds later, you've somehow managed to eliminate your own piece. Jamil stares, Kalim stares, and you crane your neck at them.Â
âWhat?â
âYou took your own piece.â
âIt was in the way.â
âIt was your strongest piece.â
âSoo? It was still in my way.â Despondently, you caress the stony object. âOh, well, if you insist, Jamil, then its sacrifice shall be remembered.â
An eye roll. â..By who?â
âMe, who else?â
Jamil pinches the bridge of his nose, but just when you think heâll respond in that quietness, he supplies. âIÂ donât think I've ever seen someone lose a game quite like this.â
âYeah, well, youâre letting Kalim win every time, so I think I have a reason.â
He lets you go with an indecipherable look on his face, and you spend the night dealing with it, in your mind, in your memory, in your thoughts.
How predictably unpredictable.
⥠âDidjaâ know?â
⥠You try to rub away the fatigue in your eyes.
âKnow what?â
⥠Currently, you're trying to focus on the work at hand. Pen scribbling lines regarding history, you desperately try to ignore Ruggie Bucchi, but to no avail. Whenever you do so much as lean back, he tips his chair back and replicates the motion until youâre forced to give him a sliver of your attention. That gets him going, it seems.Â
⥠Apparently, waking up first and foremost - earlier than Jamil, surprisingly - and realizing that having two boys dead asleep on top of you was not ideal if you were looking for some sort of salvation. Youâre not even sure what had happened that led to Jamil, of all people, knuckling under sleep and forsaking that strict demeanor. It seems atypical, atleast for him, but whatâs more atypical is that youâd spent another hour trying to tip-toe around your room, lest you wake them up and cause them to actually remember you in the room with them. Ah, if you stretch, you can still feel the soreness in your limbs. Only the deities who sent you here would know how you even managed to breathe with that load on you.
⥠Whatâs good, though, is that you seem to have taken your mind off of Jade completely. Like a leech had he plagued your mind, now you like to think heâs an afterthought, and a bygone memory that served his purpose and left when he lost interest. Hah.. youâre finally, finally improving. Youâre finally..
âEh? Didn't ya know? Vil's been askin' around Octavinelle about ya. Somethin' about gettin' you to switch clubs, I think. Heh, maybe that's just the rumor mill talkin', though. Shishishi...â
âMm- wait-â
âĄÂ What.
 âWHAT?!â
⥠The entire class looks at you now. Grumbling beneath their breaths, and with Professor Trein giving you the most scorching scowl known to man, youâre compelled into quietening down, but not allowing the cold knot in your stomach to simmer, nor the rapid staccatos of your pulse. This time, you willingly lean into Ruggie. Vil? Granted, he did see your.. journal work, but him going as far as to head to Octavinelle to strike a deal with them? It didnât seem so far-fetched given the circumstances, but at that time, he'd tried his best to appear staid and unaffected by your entries. This.. this is bad, bad news. If Vil succeeds, then - youâre destined for failure.Â
âââââââĄÂ If Vil succeeds, then you are the failure.Â
âWho- whereâd you hear that from?â You gawk, perspiration roving down your nape, pen abandoned. You donât know what to say. Your heart is beating.
⥠Ah, what a dumb question. Ruggie is known to work odd jobs, itâd make sense heâd catch sight of Vil, of all people, amid the Mostro Lounge crowd during his shift. But really, Vil? Stooping so low as to seek Azulâs help?
⥠What even was in that journal? A few scribbles about Twisted Hearts, and the usual jargon.. nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would ultimately catch his interest. You hadn't even focused on it that much yourself, nor did you mention names, even if someone did manage to get their hands on it, you thought theyâd just call you absolutely maniacal and do away with it.
⥠And you, stooping so low as to seek Ruggieâs help?Â
âYou have to help me.â
âWhoa, hold it right there.â His lips pull into a moue, hands tugging at his tie from where youâd absent-mindedly rendered it askew. â Remember all those times I asked, and ya told me to mind my own business? Why'do I go and help ya now?â
âI-â
âBesides, I got a pretty sweet side gig at the Mostro Lounge. If I stick my neck out for ya, who's gonna make up the difference, huh?â
He grins, teeth on display.
âNow, if you've got somethin' worth tradin', that's a whole different story. Shishishi.â
⥠Worth trading? You haven't got anything, you..are a lost cause. Your room is laughable, your grades are despicable, the company you keep is non-existent, and your pockets.. Ah.Â
âI can give you anything you want.â
A gleam in your eyes, your hands form a bridge to let your chin perch upon. The brightness that youâd once lost reclaims its reign over your face, and if this world were any more ridiculous, you are certain he would see a lightbulb forming over your head.
âNow weâre talkinâ.â
âAnything. I have access to Kalimâs bank account. Trust me.â
