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My repost are SFW but my likes are not

[danijaci]

obsession w/ sunday

inspired by @yandere-romanticaa's fic! Tehee your works are so eye opening 0.0 <333 I licherally haven't created a yandere content for such a looong time lolol let's see if I can still pull this off lmao

WARNING/S: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior

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[thesunshinebunny]

Twisted wondeland characters reacting to these? Pls? 🙏🥺🫶💕

There’s also the first version of Inghygde (is that how you write it? Im probably wrong), but you dont have to do it if u dont want to <3

Okay. I know this is lingerie, and maybe it wasn't the reaction you wanted, I can do it again if that's what you want… but my mind immediately went to this idea when I saw the pictures. Vice Dorm leader here

Ok? oki doki, I hope you'll have a beatiful day.

Summer had officially arrived at Night Raven College, bringing with it an almost unbearable heatwave. The school's grand, glittering pool, usually reserved for swimming classes and the occasional “special event” was finally open for student use, and the excitement among the boys was palpable. After weeks of lectures, essays, and magical mishaps, the prospect of cooling off under the sun felt like a reward hard-earned.

There was, however, one small complication: you were the only girl at a school full of eccentric, competitive, and sometimes overly dramatic boys. And, of course, nothing at Night Raven was ever simple, not even buying a swimsuit.

The school didn’t provide swimwear for girls (obviously), so you had to find something on your own. After a bit of searching, and a lot of internal groaning...you ended up at S’s Mystery Shop, which claimed to have “everything you could ever need... and things you didn’t even know you wanted.” Sam, always one for dramatic flair, pulled out a collection of swimsuits that matched the dorms’ unique styles. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or if this was some bizarre, otherworldly merchandise exclusive to twisted magical schools.

You picked one, equal parts cute and scandalously bold, and prepared to face the pool… and the reactions of your dorm leader.

Riddle

Good thing the pool finally opened, because the heat was starting to get unbearable, even for Riddle.

Wearing the school-issued swimsuit and a light open shirt, he stepped into the water, deep enough to relax, but not enough to lose his composure.

The cold water was perfect against his sun-warmed skin… until it wasn’t.

The moment he saw you walking confidently toward the pool, his face turned even redder than his hair...if that was even possible, at least three shades darker.

The swimsuit hugged your skin and body perfectly, as if it had been made just for you… and that alone made his mind short-circuit.

“You look… incredible.”

Respect first, always. But inside his head, a thousand improper thoughts clashed and tangled, no matter how hard he tried to suppress them, they kept surfacing.

All the time you spent in the water, swimming, doing slow strokes, or simply floating. Riddle struggled to maintain his composure.

It was hard. Very hard.

Every now and then, his eyes wandered back to you, watching how the colors of his dorm’s uniform accentuated your skin tone, how every detail soaked and clung even closer to your body.

Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together

Anyone passing by Riddle could feel that the water around him was warmer than it should’ve been.

That day at the pool didn’t help cool down the summer heat at all… it only opened the door to another kind of heat, one he planned to take care of later that night, when he finally had you in his arms.

Leona

Darling… I hope you’re ready to have a lion as your personal bodyguard all day, 'cause Leona isn’t going to let ANYONE get near you; hell, he won’t even let them look at you.

It’s one thing for him to wander around his dorm shirtless, or to have you half-naked in the comfort of his room, that exquisite view reserved for his eyes only.

But seeing you in that pathetic excuse for a swimsuit, in the water, with half the school devouring you with their eyes?

Nope… absolutely not.

The second you stepped out of the changing room, Leona was already pulling his dorm shirt over your head and guiding you toward a bench, away from the vultures’ gaze.

“You trying to make me jealous, or you just want to start something in front of everyone?”

Beneath that mask of possessiveness and protectiveness, Leona was still devouring you with his eyes, counting the hours until he could make you his again in the privacy of his room.

It took A LOT to convince him to let you into the water, but after a few kisses and some persuasive words, Leona finally gave in.

He joined you in the pool, wrapping an arm around you, sometimes playing with your bikini strap, snapping it lightly against your shoulder.

Watching the water cling to your body, the droplets sliding down your sun-warmed skin and disappearing between the valley of your breasts… Leona was about to lose it.

The swimsuit was gorgeous, he won’t deny that. Deep down, he’d love for you to model it again, but only for him, behind closed doors.

The colors of Savanaclaw look far too good on you.

Azul

The water is his natural element, which is why this day was more than relaxing for him, and being able to share it with his beloved was bound to be deeply satisfying.

But… yikes. For someone used to seeing all kinds of half-naked bodies under the sea, all sorts of creatures surrounded by shimmering currents… he absolutely did not expect to see you wearing that.

The seashell-shaped top, the subtle scale-like patterns over your legs and arms… yeah, we lost Azul.

Someone call Floyd and Jade...emergency situation, octopus down.

Azul adjusted his glasses, mostly to keep his hands busy, because otherwise he wasn’t sure what they might do.

When you swam closer to him, the poor guy nearly turned to ink.

He was completely red, honestly, he could give Riddle a run for his money.

“That looks… exquisite.”

For a moment, he just gawked. The elegance and ethereal shimmer of your swimsuit highlighted every one of your charms, making you look like a mermaid about to steal his heart.

He tried to keep up his confident businessman façade, but it was painfully obvious he was devouring you with his eyes, the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, a blush creeping high across his cheeks.

He couldn’t stop imagining you dancing among bubbles and pearls, like something out of the dreams he used to have about the Lounge.

Every time you moved in the water, the fabric clinging to your skin, sunlight tracing every curve, Azul thought he might need an ice bucket; or maybe the entire pool filled with ice.

He offered, more than once, for you to sit beside him at the pool’s edge, always using the excuse to tuck your damp hair gently behind your ear.

All day long, Azul battled between temptation and composure. That swimsuit was a double-edged sword: it showcased your beauty… and his utter weakness for you.

The image of you in that swimsuit was going to haunt him long after summer was over.

Kalim

Ever since the pool opened, Kalim hadn’t missed a single chance to invite you, nor to organize a “small” pool party for the entire dorm!

He was the first to arrive, splashing everyone around, wearing a red and gold swimsuit with exotic patterns, a light open tunic, and huge sunglasses.

But the moment you stepped out of the changing room wearing the Scarabia swimsuit, those golden and earthy tones, the dangling charms, the coin details, and the way the tied knots highlighted your figure, Kalim nearly forgot how to float.

He just stared at you, eyes sparkling, a huge grin lighting up his face, completely mesmerized.

This time, though, it wasn’t just innocent admiration; for a heartbeat, his pupils dilated, and that grin turned undeniably mischievous.

“You… you look so beautiful!! I mean, you always do, but… wow. I think you just made it hotter out here!”

He tried to play it off, spinning you around by the hand and laughing, but the slight tremor in his voice gave him away. He couldn’t stop looking at you, the color of your swimsuit made you look like a desert goddess bathed in sunlight.

Every time you came near, his gaze lingered, soft, but hungry in the most genuine way, the kind of yearning reserved only for someone deeply adored.

He made sure you were comfortable, offering cold drinks, fresh fruit, and all the fun in the world, ready to grant your every whim that day.

The stares from others didn’t go unnoticed; Kalim grew just a bit more possessive, slipping an arm around your waist in the water, his fingers occasionally toying with the edge of your swimsuit, brushing your wet skin without even realizing it.

Amid all the laughter and splashing, there were quiet moments when Kalim got lost, watching you with that mix of innocence and restrained desire, lips parted, throat tight, leaning in just a little closer as if the whole world had vanished.

He dared to whisper, just for you: “If we were alone right now… I think I’d have a hard time keeping my hands off you.”

For the first time, you truly felt the heat of Scarabia in full force.

Kalim, vulnerable and burning with longing, heart pounding wildly, waiting for the night to fall so he could have you all to himself.

Vil

The pool event was inevitable; but Vil, of course, turned it into an impromptu runway: violet sunglasses, a light silk robe draped over the perfect swimsuit, flawless skin gleaming under the sunlight, as if he were shooting a commercial.

When you stepped out of the locker room wearing the Pomefiore swimsuit: an elegant cut, subtle purple accents, sheer details, and that ethereal aura that seemed made for you, Vil went utterly silent for a full second.

His eyes trailed over you from head to toe, admiring the way the fabric fell, how it fit against your skin, the delicate shimmer that made you look almost unreal.

You caught the faint twitch of his lower lip, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the glass of whatever drink he was holding.

“You do realize,” he said softly, voice low and meant for your ears alone, “that you look… dangerously exquisite, right?”

Outwardly, he kept his composure, poised, regal, every inch the perfect model.

But up close, his gaze told another story: intense, deep, tracing you as if trying to memorize every inch of skin glowing under the sun.

In the water, swimming beside you, Vil couldn’t help brushing his fingers lightly against you whenever you passed too close, admiring how the swimsuit seemed designed to highlight everything that drove him wild about you.

During breaks, he shared his towel with you, and if he saw you shiver from the breeze, he’d wrap his arms around you, using the excuse of protecting your flawless skin from the cold, when in truth he just wanted you closer.

Every so often, he’d lean in to whisper, “Darling, if you keep looking at me like that, I might have to teach you the true meaning of heatstroke…”

For all the elegance and glamour, there was something undeniably carnal in the way he looked at you that day. Vil was fire beneath ice, and you were the spark threatening to melt him.

Idia

Idia had planned to spend the afternoon in his dorm, gaming in peace, but Ortho literally dragged him to the pool with the promise that the Wi-Fi was faster outside and fewer people were connected.

He dressed simply, in pure Idia fashion: dark blue shorts, an old T-shirt from his favorite anime, and of course, headphones hanging around his neck, his emotional support armor.

He stayed near the shadows, sitting on a distant bench, trying to blend into the background…

Until he saw you step out of the locker room wearing that swimsuit straight out of the underworld.

The electric blue, the “tech” detailing, and the way the cut hugged your figure made the flames of his hair flicker from pale blue to a shy orange in an instant.

Wh-?! That’s… illegal! Illegal levels of beauty detected!

Idia completely froze, eyes wide, torn between hiding further or staring longer.

He tried to disguise his blush by sinking lower into the shades, but every time you lifted your head or smiled in his direction, his hair sparked brighter and pinker and his face burned hotter.

Internally, he was spiraling.

This can’t be real… she can’t be this close… should I say something? Is she looking at me? Am I floating or unconscious?!

Ortho, being Ortho, gave him a helpful shove, sending him right next to you. Idia barely managed a stuttering, “You look… um… really… wow… like a cyber siren or something…!”

Every time you moved through the water, Idia tried to look away, but he never lasted more than five seconds before sneaking another glance.

He offered you his towel, mumbling that “it probably dries better. It’s Ignihyde tech,” but really, it was just an excuse to be near you, to see you smile at him.

Inside his head, the loop was endless: Best. Pool. Day. Ever. Too much. System overheating. Need to reboot…

Malleus

For Malleus, the pool was almost a fascination: water contained and gleaming, surrounded by laughter and human magic, so unlike the gothic stillness of Briar Valley.

He rarely joined social activities, but that day, intrigued by this “summer ritual” of humans, and more importantly, by your excitement; he decided to take part, allowing himself to be led by your invitation.

He didn’t quite understand swimsuit conventions, so he asked beforehand if he should bring his cloak.

“No, Malleus. Please don’t bring the cloak.”

When he saw you emerge wearing the Diasomnia-inspired swimsuit; deep black, streaked with electric green, with cutouts that hinted at scales and wings, Malleus watched you, though not with the mundane awe of the others.

His eyes, usually calm and ancient, lingered on the edges of the swimsuit, on how the fabric suggested wings and scales, on the way the sunlight caressed the curve of your neck, the strength of your legs, the elegance of your silhouette.

For a moment, he forgot his surroundings entirely: the noise of others faded to a distant hum, and there was only the contrast of black and green against your skin.

You approached, and Malleus inclined his head slightly, as if greeting an equal.

“Such a garment… it suits you. There is power in it. You look as if you could command storms, or perhaps, hearts.”

He asked whether humans commonly wore such revealing garments for swimming, though from his tone it was clear that he not only approved, but found it utterly captivating.

Rather than joining the others, Malleus invited you to sit with him, to watch how the light played on the water’s surface, to speak of the differences between human and fae summer rites, to conjure tiny water dragons to amuse you.

He marveled beside you when sunlight struck the pool just right, making the edges of your swimsuit shimmer like real scales.

It wasn’t a day of games or competition; with Malleus, it was something closer to a shared spell: exchanged glances, soft laughter, ancient words folded into the rhythm of the mundane.

When the afternoon breeze lifted your hair, he smiled faintly, fangs catching the light, and tucked a strand behind your ear.

He didn’t proclaim it aloud, but the truth burned in his gaze and the faint curve of his lips: the fire of Malleus Draconia was yours; and that swimsuit would remain etched in his memory for a very, very long time.

[meowdei]

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME ──── FT. VARKA

synopsis ✿ for the longest time, varka’s dreams have always been just that—dreams. he returns to mondstadt and faces the possibility that maybe they can be more

✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; mutual pining for years ; friends to lovers ; written pre varka release — contains spoilers of his lore from his animated short “another prologue” ; made up mondstadt folklore by me lol ; drunk varka + mentions of alcohol and drinking ; varka returns to mondstadt!! ; slight angst BUT it’s happy in the end okay?? ; getting together ; making out by the statue of barbatos rip barbatos pls forgive this behavior ; not proof read oops

꒰ word count ꒱ 5.5k words — me when this was supposed to be a drabble </3

꒰ commentary ꒱ good luck to varka wanters!! i will not be joining you but may you all be varka havers

Varka has dreams. Vivid, merciless things that visit him in the quiet hours of the night.

He dreams of a dragon tearing across Mondstadt’s sky—of twin greatwords in his hands and wind at his back as he faces such a beast. He dreams of victory. Of returning home triumphant. He sees the city gates thrown open, hears the thunder of clapping hands and cheering voices, and the unmistakable relief on the faces of his knights as their grand master comes back to them at last. He dreams of a statue carved in his likeness. Of his glass never empty, always filled with his favorite dandelion wine, poured in honor of a hero.

He dreams of what-ifs. Of could-have-beens. Of a distant past that could have been his to look back on fondly.

But he has long since folded those dreams away and set them aside. He has made peace with the life he chose instead—with becoming a hero in quieter ways, in a foreign land as he leads an expedition that keeps calamity far from Mondstadt’s borders.

He does not regret it. Not really. Some things are just the way they are. 

And yet, Varka has never stopped dreaming of you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Whether in sleep or in waking, you find him all the same. His mind renders you with cruel, unforgiving precision: the exact curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your lips press together when you’re trying not to laugh. He remembers it all. He remembers you in ways that feel less like memory and more like an aching sense of longing.

Some dreams fade with time. You never seem to give him that luxury.

—

“Did you know people believe that during ancient times, when wine was brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?” You hum, tracing a finger over Varka’s nose. His head rests comfortably on your lap, enjoying the gentle breeze of Windrise while he has the opportunity. 

Varka rarely has a day off—being the grand master of an order of knights makes for free days to be a difficult thing to come by. The work schedule of someone like him just does not allow such luxuries. But Deputy Master Jean is a good friend of yours, and she’s a kind friend above all. She takes matters into her own hands without being asked—insists that headquarters and the whole of Mondstadt will stay orderly for an entire day without Varka there to see over things. 

Reluctantly, your boyfriend agrees. You are not ignorant of his dilemma—his mind tells him that abandoning work is not the sort of thing someone with his duties should do, but his heart is just the same as every man who yearns. His heart aches for the sort of freedom that grants him one day with you. Just a day filled with you and nothing else. 

And so, his heart wins. After all, this is Mondstadt. The nation of freedom. 

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles fondly, cracking an eye open to look at you, “Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day. And just what did it symbolize?”

“Well,” you murmur, brushing hair from his forehead. He catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss against your palm as you speak, “There are many theories. It’s all folklore, after all. Who’s to say what’s truly the accurate version?”

“And what’s your version?”

“Well,” you start, “dandelion seeds drift through the wind, you see. They travel across many places and see many things before they settle down to grow. There’s an old story about them—perhaps you’ve heard it.”

“Never,” he murmurs.

You give him an unimpressed look, and he shoots you an innocent grin. “Oh, is that so? I’m sure such an important figure in our nation would know one of our most popular tales, would he not?”

“Hah,” he chuckles, gruff and heartily from his chest in that way you can’t help but be endeared by. “If I told you I snoozed through history classes, would you be surprised?”

“Hardly,” you snort.

“Then tell a poor, history-challenged man this famous tale you speak of,” he brings your fingertips to his lips, nibbling at them as you giggle, pulling away from his grasp. 

“Varka,” you huff, “you’re a fool, did you know?”

“Not on the battlefield, my fair lady,” he quips back. “That, I can promise.”

“Well,” you roll your eyes, “fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.”

Varka grins up at you, settling even deeper into the pillow of your lap, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a good long time. His hand runs lazily along your thigh while he waits, eyes half-lidded as he admires you.

“There’s an old folktale,” you begin softly, “about a single dandelion seed that rode on the wind for far longer than any of the others. They say this little seed drifted all across Mondstadt.”

“Hope the journey was kind to the little guy.”

“Don’t interrupt,” you scold, giving him an exaggerated scowl.

He shoots you a faux apologetic look, squeezing your thigh as he obediently says, “Yes, ma’am.”

“It flew through Starsnatch Cliff and watched the cecelias overcome the harsh winds as they grew, and it passed through Whispering Woods and listened to travelers’ and their secrets. This seed saw many things as it passed through while being carried by the wind,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “It watched people as they lived and made memories filled with joy and laughter. Eventually, so much time had passed that the wind had whispered it was time for the seed to settle in a single place and make its own memories, too. But the little seed kept going, it held onto the hopes of witnessing more and carrying as many memories from the people it would see for just a bit longer.”

“What a hardworking little thing,” Varka murmurs teasingly. Then, he winks—cheeky and playful. “Reminds you of someone, huh?”

You flick his forehead. “Certainly not you. All you work hard at is drinking more than everyone around you.”

He laughs, deep and warm. “Well…can’t say that’s completely false. Though it’s not the only thing I work on.”

“Anyway,” you continue, “after a long, long journey, the wind had finally convinced the little seed to settle down on a tiny patch of grass near Windrise. Nothing special—just a small, humble patch of land beneath a big tree.”

“Right where we are now,” he notes, glancing at the roots beside you.

You nod. “And there, after all that traveling, it finally grew. People say the dandelion that sprouted from that seed was different. It was taller and brighter than most dandelions—perhaps because it was touched by all the spirits of all the people it had seen during its journeys. Because it was touched by their hopes to make more cherished memories with the ones they love.”

“And then?” he asks quietly.

“Well,” you say, smoothing the collar of his shirt, “they say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed with that particular dandelion, and the people loved it so much, it became a significant part of Mondstadt’s culture. So…it’s thought that perhaps dandelion wine became a symbol of all the love that the dandelion carried in its little seed form, and all the love it passed on by becoming a drink that people shared on happy occasions.”

As though Barbatos himself were pleased by your words, the wind stirs around you, kissing your skin as it passes through. Varka reaches up and cups your cheek with a large, warm hand, and grins. “Am I safe to assume you brought dandelion wine for me then, because being with me is a happy, joyous occasion?” 

You lean down to press your forehead to his, giving him an especially sweet smile. Too sweet, even. “No. I merely told you an old tale that I heard, that’s all.”

He lets out a low, dramatic sigh. “And here I thought you brought all this up just to tell me how much I mean to you.”

“I brought all this up, you see,” you roll your eyes, and he watches as you pull away ever so gently to get a better look at his face. The scar that litters his cheek, the necklace that hangs against his chest, and those thick brows that frame those bright, sparkling eyes. You stare at him, at Varka. Your Varka. You get a good long look before you say, “Because the people of Mondstadt have been drinking dandelion wine more than they ever have these days. And a certain hero has made that so.”

He hums, lips curling into a small, smug grin. “A hero, you say?”

“Yes,” you chuckle, cupping his cheeks, “one who has defeated a dragon and saved us all. We drink dandelion wine in honor of his triumph.”

You lean down and press your lips to his, and he hums, a deep, satisfied rumble that comes from his chest. His hands find the side of your face, holding you steady as a callused thumb traces your cheek. Then, after a moment, he slowly sits up from your lap, taking all his warmth with him. You’re about to protest until he reaches over, picking a small dandelion from the patch of grass beside your picnic blanket before turning and tucking it against your ear. 

“There,” he murmurs, “this dandelion has seen how much you mean to me. So, I guess we can say the wind carried it to the right place, huh?”

Your breath hitches for a moment before you slowly break into a bright beam, tugging him closer and pressing a soft, delicate kiss to his lips for a brief moment. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “I suppose the wind has carried it exactly where it belongs.”

—

He wakes up with a start, fingers lifting to feel at his lips. The roughness of his fingertips wipe away the lingering phantom of your touch. He groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning and curling deeper into the blankets that litter the floor of his tent. 

“Same dream as always,” he grunts to himself shaking his head, “I think I’m beginning to lose it.”

────────────────────────

When Varka returns, Mondstadt gives him a warm welcome. At least, those who remember him, anyway.

Most people tend to forget that Acting Grand Master Jean is only acting in his place temporarily. He does not blame them for it. It has been years since Varka last set foot in his homeland, and much has changed in his absence. Another hero has risen to save his people—a hero to whom he is endlessly indebted, of course. A hero who, alongside the acting grand master and Barbatos himself, has kept his people safe when he could not.

Varka is grateful. Happy, even. Relieved.

But he is also human—and a human who once held a dream. An ambitious dream that had once unfolded vividly before his very eyes, so close it felt tangible, as if he could reach out and grasp it. And yet, fate had cruelly yanked it away from his fingertips just as he thought it might finally be his.

He does not fight fate. Instead, he thanks it. He thanks it for allowing someone else to fulfill his dream in his stead while he battled a crisis in a distant land, ensuring his home remained safe.

But Varka is human, and all humans feel melancholy when their dreams remain only dreams, and nothing more.

“So,” you murmur, sliding into the chair beside him in Angel’s Share and propping your head against your hand, “you come all this way home from a place I can only dream of visiting, and you don’t even bring me back a souvenir? I must say, Grand Master, I’m quite disappointed.”

Varka recognizes your voice. Of course he does. How could he not? It is the same voice that haunted his dreams time and time again while he was away. He has found that on nights when you appear in them, he wakes with an especially sharp ache of homesickness. He longs for the wind of Mondstadt against his face more fiercely than ever, for the distant scent of sweet madames cooking at Good Hunter. He yearns for the familiar sight of his knights and their bright, loyal smiles as he salutes them in passing.

He yearns to see you.

He has not dared to seek you out since his return—fear is a strange, fickle thing. He does not fear dragons, nor monsters of the abyss, nor the countless dangers he has faced without hesitation. But the thought of standing before the woman he has loved silently for years fills him with a quiet, dreadful terror.

So he does not go to you. Instead, you come to him—while he is drunk and alone.

Fantastic.

Slowly, he turns his head.

You sit beside him as though it is the most natural thing in the world. As though he did not vanish for years. As though he had not returned and deliberately avoided the very streets he knew you walked.

As though he had not already lost you.

His throat tightens. He swallows it down with another mouthful of dandelion wine.

“…I…traveled light,” he says at last, voice slurred by his…(what number cup of wine was this? He’s lost count.)

Your mouth curves into a tight smile. There’s something searching in your eyes as you look at him. Something that sees through him too easily. “That so?” you hum. “Not even something small? I’m hurt.”

He huffs quietly, looking down into his glass. In another life, he had seen this moment differently. He had seen his return as something grander, something worth being prouder of. Not something quite like this. In that life, he had returned a hero.

Sometimes, though he doesn’t regret the path he chose, he mourns what he had seen in the scryglass—the dragon falling beneath his blade, Mondstadt safe beneath his watch, the city singing his name with pride. He had seen the statue. The celebrations. He had seen you, too. You had been smiling at him like he was something worth waiting for.

He breaks out of his thoughts when your voice cuts in. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say gently.

He blinks, dragged from the memory. “…Hm?”

You gesture faintly to his glass. “You’ve had enough to drink, Varka. You shouldn’t be sitting here any longer—you should get home.”

Home. The word lands strangely. He barely recognizes it, even when it was all he had thought of while he was away. It doesn’t feel right being there, sometimes—not when he’s gotten used to hard soil under his back as he sleeps in a tent.

“One more round,” he says, “jus’ another glass.”

“You didn’t come see me,” you say quietly.

He flinches.

“You came back,” you continue. “Everyone knows you’re back. The knights know. The city knows. But you didn’t come see me. You didn’t even see me before you left to say goodbye.”

He can’t look at you. Because the truth is as simple as it is pathetic. 

“I…couldn’t,” he says. “…Couldn’t.”

You frown. “Couldn’t?”

“Th’ scryglass,” he murmurs. “It…it showed me somethin’.” 

You frown in confusion—of course you don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s all a bunch of nonsense to you coming from a drunk man. But his mouth can’t stop now that it’s begun. 

“Showed me Mondstadt. A dragon. I fought it, y’know—won, too.” His jaw tightens faintly. “Then I was a hero.” The hero he did not get a chance to actually become. “It showed me what would happen if I stayed,” he continues, words slower now. Less steady. “An’… it showed me what would happen if I didn’t. There was…somethin’ in Nod-Krai. Would reach Mondstadt. Eventually.” He swallows. “I saw what I had t’ do—what I had t’ give up.”

Silence stretches between you. You don’t know what to say, how to make sense of what he’s telling you. But he continues before you get a chance to figure anything out. 

“If I had seen you before I left…” His voice falters, just for a moment. Just enough to betray him. “I…I don’t think I would’ve gone.” The admission hangs there, fragile and terrible. He laughs roughly after, but there is no humor in it. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Grand Master o’ the Knights o’ Favonius…brought low by somethin’ as simple as a goodbye.”

Your expression softens just a fraction, but it only makes his chest ache more. And then, you whisper, “You should get home, Varka. I’m being serious—you’ve had a lot to drink.”

With that, you slowly stand, getting ready to leave. He watches you turn, and something inside him breaks. Because this is it—this is the life he chose. The one where everything he wants is not his, and everything he dreams of is just a sick, distantly wishful dream. 

His hand moves before he can think. He catches your wrist again, and you turn back, startled.

“…Go out w’ me,” he says, “on a date. You ‘n me.” The words come out rough. Unsteady.

Your eyes widen in shock. “…What?” You search his face. “You’re too drunk, Varka. You’re saying nonsense.”

He would rather leave for Nod Krai again than see that doubt in your eyes. Doubt that he would want you—what a ridiculous thought, he thinks. To doubt that you are not all he’s ever wanted. He can’t blame you, of course, but the absurdity of the idea is too bitter to swallow. 

“…Please…?” he says. So quiet, you can barely hear him. “S’all I wanted, y’know? Before I left, an’ stuff—thought maybe ‘t was too late when I got back.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Long enough that he feels every second like a blade. And then—

“…Okay,” you say. And then, after a moment of sitting with your decision, you smile. It’s a carefree little thing—stripped of all that doubt and underlying hurt. “Okay. I’ll go out with you. But first you need to get home. C’mon.”

────────────────────────

Sitting here, under a large tree at Windrise, the wind is gentler than he remembers. Or perhaps it has simply been far too long for him to remember correctly. Varka has stood in this place countless times before—for training, for duties, in passing, in leisure, in haste. But never like this. Never with you.

He shifts his weight slightly on the blanket, one knee drawn up while the other leg stretches out into the grass. His armor is gone, replaced with something simpler. 

“This was a good suggestion,” you murmur, smiling at the view. “I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of having a picnic here.”

He hums, giving you a crooked grin. “Of course, this was a good suggestion,” he chuckles, “it was my suggestion, of course.”

He’s not sure why he suggested it. Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt to recreate the silly images he’s seen in his sleep—small, hopeful dreams dreamt in the reclusiveness of his own mind, where he is allowed to be what he wants: yours, a hero, a cherished citizen of Mondstadt who gets to stay home. These are all things Varka has always wanted to be. Things he has given up. And yet he clings to them, despite it all. The suggestion to come here tumbles past his lips before he can stop himself, before he can remember that dreams are not meant to be lived in.

You snort softly from beside him, adjusting the basket at your side. “Of course, Grand Master. How could I doubt your wisdom?”

He groans. “Don’t call me that, please. I hear that enough already everywhere else.”

“But you are that,” you counter. 

“Not today,” he says easily, giving you a wink. “Today, I’m just a lucky man who was fortunate enough to convince a very lovely woman to accompany him.”

He says it lightly. Playfully. But he does not look at you when he does—or he’d have seen the way you flustered at being called a lovely woman. Instead, he fiddles with blades of grass between his fingers. Varka has missed the feeling of grass from his homeland—even something as common and mundane as grass is not the same in other lands.

You watch his fingers carelessly grab at a dandelion, feeling up its stem before pulling away. “…Did you know,” you begin softly, “people believe that during ancient times, when wine was first brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?”

His breath catches. Not visibly. Not enough that anyone other than himself would notice. 

Because he has heard these words before. Distant, echoed words that haunted him in his sleep, teased him with versions of his life he always thought were simply too out of touch for him. 

He turns his head toward you slowly, brows lifting. “Oh?” he hums, forcing his voice to stay steady. “This sounds like the start of a history lecture.” You give him a look. He raises both hands in surrender, smiling. “I’m listening,” he promises.

But something in his chest has already begun to tighten. He remembers this—he remembers warmth. He remembers the wind. He remembers your voice, softer than anything else he’s ever heard, telling him a story about something small and stubborn and endlessly wandering. He remembers your touch and your fond, delicate eyes staring back at him. 

And he remembers waking up alone every time. 

You smile in satisfaction at his willingness before continuing. “There are many theories,” you say. “It is folklore, after all. Who’s to say which version is true?”

He leans back against the tree behind him, stretching his legs out further into the grass.

This is different than his dreams. In his dreams, he had been lying down. His head had been in your lap. He had belonged there without question. Now, he sits beside you instead. You’re not as fond of him now as you were then, and you aren’t as intimate with him either. 

But you could be. The thought makes his head spin a little. You came here with him—agreed in a heartbeat when he asked for your time to spend with him, to do something romantic and not just as two friends who are simply catching up. And you are recreating his dreams, little by little—the same, but different all at once. 

“Which version do you believe?” he asks quietly. 

Your gaze drifts upward, toward the small, drifting seeds carried through the wind. “Dandelions travel far,” you murmur. “The wind carries them across countless places. They see many things—people, their lives, their memories.”

His fingers press faintly into the soil beneath the grass. The words are not exact. But they are close enough that his chest aches with recognition.

“There’s an old story,” you continue, “about a single dandelion seed that drifted in the winds longer than all the others. It passed through every corner of Mondstadt. It saw all of the people’s joys and sorrows.”

He smiles faintly. He knows this story—has heard it in your voice several times. He’d been under the impression that it ended somewhere far from here.

“Sounds like it lived a full life.”

You glance at him. “Don’t interrupt.”

He swallows thickly, wondering what’s real and what isn’t. Is this still reality? Will he wake up in his bed and get ready to bring you here in a little bit? Are his dreams taunting him yet again, even after he’s journeyed all the way home?

He doesn’t dwell too long. Instead, he presses a hand to his chest and says, “My apologies, madame—I won’t do it again.”

You continue with a roll of your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “After many, many days of journeying and watching all of the people of Mondstadt, the wind eventually urged the seed to settle. To grow somewhere and stop wandering. But it didn’t. Not at first. It wanted to keep going. To see more. To carry more memories with it.”

He exhales quietly through his nose. “…Stubborn thing,” he murmurs.

You look at him again. “Yes,” you chuckle.

The wind stirs. A dandelion seed catches briefly against his shoulder before drifting away again. In Nod Krai, he had not questioned it. He had accepted the taunting visions of what could have been his life without wondering if he’d made a mistake. Without wondering if they were still a possibility. Now, he is sitting beside you, close enough to hear your breathing and close enough to reach out and touch you—and he thinks maybe he has not given up all of his dreams. Not yet.

Maybe Varka has not lost that future. Maybe he has simply not reached it yet.

“Eventually,” you say, “it did settle. Right here, near Windrise. And when it finally grew, it was said to be taller and brighter than all the other dandelions. Perhaps because it carried all of Mondstadt and its people’s spirits. They say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed from that same dandelion, and that it carried all the memories it had gathered, all the love it had witnessed. So, it’s believed that dandelion wine was made to enjoy during happy occasions worth remembering.”

This was always the part of his dream that had ached the most. The part where he had allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he had stayed. That he had chosen differently. That he had not turned his back on the path that had everything he’d always wanted. The part that stung the most when he’d realize it was nothing but a dream when he’d crack his eyes open and only a tent was there to greet him in a distant, foreign land.

But you are here now. Real. Close enough that he can see the way the light catches in your eyes. Close enough that he understands, with a clarity that leaves him almost breathless, that you are not something he lost. You are not something he gave up. You are something he still has time to earn.

He clears his throat, stretching his arms behind his head to rest against them as he says, in what he hopes sounds teasing, “Did you bring dandelion wine, then? To celebrate the joy of going on a date with this legendary knight?”

You laugh softly. “I did.” You reach into the basket and pull out a bottle.

His eyes widen slightly, delighted. “Well,” he says, “how fortunate I am.”

You hesitate for just a moment before adding, “I’m sure people have offered you wine everywhere since you’ve returned, but still…it seemed appropriate.”

He watches you as you pour. The careful way you hold the bottle. The way the sun kisses your skin and warms it up. This moment had lived in his mind before it ever existed. Not exactly like this. But close enough that it feels less like a coincidence and more like mercy. Fate has had mercy on Varka, and he has never been one to argue with fate.

When you offer him the glass, your fingers brush his. He stills.

(It is difficult not to dwell on it for a moment—how easy and simple it was in his dream, just to touch you. He had reached for you without hesitation. Now, he is so careful. So grateful for accidental touches and so wishful that they would last a little longer. If only for a moment.)

You don’t pull away immediately. Neither does he. Finally, you release the glass and move to pour your own.

But it never happens. 

Because Varka cannot endure this any longer.

His restraint snaps suddenly—so suddenly, that he almost doesn’t recognize it for what it is. Every chivalrous, righteous virtue he lives by as a knight to be a good, respectable man gets carried away by the wind, and leaves him stripped with nothing else but instinct. Instinct, and perhaps an aching longing that has been sharpened by years of absence, and then sharpened even further still by the unbearable reality of you being right here, within reach, and not his. The sharpness is too painful now—it slices him in ways he can no longer tolerate and move on from. 

His hand moves before he can stop it. He catches your wrist—not rough, never rough—but with a firmness that startles you. You barely have time to react before he pulls you toward him, and then you are no longer sitting beside him. You are on his lap, your breath catching as the world tilts, as his arm comes around your waist to steady you, as warm and hard muscle shaped by years of battle and discipline wrap around you.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

His eyes search your face like a starved man. Like a lost man, even. He takes you in as though he is committing you to memory all over again, as though this, too, might become something he will only be allowed to revisit in dreams.

He should stop. He knows he should stop.

But he has spent years stopping himself, hasn’t he? Years choosing duty. Years choosing others and not himself. Years choosing to live with the quiet, gnawing absence of you, knowing what he could have had and yet, still choosing to walk away from it. He has spent years choosing to give up the future he has dreamed of for the sake of the future of his nation and his people. 

He cannot do it any longer. Not when you are real instead of some figment of his imagination, and not when you are here, with him. 

Varka has had many, many dreams of you—not all of them have taunted him with the images of your affection. Some have taunted him with the images of you moving on, looking elsewhere, finding someone else. Maybe that is why he did not find you when he returned. Why he waited for you to find him. Maybe that is why, all along, he has been scared to face you—too scared to learn that perhaps he has given up a life that you both could have shared and sent you on a path to a life that no longer has room for him.

But it does. You still have room for him, and he is done with no longer allowing himself the space to be there. 

His hand rises to your face, and a calloused thumb brushes your cheek. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t really sound too sound sorry at all.

And then he kisses you. Hard.

It’s everything he has denied himself, poured into a single, desperate press of his lips. His mouth finds yours with a force that is unbearably hungry. Hunger that has grown painful over years of restraint. He pulls you closer against him, his hand firm at your waist, anchoring you there as though he’s afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip.

Your lips are softer than he remembers in his dreams. Warmer. Alive beneath his. There is life to them, not some ghostly mimic meant to haunt him cruelly. 

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he thinks you might pull away. But you prove him wrong. You don’t. And when you finally gather yourself enough to respond, you lean into him instead of away. You kiss him back just as hard—just as desperate. And something deep in his chest aches more than it ever has.

His hand slides to the back of your neck. To keep you there, in place—right there against him, where you belong. To convince himself this is real, that he is not asleep in a tent, envisioning Windrise and you and your warmth. To convince himself that he will not wake up and feel the aftershocks of shame and bitterness and insufferably agonozing yearning. 

He has kissed you in dreams before. Those had been gentle things. Easy and familiar and almost part of a routine. It had been so simple to just kiss you as he pleased in his mind, that it had made him feel helpless. He had walked away from what he’s always wanted most. 

This is not gentle. He doesn’t have the luxury to take his time and be cautious with you when this could end in an instant. This is not part of his routine, and it may never be. So he takes advantage of it, as ashamed as he is to admit it. He pulls back only slightly, just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven in a way no battle has ever managed to cause.

He searches your face again, as though waiting for you to change your mind. To regret this and regret him.

You don’t.

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, kissing him just as hard. As if…(dare he believe such a bold idea) as if you have dreamt of this moment for years and years, as well. 

“Forgive me,” he says again, his voice a rough, deep rumble as his lips press to yours again. Again and again and again and again. Hot, searing kisses are pressed to your lips as he whispers, “Forgive me,” between them. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” you manage to whisper in between, somewhere along the way. And you kiss him, too. Again and again and again and again.

And after so long, Varka is home. His dreams are no longer just dreams. 

his lore makes for a good romantic angst i think

[jakeycore]

friendliest fire / neteyam

aged up! neteyam x na'vi reader. MDNI 🔞

Summary: He almost died. You saved him. And now neither of you knows how to pretend it didn’t change everything, especially now that he knows about the thing you’ve hidden since the day you arrived. Rivals don’t do the things you two do… do they? Warnings: 6k+ words, aged up! neteyam, rival to friends i guess (still with benefits) , explicit smut, p in v, finally not a hate sex, cunnilingus, pussy eating, reader on top (woohoo), riding, this is more fluff than the before i think

Chapters: friendly fire, friendlier fire, friendliest fire

Three days later, the air in the high pods of High Camp was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and woodsmoke. You climbed the woven ramps, your heart doing a nervous stutter-step that you refused to acknowledge.

You found him in the healers' wing, propped up against a stack of woven mats. He was stripped to the waist, a thick, clean white bandage wrapped firmly around his chest. He was pale, but the gray tint to his skin was gone, replaced by the healthy blue glow of someone far too stubborn to stay down.

The moment you stepped inside, his ears perked up.

"You’re late," Neteyam called out, his voice still a bit gravelly but carrying that familiar, arrogant lilt. He didn't even wait for you to sit before he gestured to a bowl of fruit nearby. "I’m starving. Peel me one of those? The healer treat me like I’m made of glass."

"The healer is your grandmother, Neteyam," you said. You stood at the foot of his mat, arms crossed, staring at him. "You almost bled out in the dirt three days ago, and your first words to me are a demand for snacks?"

"Technically," he said, leaning back and wincing just a fraction as his wound pulled, "my first words were that you're late. The fruit was a follow-up."

He patted the space on the mat next to him. When you finally sat down, he watched you with golden eyes that had lost their glaze, regaining that sharp, teasing light that always managed to get under your skin. "I remember the part where you told me to shut up. Very romantic," he said.

"I was trying to save your life," you hissed, feeling your face heat up. "You were being incredibly annoying."

"I was dying! I’m allowed to be a little dramatic," he countered, reaching out with his good arm to snag your wrist, pulling your hand toward him. He traced the small scabs on your skin where the ropes had been. "But I heard you. 'I've got you,' you said. You sounded so worried."

You hissed, jerking your hand back. "I was worried about the lecture your father would give me if I brought his heir back in pieces. Don't let it go to your head."

Neteyam chuckled, but the sound turned into a small wince as his chest rose. He settled back against the mats.

"How did you do it?" he asked softly. "That thing with the tsaheylu. The leader woman... she looked terrified of you. Like she’d seen a ghost."

"Her name is Varang," you said. You went still, looking down at your scarred wrists. The memory of the black rage and the way you had crushed Varang’s mind made your skin crawl. "And let's say, experience is the best teacher," you continued.

Neteyam’s ears twitched, his head tilting to the side. Experience? Na'vi don't use the bond like that. They use it for connection, for the ikran, for the direhorse. They don't use it to lobotomize people

He looked at you closely, his eyes narrowing as he put the pieces together. "What do you mean, 'experience'?"

You sighed, the secret you had kept since the day you arrived at High Camp finally slipping out.

"Neteyam, I wasn't a Windtrader. I was a Mangkwan," you said, your voice a cold thread. "Hell, not only a regular Mangkwan, I was the tsakarem."

The silence that followed was heavy. Neteyam’s hand, which had been reaching for yours again, froze in mid-air. "You're one of them?" he whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.

"Was," you corrected sharply. "Yeah... maybe I lied about my story when I arrived here," you chuckled, though there was no humor in it. The sound was dry and sharp.

Neteyam sat back, his mind racing through every moment he had known you, the "stray" girl who had fought twice as hard as any Omatikaya, the girl who knew too much about pressure points and psychological warfare.

"So that mad woman..." Neteyam started, his voice hushed as he looked at the entrance to the pod to ensure no one was listening. "Varang. She’s your mother?"

You recoiled, a genuine hiss of disgust escaping your lips. "Now that’s an insult. I’d rather have been birthed by a viper."

You looked down at your hands, picking at a loose thread on the mat. "The part of me being an orphan isn't a lie."

You felt a cold weight settle in your chest, the kind that no amount of forest sun could warm. "My parents died in the same volcanic eruption that blackened the southern islands. I watched the sky turn to ash and the earth swallow everything I loved."

You looked up at Neteyam, your eyes hard and dry. "I’ve hated Eywa ever since. You’ve never seen me pray to her, have you?" You let out a short, jagged chuckle. "While the rest of you are singing to the trees, I’m wondering why the Great Mother felt the need to bury my family in ashes."

Neteyam’s expression shifted from shock to a deep, pained silence. For an Omatikaya, for the son of a man who spoke to Eywa through the Tree of Souls, your words were pure sacrilege. But he didn't pull away.

"Varang found me in the ash," you continued, your voice hollow. "She didn't see a grieving child. She looked into my eyes and realized we shared the same hatred. She saw a girl who wanted to tear the world apart, and she took me under her wing to show me exactly how to do it."

Neteyam looked at you deeply. The teasing spark in his eyes had completely vanished, replaced by a heavy, grounding gravity.

"Why did you run away?" Neteyam asked, his voice barely a breath.

"You don't even want to know how the training was," you said, your voice going dangerously thin. You stared at your hands, but you weren't seeing the healer's pod. You were seeing the dark, damp caves of the Mangkwan coast.

"She forced me to bond with dying victims. Men, women, animals... it didn't matter. She made me stay connected while their life flickered out. I felt the fear, the cold, the agony. I felt the last breath they ever took. Again, and again, and again... until I felt numb."

You looked at him, and for a second, your eyes were as cold as Varang’s.

"That’s how you control a tsaheylu," you said. "Because their feelings don't affect you anymore. You learn to treat someone’s soul like a room you’re just walking through."

Neteyam flinched. He looked at the bandage on his chest, realizing that when you had saved him, you had used a skill forged in the deaths of dozens of others.

"But I don't like torturing people," you said, your voice finally breaking, the hardness cracking. "Varang wanted me to enjoy it. She wanted me to be the one who pushed them over the edge. But every time I felt a heart stop... it felt like my own was stopping, too. I couldn't be the monster she wanted," you whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Then, you cleared your throat, forcing the darkness back with a sharp, jagged smile. "I actually had a proper little rebellion. I told her to her face that I wouldn't do it. She was, let's say less than pleased. But I fought her, managed to scramble away, and limped into High Camp looking like a drowned forest cat."

You let out a dry chuckle, nudging his good leg with your elbow. "So, technically, I didn't lie! I was a victim of the Mangkwan. I just left out the part where I was their tsahik-in-training. I figured 'Windtrader orphan' sounded much more sympathetic and much less than 'I-can-fry-your-brain-with-my-hair.'"

Neteyam rolled his eyes so hard he nearly winced from the effort, a huff of indignant laughter escaping his chest.

"A Windtrader," he repeated, shaking his head. "I should’ve guessed it was a lie. No Windtrader hiss like a wounded kitten every time things don't go their way. And they certainly don't look like they're ready to commit murder when someone asks them to help with the laundry."

"I do not hiss like a kitten," you snapped, your ears flattening.

"You do," he insisted, a teasing glint returning to his gold eyes despite his pale face. "You’re all spikes and teeth. Every time I try to help you with your footing or show you a better grip on your knife, you go hiss. It’s cute. Like a little forest cat that thinks it’s a thanator."

"I am a thanator compared to you right now," you retorted, gesturing vaguely at his prone, bandaged form. "You’re currently a very blue and very talkative rug."

"A rug that saved your life," he reminded you, pointing a finger at your nose. "Before you went all 'scary priestess' on everyone, I was the one standing between you and Varang’s blade. I think that earns me the right to call you a kitten."

"It earns you a smack to the head if you weren't already concussed," you muttered, though you didn't move away. "And for the record, you're so stupid. I told you not to drop that bow. We wouldn't be in this mess if you just listened for once."

Neteyam let out a dry, rattling breath that might have been a laugh if it didn't hurt so much. "Oh, right. Because watching your head get jerked around while you screamed in pain was the perfect time for me to be 'logical.' My mistake."

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, his face tight with lingering exhaustion. "Honestly? With how much you’ve been lecturing me since I woke up, I’m starting to think I should’ve just let her cut your kuru. At least then you would be quiet."

Your tail lashed behind you. "And I should have left you bleeding in the forest. At least, the soil would’ve made better use than your stubbornness."

Neteyam hissed at you.

You hissed back.

The air between you was thick with heat and the lingering tension of two people who had almost lost everything, expressed through the only way you knew how: sharp words and bared teeth.

"Am I interrupting a hunt?"

The deep, gravelly voice of Jake Sully echoed through the pod.

You both jumped. Neteyam winced, hissing for a very different reason as he clutched his chest, and you scrambled back, nearly tripping over a bowl of medicinal mash.

Jake stood in the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked between the two of you. Jake’s expression was unreadable, but one of his eyebrows was arched in a way that suggested he had heard more than he was letting on.

"Dad," Neteyam panted, trying to smooth his expression into something resembling a disciplined soldier. "No. Just... discussing tactics."

"Sounded like a lot of hissing for a tactic discussion," Jake said, stepping into the room.

He looked at you, his gaze heavy and observant. "And you. I hear the healers have been looking for you. Something about you refusing to let them check your wrists because you were too busy 'supervising' my son’s recovery?"

You looked at your feet, your tail giving one final  flick. "He’s a difficult patient, sir."

"She’s a tyrant," Neteyam muttered under his breath.

You give him a final hiss before finally excusing yourself to leave the room.

Three months had passed since the "tactical disaster" in the forest, and life at High Camp had returned to its usual rhythm, which, for the two of you, meant a constant state of verbal warfare and physical tension that could set the foliage on fire.

The scar on Neteyam’s chest was now a jagged, silvery mark against his blue skin, a permanent reminder of the day he was an "idiot."

"I hate you," you said. You two were on the way of a hunting, and of course it was full of arguing like usual. "I hate your face, I hate your ego, and I especially hate that you think you're better than me."

"Because I am," Neteyam chuckled.

"You know, the more I think, the more I want to finish what Varang started. Maybe I should re-stab your scar and actually leave you bleeding in the forest," you hissed.

"Still all spikes and teeth," he said. "Are you going to hiss at me again, kitten?"

"If you call me kitten one more time, I will actually fry your brain," you threatened.

Twenty minutes later, the bickering hadn't stopped, but it had shifted into the rhythmic, professional silence of the hunt. Mostly.

You moved through the mid-canopy like ghosts, leaping from branch to branch with practiced ease. Neteyam was a few meters to your left, his long limbs moving with the terrifying fluidity that made him such a lethal scout.

Neteyam didn't even look at you. He just raised two fingers, pointing toward a thicket of purple-leafed bushes. A yerik stood there, its six legs tensed, ears twitching at a sound only it could hear.

He looked at you then, a challenge dancing in his gold eyes. He didn't say a word, but the tilt of his head was clear: My kill or yours?

You didn't wait for a formal invitation. You notched an arrow, the movement silent and blurred. But as you drew back the string, Neteyam’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing your elbow to adjust your stance by a fraction of a millimeter.

"Your elbow is too high," he breathed into your ear, his chest nearly brushing your back. "You're getting sloppy because you're angry."

"I am not sloppy," you whispered back, your tail twitching in irritation. "And get off me. You’re ruining my line of sight."

"I'm perfecting it," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Now shoot, kitten. Before it smells your attitude and runs away."

You gritted your teeth, focused on the target, and loosed the arrow. It whistled through the air, a clean, silent streak of death. The yerik dropped instantly, not even a cry escaping it.

"Clean," Neteyam admitted, finally pulling back. He looked at the fallen prey, then back at you with a smirk that was entirely too fond. "Almost as good as me."

"In your dreams, Sully," you snapped, already jumping down toward the forest floor to claim the kill.

Neteyam hauled the yerik onto his shoulders, the weight of the animal barely seeming to slow him down. Instead of heading back toward the main camp, he began to climb toward the high ridges, toward the shimmering, ethereal glow that illuminated the horizon.

"Where are you going?" you asked, jumping over a gnarled root. "The villages are the other way, Olo'eyktan-to-be."

"I know where the villages are," Neteyam replied over his shoulder, his tail swishing with a steady, rhythmic confidence. "We’re making a stop first."

As the trees began to thin and the air grew thick with the hum of a thousand invisible spirits, the glow intensified. You rounded a corner and stopped dead. The Tree of Souls stood before you, its long, glowing tendrils swaying in a wind that didn't exist, a living cathedral of light.

He dropped the prey at the edge of the sacred ground, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at the tree, then back at you, his expression maddeningly calm.

You let out a dry, sharp bark of a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You’ve got to be kidding me, Neteyam. Are you trying to perform an exorcism? Do you think the tree is going to smell the 'Mangkwan' on me and strike me down?"

"I think you’re being dramatic," Neteyam countered, walking over to you. He didn't stop until he was in your personal space. "I’m not asking you to pray. I’m not asking you to like Her."

"Then why are we here?" you asked, though the hum of the tree was making the hair on your arms stand up.

"Because you spend all your time looking at the ground or looking for enemies," Neteyam said softly. He reached out, his fingers catching a floating woodsprite.

Atokirina. A seed of the sacred tree that was drifting toward your face. He held it out to you, the tiny, glowing creature spinning slowly in his palm.

"I wanted you to see that not everything in this world is fire and ash," he murmured. "Even if you hate the Source, the view is still better than a cave in the Mangkwan coast, isn't it?"

"It’s just a tree, Neteyam," you whispered, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

"It's a very pretty tree," he corrected, his smirk returning. "And it’s very quiet. Which is the only way I can get a word in without you hissing at me."

The atokirina flew away from Neteyam's palm.

You let out a huff of a laugh, leaning your weight onto one hip as you stared at the swaying, luminous vines. The light played off your skin, making the old scars on your wrists look like silver threads.

"I don't know, Neteyam," you joked, your voice echoing slightly in the hollow silence of the grove. "I'm afraid I would scare your ancestors away. Can you imagine? One touch and all the great Omatikaya leaders of the past start screaming because a Mangkwan witch just walked into the chat."

Neteyam snorted, stepping closer until his shoulder brushed yours. "My ancestors have seen Great Shadow wars and human invasions. I think they can handle one grumpy girl from the coast."

"I'm serious," you said, though your smirk remained. "I did terrible things with my kuru in the past. If I plug into this thing, I might accidentally download a virus into your precious Eywa."

"A virus?" Neteyam shook his head, looking at the tree with a quiet, steady reverence. "It doesn't work like that. You don't 'take' from the tree. You just... listen."

He reached out, his hand hovering near the glowing white tendrils, then he looked back at you. His eyes were soft, searching. "You’re not a virus. You’re just afraid."

The joke died in your throat. Your gaze drifted from his face to the swaying vines of the Tree of Souls. The hum of the tree felt like a physical weight against your chest, a heartbeat that wasn't yours

"I'm not afraid," you lied, your voice dropping to a whisper.

But you were. You were terrified. You were afraid that if you connected, you’d see your parents with their faces twisted in the same fire and ash that had claimed them. You were afraid their spirits would look at what you’d become, what Varang had turned you into, and turn away in shame.

And even worse? You were afraid that you’d reach out into that Great Mother's mind and find... nothing. That the silence would be absolute, proving that your parents were just gone, scattered like smoke, and that Eywa had never been listening at all.

"Just try," Neteyam urged softly. He took a step toward you, his hand grazing your arm. "One touch. If it’s too loud, or if you hate what you hear, you pull away."

You looked at the glowing vines, then back at him. "If I see a bunch of old Omatikaya chiefs telling me to do my laundry and stop being mean to you, I’m never letting you hear the end of it."

"Deal," he murmured, a small, encouraging smile breaking through his seriousness.

You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you reached for your queue. You slowly brought the pink, sensitive filaments of your kuru toward the glowing vines of the tree. The closer you got, the more the air seemed to thrum.

At the last second, you froze. The fear of seeing them, or not seeing them, hit you like a physical blow to the stomach.

"I can't," you gasped, snatching your hand back as if the tree had burned you. You stumbled a half-step away, your chest heaving. "I told you, it's just a tree. I’m not doing this, Neteyam. Do your own prayer, take the damn yerik, and let’s go home."

Neteyam didn't push. He just gave a quiet, knowing nod, respecting the wall you’d slammed down. You walked away a few paces, leaning against a nearby trunk as you sat down beside the dead yerik.

You watched him with narrowed eyes as he approached the glowing tendrils. He closed his eyes, connecting his kuru with that glowing vines.

When Neteyam finally finished, he disconnected and walked over, sinking down to sit beside you. He didn't say anything at first, just sat there in the shared quiet of the bioluminescent glow.

Suddenly, a single atokirina bobbed through the air, drifting right toward your face. Without thinking, purely out of a reflexive, you slapped it away from you.

"Don't," Neteyam said, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist mid-swing. He didn't pull you away, he just held your arm steady in the air. "Stay still," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the woodsprite.

You were confused, but you stopped struggling. Then, more of them came. It wasn't just one, dozens of the glowing seeds descended like falling stars, landing on your shoulders, your hair, your knees, and your hands. They were weightless, pulsing with a faint, cool light until you were draped in a shimmering, white shroud.

You sat there, frozen, until they all finally took flight again, drifting back into the heights of the tree.

"What was that?" you asked, your voice barely a rasp. You felt exposed, like the tree had just looked right through your skin.

Neteyam was staring at you. "You've been chosen. By Eywa," he breathed.

"For what exactly?" You snapped, standing up abruptly and brushing off the invisible dust of the spirits. "To be a glow-in-the-dark target? To be your tribal mascot? No. Absolutely not. I’m not 'converting' or becoming a believer just because she says I'm chosen or whatever. I don't care about her seeds and I don't care about her signs."

Neteyam stood up, hoisting the yerik over his shoulders with a grunt. He looked at you, that maddening, smug smirk slowly returning to his face despite your outburst. "Stubborn ass."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Neteyam let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, adjusting the heavy weight of the yerik on his shoulders. "Of course you would. Only you could be blessed by the Great Mother and treat it like a personal insult."

"It is an insult," you countered, falling into step beside him, your tail lashing with leftover adrenaline. "She’s been silent my whole life while I was bleeding in the ash, and now that I’m finally tucked away in your little forest paradise, she wants to say hello? She’s late. By about ten years."

Neteyam didn't look back, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "Maybe she was waiting for you to stop hissing long enough to hear her."

"I will hiss at her, I will hiss at you, and I will hiss at anyone who thinks I'm going to start wearing flowers and singing to a tree," you grumbled. You reached up to adjust your hair.

Neteyam didn't answer with words. Instead, he shifted the yerik to one shoulder and reached out with his free hand, his fingers snaking toward your queue.

"Hey!" you barked, jumping back as if he’d shocked you. "Hands off the merchandise, Sully! You want to lose a finger?"

"Just checking for more bugs," he teased.

"Bugs? I'll show you some bugs, you moron!" you snarled, lunging at him.

Neteyam wasn't expecting the sudden tackle. He tried to pivot, but with the weight of the yerik on his shoulders, his balance was off. You dove for his midsection, your fingers finding the sensitive spot right above his hip bones.

"Wait—no!" Neteyam choked out a surprised, breathless laugh as he went down. The yerik slid off his shoulders into the grass with a heavy thud, and he hit the mossy ground a second later with you pinned firmly to his chest.

You didn't stop. You dug your fingers into his ribs, tickling him ruthlessly. "How's that for a bug, Sully? You want to check for more?"

"Stop! I yield!" he wheezed, squirming beneath you, his hands catching your wrists to try and pull them away. He was strong, but he was laughing too hard to actually use his strength. "Mercy! The Mangkwan... they have no honor!"

"None at all," you hissed, but you finally stopped the tickling.

You didn't move, though. You stayed right where you were, straddling his waist, your hands pinned against the ground by his. The forest around you seemed to go quiet, the glow from the Tree of Souls spread across your face.

It had been three months. Three months since that night in the tent before the ambush. Three months since you two touch each other.

"What's the matter?" Neteyam teased, his voice dropping into a rough, low vibration that seemed to hum right through your skin. "You're usually so loud when you're winning. Why so quiet now, kitten?"

"Shut up," you whispered, though you didn't move.

"Make me," he challenged.

"Oh, I know a way," you murmured.

You didn't go for his ribs this time. You didn't go for a punch or a shove. Instead, you reached around his head, your fingers navigating the dark braids until you found his queue.

Neteyam didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to block you. He just lay there against the moss, his smirk widening into something amused. He wasn't afraid of what you could do to his mind, he’d already felt your soul when you saved his life. He knew you wouldn't really try to fry his brain anyway.

"Go ahead," he challenged softly, his hands moving from your wrists to rest firmly on your waist. "Do your worst, Mangkwan. Break my mind. I think there’s only room in there for you at this point, anyway."

The challenge hung in the air, thick and heavy. You didn't back down. You reached for your queue, the neural filaments shivering as they sensed the proximity of his.

As the filaments braided together, the world exploded.

Neteyam’s pupils dilated instantly, his golden irises nearly swallowed by black as the connection slammed into him. He let out a ragged gasp, his head falling back against the moss as the sheer force of your mind flooded his. He closed his eyes tight, his fingers digging into your waist as he tried to process the sensory overload. It wasn't like connecting to an ikran or a tree. It was like plugging into a live wire.

Through the bond, you felt him, all of him. You can feel his overwhelming heat, his fierce protectiveness, and the raw, aching want he had been suppressed for months.

You, however, remained perfectly still. You kept your eyes open, watching the way his chest heaved and the way his tail twitched violently in the grass.

"Too much for the prince?" you whispered, your voice cool and steady despite the fire rushing through the bond.

Neteyam let out a low, pained groan of pleasure, his grip tightening on your hips. Through the tsaheylu, his thoughts racing. He was seeing flashes of that night in the forest, the smell of your skin, the way you looked when you were angry, and the terrifyingly beautiful way you looked when you were saving him.

He opened his eyes, hazy and dark, looking up at you with a vulnerability he only ever showed in the dark. [Stop... acting like you don't feel this,] his voice echoed directly into your mind, bypasssing your ears. [I can feel your heart. It’s lying for you.]

He was right. Even if your face was a mask of calm, the bond didn't lie. Your heart was drumming a matching rhythm against his own.

"You look good quiet like this," you murmured, your voice a cool contrast to the storm raging through the bond.

Neteyam let out a long and shaky exhale. Without breaking the connection, he sat up, his hands never leaving your waist, until you were eye-to-eye in the middle of the glowing grove.

"You're a demon," he rasped, though he was pulling you closer.

"And yet, you're still here," you whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't wait for another taunt. He leaned in, closing the final inch of space. When your lips finally met, the tsaheylu flared again, sending a physical jolt through both of you.

The tsaheylu turned the kiss into something visceral, a sensory overload that made the forest floor feel like it was falling away.

Neteyam’s hands moved with a sudden, possessive urgency, sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there wasn't a breath of air between your chests. He tasted like the cool water of the river and the sweet nectar of the flowers.

The tsaheylu spiked, a line of pure sensation shooting through your nerves as Neteyam’s hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. He adjusted you until your back was pressed against the dead yerik, using the animal's body as a makeshift headrest.

"Neteyam," you breathed, your head thumping back against the yerik as his mouth left yours.

He didn't stop. He moved lower, his lips tracing a path of fire down your throat, lingering on the spot where your pulse was jumping like a trapped bird.

He went lower still, his head dipping below your eye line. You arched your back, your breath hitching in your throat as the tsaheylu transmitted every ghost of a touch, amplifying it until you couldn't tell where your body ended and his began.

He also could feel your sharp intake of breath, the way your muscles coiled in anticipation, and he chose that exact moment to slow down. He looked up at you from his position, his golden eyes hooded and dark, glowing like embers in the twilight of the grove.

"Are you unaffected by this, little Mangkwan?" he whispered, his voice vibrating through the neural link.

You tried to glare at him, but it was hard to maintain your "scary priestess" persona when your toes were curling into the moss. "I'm going to kill you, Sully."

"You've been saying that for months," he teased, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle on the inside of your thigh. "But your heart is telling me something else."

Neteyam’s hand moved with a slow, deliberate precision, sliding the edge of your loincloth aside just enough. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he took you in. He could smell the heavy and sweet scent of your arousal.

Then, he leaned in and took a taste.

You let out a sharp, choked-off cry, your head thumping back against the yerik so hard the animal's carcass shifted. Because he was connected to you, he felt exactly how good it felt to you while he did it. He felt the jolt of pleasure as it traveled up your spine, and he fed it right back into the loop, amplifying it until the world was nothing but violet light and the sound of his name on your lips.

"Oh," Neteyam groaned against you, his voice vibrating through your entire lower body.

Neteyam didn't hold back. Every flick of his tongue was a calculated strike against your remaining sanity. You were blinded by the way the bond made every touch feel like a lightning strike, the way his satisfaction bled into your own until you were drowning in a sea of shared, mounting ecstasy.

"Neteyam—" you gasped, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders.

You felt his tongue, hot and expert, swirling against you, and because of the bond, you felt his own primal satisfaction at the way your thighs trembled against his ears. He could feel the exact moment your breath hitched, the exact millisecond your internal muscles coiled, and he used that knowledge to push you even harder.

Your fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, your nails carving crescent moons into his skin, but he only pressed deeper. He was drinking you in, tasting the salt and the sweetness. His own arousal bleeding through the link until you could feel the heavy, thrumming ache in his own body.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, anchoring you as you began to arch uncontrollably. [Give it to me,] his voice echoed in your mind, dark and commanding. [Let it go, kitten. Let me taste it all.]

The command in your head was the final blow. The release hit you with the force of a physical collision, a psychic shockwave that traveled through the tsaheylu and slammed into Neteyam’s mind at the same time it wrecked your body. Your back arched so sharply it felt like your spine might snap.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ragged sounds of your breathing. Neteyam eventually sat up, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Slowly, your strength returned to your limbs. You sat up, sliding onto his lap and straddling his waist. You reached out, framing his face with your hands, and pulled him into a kiss. This one was slower, deeper, and tasting of the victory you both finally shared.

When you pulled back just an inch, you saw that familiar, smug look starting to creep back into his expression. You couldn't have that. Not yet.

"Don't look so proud of yourself, Sully," you rasped, your voice still a little wrecked.

Neteyam let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, his hands tightening on your waist. "Well. I recall you nearly breaking my shoulders and screaming my name loud enough to wake the ancestors."

"The ancestors are probably more disappointed in your lack of focus," you countered, though your breath hitched as his hands slid from your waist to your thighs, his grip firm and grounding.

"Lack of focus? I'm focused exactly where I want to be." He shifted beneath you, his hips tilting upward just enough to make you gasp.

"If you're so worried about my focus," Neteyam rasped, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register, "then why don't you take control?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His hands, large and steady, lift your hips before he managed to move his loincloth aside. He grabbed your hips again, aligning you perfectly above him. The tsaheylu flared. You felt the heavy and thrumming weight of his desire.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming down to rest on his broad chest for balance. "Careful, Sully," you whispered, your eyes locking onto his. "You might find out I’m a lot more than you can handle."

"Try me," he challenged.

You sank down slowly, the sensation so intense that your head fell back. The sensation hit both of you with a "double" intensity that felt like a physical weight.

Through the bond, you weren't just feeling yourself, you were feeling him feeling you. You felt the incredible, searing warmth of your own body from his perspective, the way you were so tight and welcoming that it made his vision go blurry. At the same time, he was feeling the sensation of fullness through your nerves, a heavy, grounding ache that made your toes curl into the moss.

The feedback loop of the tsaheylu was becoming a storm you couldn't control. You moved with a rhythmic grace, your hips rolling in a slow, torturous grind that forced a groan from deep within Neteyam’s chest.

Neteyam’s hands moved to your hips, his large palms anchoring you, guiding your pace when he felt you falter from the sheer intensity.

[Look at me,] he commanded through the link.

You forced your eyes open, your vision swimming with violet light and sweat. You began to move faster, your breath coming in short, sharp hitches that sounded like prayers in the silence of the grove. He was so warm, so impossibly solid beneath you.

He met every one of your descents with a powerful, rhythmic thrust of his own hips, his tail lashing the ground, coiling and uncoiling in the grass. Because of the bond, you could feel the tension building in his loins—a coiled spring of energy that was seconds away from snapping. He felt your internal muscles clenching around him, the rhythmic ripples of your body sending waves of agonizing pleasure straight to his brain.

It was a total sensory takeover. The scent of the crushed moss, the humming of the sacred tree, the salt of your skin, and the taste of his breath as you leaned down to capture his lips again.

The kiss was the fuse that finally hit the powder keg. As your lips crashed together, the tsaheylu give a torrent of shared sensation that left no room for thought.

You accelerated your pace, your body a blur of motion against his, the friction generating a heat that felt like it was melting the very air between you.

And then, you felt the exact moment he reached his limit. It acted as a trigger for your own body. The pressure in your core coiled tighter and tighter, an agonizing thrum that demanded to be let loose.

Then, it happened.

The release rippled through your body.

You let out a cry into his mouth as your internal muscles clamped around him in a series of powerful spasms. You felt your own climax as a blinding explosion and then, a millisecond later, you felt his release. A deep, pulsing flood of heat that mirrored your own, echoing back and forth through the tsaheylu until the pleasure was infinite.

Neteyam’s back arched off the moss, his hands gripping your hips so hard his knuckles went white. He groaned your name into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your teeth as he finally let go.

Slowly, the weight of gravity returned. You collapsed forward, your head falling onto his shoulder, your chest heaving against his as you both fought for air.

Neteyam’s hand came up to stroke the back of your head and back. He didn't speak. After a long moment of just holding you, he shifted, slowly laying back down on the mossy ground and pulling you with him.

You let out a soft giggle against the skin of his shoulder. You rolled off his chest but didn't go far, settling onto your side and resting your head on the crook of his arm.

He shifted his arm, pulling you even tighter against his side until you were tucked perfectly against his chest, cocooned by his scent and the heat still radiating from his skin. One of his large hands rested over your hip.

You fell asleep first, your breathing evening out as you drifted into a sleep.

As you drifted deeper into sleep, the tension finally left your body, your hand resting limply over Neteyam’s heart. He stayed awake for a long time, watching the way your expression had finally softened in the dark.

Satisfied, he pressed a final, lingering kiss to the top of your head and let his own eyes flutter shut, his grip on your hip never loosening even as he drifted off.

From the high, luminous canopy, dozens of atokirinas began to descend. The woodsprites drifted down like slow-motion snow, pulsing with a rhythmic white light.

They landed everywhere. They settled on your intertwined legs, on Neteyam’s broad shoulders, and in the messy tangles of your hair. One landed softly on the bridge of your nose, another settled right over the spot where your kuru was still braided with Neteyam’s.

The morning light filtered soft and hazy. You felt the absence of his heat before you even opened your eyes, the tsaheylu have been gently disconnected while you slept.

You stirred, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand, and saw Neteyam already sitting up beside you. He was staring at the glowing vines of the tree, his expression a complicated mask of realization.

As he looked around, the weight of last night seemed to crash down on him all at once. The sex, the tsaheylu, the fact that he came inside, and worst of all, that you two had done all of it here, before Eywa, right under The Tree of Souls.

"We aren't mated, are we?" he asked.

You contemplated the thought for a split second, but you quickly rubbed it off.

"Absolutely not," you said firmly, standing up and brushing the glowing moss from your skin.

i emptied my drafts, this is probably the last part, i have no ideas left lmao. also sorry if the title sucks i just can't think of another :p

[t-lostinworlds]

PASSIONATE OVERLOAD | Performers: Caleb & You

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — Heartbeats Ablaze

↳ SYLUS | RAFAYEL | XAVIER | ZAYNE | CALEB

[incorrecttwsted]

[orientalld]

They’re clearly too pure, too Fereldan for Antivan songs🥹

[feyspeaker]

painted an old flame... prints | patreon

[etheries1015]

We share the love language of biting. Now imagine TWST beatsfolk has that as an actual sign of courting. Like you're chilling with Leona, not dating or wooing him, and then you bite his cheek in affection. And all of Savanaclaw is shocked because among them, it's the same as i.e. proposing marriage. The utter chaos XD

OHH MY GOSSSHHH YOUR BRAIN >>> I LITERALLY LOVE THIS SO MUCH??? HAHAHA SODEFHSELKJD i'm gonna expand on that for a few characters...

Accidentally courting them

General warnings: Gender-neutral reader, not really proof read lol. Obvious Malleus and Lilia favoritism <3 I also decided that they ARE dating in this scenario, I think its cuter that way in my head heuheu

Featuring: Leona, Ruggie, Jack, Malleus, Lilia, ... and Rook HAHA.

TW: none! Just a bunch o' fluff of biting your non-human lover without realizing it was a sign of courtship <3

Leona

It was a typical day for Leona. You two were sitting in the lounge where most of the other students lingered, Leona becoming rather... possessive as of late. Instead of resting in his bedroom away from prying eyes as you had requested from your lover, he ignored all your feeble cries requesting privacy. Instead, he holds you in his lap without worrying what others are thinking. A form of showing others you were his, and his alone. You were conflicted in your feelings, staring at him. His eyes were closed, but he could feel your gaze burning into his head.

"How long are you-" Then it happened. You gave in. You gave his cheek a bit of a nibble. All of the sudden the chattering stopped, all eyes were on you, before they start patting Leonas back and giving him congrats while a few seemed to pull presents right out of their asses.

"Wha- what's going on?" Leona grumbled with a light blush before growling and pushing the face of someone who tried to hand him another gift.

"You all look like idiots! You know biting means something different to us. Don't be dumb." Okay, now you were extra confused. Seeing your utter ignorance, Leona sighed.

"Biting in our land is a sign of courtship, herbivore." ...Oh. You blush deeply and hide your face in his chest, Leona looking away flustered and ruffling your hair.

"Try again in a few years, and I just might bite you back."

Ruggie

You were walking down the halls with your boyfriend when suddenly you had the urge to just...bite him. an overwhelming sense of love and affection for the fact he had given you some of the bread he (probably legally) got ahold of. You smiled fondly at the bread and back at Ruggie before placing your mouth on the bulb of his shoulder, causing him to yelp in suprise and dropping his half of the bread.

"wha- huh?! What was that for?" He became flustered, bending over to pick up his bread and slowly move away from you with bright red cheeks. You furrowed your eyebrows and hugged yourself, almost embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, I just...I dunno," Your cryptic and non specific response left him with his jaw open and eyes wide, spluttering out things like "We're still in school! I don't have the funds yet-" before a familiar fist came and knocked the back of Ruggies head. Leona stood there smiling in amusement and chuckling at you.

"I don't think they know what that means to us beastman, Ruggie." Even more confused then before, you asked for clarification.

"You just asked him to marry you with that bite of yours, herbivore." Now YOUR mouth was wide open, and Ruggie managed to get flee from the scene without much notice from you nor his senior.

Oh brother. You have a lot of communicating to do with that one.

Jack

You were sitting at the lunch table eating away at your food when you noticed...Jack's biceps. You marveled at the sight of his bulky arms- it's a wonder to you how he managed to become so strong and have the motivation to train all day. With a burst of admiration, instead of biting into your sandwich - you took a bite into his muscle. He yelped in suprise and just stared at you, face slowly turning red. Ace and Deuce laughed at his reaction, ready to ask you what was up before Jack took it upon himself to... well, flustered and rapidly spit-firing plans.

"W-we are still so young! Are you sure about this? I-i never knew our relationship was at this level!" He grabbed both of your hands and looked you in your (bewildered) eyes.

"If you're serious about this, I promise I will protect and love you for the rest of my life. But before we go ahead with the ceremony, I want you to meet my parents and get their blessings. Oh, and I need to get a stable job after we finish school first, too, so I can support you and our future. know we haven't talked about marriage before but-" You quickly cut him off in astonishment before crying out,

"MARRIAGE?! Jack, WHAT are you talking about?! I am absolutely not ready for marriage! What got into you?!"

...Queue Ruggie and Leona hysterically laughing at your utter confusion, reveling in the ignorance of it all for a few moments longer before explaining properly what you had just committed yourself unknowingly to.

Malleus

You were laying in the bed of Malleus Draconias's dorm, scrolling on your phone whilst his tail wrapped around your waist as he sat next to you reading a book. You sighed lightly and leaned your head back against the board of the mattress, turning slightly to look at your handsome fae lover. Your eyes then went down to his pale and perfect skin of his neck, the way it was free from all blemishes, smooth, and bright. Something about it made you want to taint it a light shade of red... He felt you shuffle slightly to adjust your body to be in just the right position where his neck was in full view. He glanced over to you feeling you wriggle free from his tails grasp, tilting his head seeing the look in your eyes crazed as you leaned over and just...chomped down on his collarbone.

You felt his tail twitch and his hands quickly throw the book he was reading aside to grasp your wrists, turning your body around and pinning you to the bed and carrassing your cheek with his tail.

"Biting..." He murmured, "Does this mean the same to humans as it does to Fae? You wish to be wed?" Your jaw dropped and cheeks took on a rosey hue, stuttering over yourself.

"W-wed?! I mean, I like to bite when I feel affectionate b-but marriage...I mean maybe one day b-but-"

"Biting in Fae culture is a sign of courtship and ownership. How brazen of you to mark me," he chuckled, "I shall take it you wish to own the next king of Briar Valley?" You could tell at this point Malleus was teasing you, something he picked up from the time you two have been dating.

Malleus could not help but return the favor by riddling your body with his own bite marks. Although he understood you perhaps did not have the intention of marrying him with your silly little form of affection, he knew in his mind with every bite that he was very serious about your future with him.

Lilia

Lilia already knew that biting in the human world did not mean marriage, yet was akin to something more of "cute aggression." So when you have the habit of biting him in the privacy of yours or his room, he knows you simply meant it as a form of affection, letting him know that you had an overwhelming sense of love for the old fae. He bit you back consistently on many occasions, it just seemed to be the perfect form of showing love for one another.

You didn't actually know it meant something much deeper, until you were in the diasomnia lounge and unable to control yourself as you grabbed Lilias hand and bit down gently on his wrist. You couldn't help it, he was being so entirely silly and loving towards you, that you couldn't help but show this public display of affection. Much to everyone else's dismay, however. Sebek stares at you with his mouth agape, sounds of disbelief escaping past his lips yet a sentence unable to form. Malleus as well seemed surprised at this.

"(y/n)," Malleus said, "You wish to marry Lilia?" You coughed at the sudden question and let out a feeble and awkward chuckle.

"I mean...I wouldn't mind one day, of course. We haven't really talked about it. Why the sudden question?"

"HOW DARE YOU," Sebek cried out after finally finding his words, "How dare you bite Lilia and be so insolent as to not move forward with your actions in dignity! YOU MUST TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR PROPOSAL-" Lilia started snickering, cutting Sebek off with a wave of his hand.

"It's quite alright, Sebek. Biting means something much different to humans than Fae, I suppose this is the first you had seen us put on a show of affection, hence your confusion." He turned to you, who had furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips at Sebeks sudden outburst.

"Biting, my dear, is a form of courtship to us fae. It is a sign of ownership," He chuckled.

"Why didn't you tell me that?!" You exasperated, "I mean, it wouldn't have changed anything I have done, but I would have been more careful about it... especially if it means something more to you," Lilia gracefully explained he understood it meant something slightly different to humans, before gently grabbing your hand and raising it to his mouth.

"Well, now that you understand what it means," He put your ring finger into his mouth and took a bite at the base,

"Would you like to bite me once more, my dear?"

Bonus:

Rook

You bit his arm and he immediately was on one knee.

"Was that a proposal? You know mon cheri, biting one affectionately is often a declaration of courtship-" You hit the top of his head and walked away from your interesting boyfriend.

"You're not a beastman or a fae! I'm never biting you again!" Your face red and folding your arms, turning away (ah, his cute tsundere lover.)

Oh woe is Rook! He begs and begs you to bite him more, he wants to be covered in your marks. It means you were claiming him as your own, right? RIGHT??

~~~

This was so fun to write DFSEFDSFIHSLDKJF thank you for the brain rot heuheuheueheueh

Masterlist

[solxamber]

Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

[anxietyproblem]

[solxamber]

Pick Us!

In which you have to choose a club and it looks like everyone wants a piece of you.

Part 2 (Choosing a club)

You were minding your own business, dodging Grim's increasingly creative ways to get you to buy premium tuna, when Crowley swept in with his usual dramatic flair.

“Ah, my dear pupil!” he exclaimed, arms wide like a bad community theater actor. “To better immerse yourself in school life, you must join a club. It’s mandatory!”

Before you could protest or ask any clarifying questions, he disappeared in a swirl of his cape, leaving you standing there with nothing but Grim’s unsympathetic shrug.

Naturally, this information traveled faster than you could process it, because the next thing you knew, Ace was practically dragging you by the arm across campus.

The Basketball Club

“Alright, listen,” Ace began, spinning a basketball on one finger and grinning like he just invented the sport. “You’re obviously joining the basketball club. It’s the best. I’m here, Floyd’s here, and even Jamil’s here, so really, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Is that supposed to sell it?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Uh, yeah!” he said, tossing the ball toward you. It immediately bounced off your hands and hit the floor. Ace, undeterred, caught it mid-bounce and gave you a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I’m, like, super good at this. Just ask him!”

From across the gym, some poor guy—bless his heart—tried to nod in support, but you caught the nervous look he shot Ace instead.

“Okay, sure,” you said, “but isn’t this just an excuse for you to show off?”

“Maybe,” Ace said with zero shame, dribbling the ball dramatically before attempting a layup. The ball bounced off the rim and into Floyd’s waiting hands.

“Shrimpy!” Floyd called, tossing the ball behind his head without looking (and still somehow making the shot). “Join the club. It’ll be fuuuuun.”

You hesitated, because with Floyd, “fun” could mean literally anything. “Define fun,” you said cautiously.

“Simple! You, me, and Ace crushing people in games!” Floyd grinned, leaning closer to you. “And if anyone tries to mess with you, I’ll squish ‘em.”

Ace groaned. “Floyd, you can’t just threaten people into joining.”

“Why not?” Floyd asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because it’s weird!”

“No, it’s effective,” Floyd countered, shooting you another toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy, you’re already here. I’ll even let you call the plays. Or, you know, not. Whatever.”

“...You’re just bored, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Floyd admitted, leaning lazily against the wall. “But hey, if you join, I won’t let Ace hog the ball. Win-win, right?”

And then there was Jamil, who had been sitting silently on the sidelines, observing the chaos with his usual exasperated expression.

“Are they done?” he asked, finally standing and walking over to you.

“I don’t think so,” you replied, watching as Floyd tried to steal the ball from Ace mid-dribble.

Jamil sighed. “Typical.” He glanced at you, his tone cool and measured. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to drag you into their antics.”

“Antics?” Floyd repeated, offended.

“Yeah, Jamil,” Ace added, narrowing his eyes. “What’re you implying?”

“I’m implying you’re both terrible at convincing people,” Jamil said smoothly. He turned back to you. “If you’re interested in joining the club, you’ll actually get something out of it. Physical exercise, teamwork, strategy. And if you stick around, I’ll make sure you’re not stuck with them during practice.”

“Hey!” Ace protested.

Floyd just laughed. “Jamil’s still salty about the last scrimmage.”

“Hardly,” Jamil said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m just pointing out that if you want to learn how to actually play, you’d be better off with me.”

You blinked. “Are you… offering to train me?”

He shrugged, but there was a faint smirk on his face. “If it means saving you from their nonsense, yes.”

All you can do is sigh and say "I'll think about it"

Track and Field Club

You barely made it out of the basketball club’s gym alive when Deuce grabbed your wrist like his life depended on it. His expression was that unique combination of earnest and panicked—classic Deuce.

“Wait, don’t decide yet!” he said, already dragging you down the corridor. “You haven’t even seen the track and field club! You might like it better!”

“Deuce,” you began, trying to keep up without tripping. “I haven’t even—”

“Just come on!”

Before you knew it, you were standing on the edge of the outdoor track, blinking in the sunlight as Deuce shoved you forward like he was presenting a prize to a panel of judges. Jack, in the middle of sprint drills, stopped mid-stride to look over at you. His tail flicked once, and he jogged over with that intimidating mix of focus and curiosity he always had.

“You’re trying to recruit them?” Jack asked, crossing his arms.

Deuce nodded, puffing out his chest like he was making the ultimate sales pitch. “Yeah! Track and field’s way better than basketball. No offense to those guys.”

“I take offense,” you muttered, but neither of them heard.

“Plus,” Deuce continued, “we’ve got variety. Running, jumping, throwing—you can do anything. It’s not just bouncing a ball around, you know?”

Jack nodded in agreement. “It’s good for discipline. Builds strength, endurance, and focus. If you want to improve yourself, this is the place to do it.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at the track. “And what if I… don’t exactly have focus?”

“That’s fine!” Deuce said, grinning brightly. “We’ll help you! Right, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “Of course. We’ll start with basic drills.” He gave you a once-over, sizing you up. “How’s your stamina?”

“Define… stamina,” you said cautiously, because you had a feeling your answer wasn’t going to impress him.

Jack’s ears twitched, and he leaned slightly closer. “How far can you run without stopping?”

“Uh,” you began, nervously shifting your weight. “To the fridge?”

Jack blinked. “...You’re joking, right?”

Deuce coughed loudly, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that! Everyone starts somewhere, right? Besides, they’re here because they want to try something new.”

You stared at Deuce. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“Exactly!” he continued, ignoring you entirely. “Think of how awesome it’d be to have us training you! We’ll get you in the best shape of your life. Right, Jack?”

Jack, who was still mildly horrified by your fridge comment, hesitated. “...Sure.”

Deuce, now fully in salesman mode, gestured to the track like it was some sort of holy land. “And you don’t have to worry about teamwork stuff! You can focus on your personal goals and—”

“Unless you’re in a relay,” Jack interjected.

“Right, but relays are cool!” Deuce added quickly. “Like… team spirit, you know?”

You glanced between the two of them, taking in Jack’s intensity and Deuce’s enthusiasm. They were both staring at you with a mix of hope and determination, and honestly, it was kind of endearing.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “If I join, do I get to skip the first practice?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

Deuce grinned sheepishly. “But we’ll go easy on you!”

“Jack doesn’t look like he believes that.”

Jack tilted his head, his tail swishing once. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive later,” you muttered.

Deuce ignored that, clapping his hands together. “Great! I knew you’d love it here! C’mon, let’s give them a quick demo, Jack!”

Before you could protest, the two of them took off around the track, moving at speeds that made you feel dizzy just watching. Deuce kept glancing back to grin at you, while Jack stayed focused, every stride perfect.

You stood there, bewildered and vaguely impressed, wondering if joining any club was a good idea at all. Still, as Deuce stumbled back toward you, sweaty but grinning like a puppy who just fetched a stick, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Think about it, okay?” he said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “We’d love to have you here.”

Jack jogged up beside him, barely winded. “You’ll fit in if you put in the effort.”

“Yeah,” Deuce agreed, nodding earnestly. “So… what do you think?”

You hesitated, glancing at the track, then at them. “…I’ll get back to you.”

Deuce grinned like that was a victory, and Jack just nodded approvingly. As they walked back to their drills, you realized you had yet another club to consider—and these two weren’t going to make it any easier.

Board Game Club

Before you could make your escape—or even fully process the events of the day—your wrist was suddenly seized by Ortho, who zoomed in out of nowhere like a missile with a purpose.

“There you are!” Ortho exclaimed with unsettling cheer. His grip was surprisingly firm for someone who probably didn’t even need to touch you to move you. “Big Brother’s been waiting! Come on!”

“Wait—what? Ortho, where are we—”

“No time for questions!” And just like that, he lifted you into the air like you were a deranged package and he was some kind of express courier. You barely had time to flail before he rocketed off, delivering you with precision to the board game club's headquarters.

You landed with an unceremonious thud, right in front of Idia, who nearly fell out of his chair.

“Ortho!” Idia hissed, his flaming hair flaring. “You can’t just abduct people like that!”

“But you said you wanted them to join!” Ortho chirped. “Mission accomplished!”

Azul, seated calmly at the head of the table, adjusted his glasses and smirked. “Well, well. A delivery service—how efficient. Welcome to the board game club.”

You were still processing the fact that you’d been airmailed when Idia slouched lower in his seat, muttering, “Ugh, so embarrassing. Ortho, seriously…”

“Uh,” you began, brushing yourself off. “Hi?”

Azul gestured grandly to the table in front of him, where an array of meticulously organized board games was displayed like they were ancient treasures. “Here, we focus on strategy, intellect, and the fine art of outwitting your opponent. Unlike other clubs,” he said with a pointed glance at the door, “this one doesn’t require you to break a sweat.”

“That’s actually kind of appealing,” you admitted, still wary.

Idia perked up slightly, his hair flickering a little brighter. “See? I told you it’s cool. I mean, if you like, uh, not running around like some NPC.”

Ortho leaned over, nodding enthusiastically. “And Big Brother’s really good at this stuff! He’s undefeated in our club tournaments!”

“That’s because you’re the only other member who’s not a liability!” Idia blurted, before realizing what he’d just said. “Uh—I mean—you’d totally, like, be an asset. Probably.”

Azul cleared his throat, clearly annoyed at being excluded from the compliment. “Allow me to demonstrate. Why don’t we have a quick match? You against Idia.”

“What?” Idia sat up straight, his hair sparking nervously. “No way! That’s not fair—I can’t just—”

Azul gave him a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of losing, Idia.”

Idia’s face turned pink. “Fine,” he grumbled, setting up the board. “But don’t blame me if I crush them.”

You sat down reluctantly, realizing too late that this was probably a trap. Idia’s fingers moved at lightning speed as he set up his pieces, muttering calculations under his breath. Ortho leaned over your shoulder, giving you completely useless advice like, “Just believe in yourself!”

To your surprise, you managed to hold your own for the first few turns. Idia glanced up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were reevaluating your existence.

“Huh,” he murmured. “Not bad. For a newbie.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked, moving your piece cautiously.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said quickly, his face turning red again.

Azul chuckled from his spot at the table. “See? A game of wits and strategy. Isn’t this far superior to running laps or throwing balls into hoops?”

“Hey!” you said, pointing your game piece at him. “Don’t diss the other clubs. They’re passionate too!”

Azul raised an eyebrow. “Passion doesn’t win battles. Strategy does.”

The game dragged on, and by the end of it, you were completely out of your depth. Idia, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of an anime boss fight, his hair flaring dramatically as he made his final move.

“Checkmate,” he said, grinning slightly.

“Wrong game, Big Brother,” Ortho corrected.

“Whatever!” Idia snapped, but he didn’t look too upset. “It’s over, okay?”

Azul leaned forward, smirking again. “So, what do you think? Ready to join?”

You leaned back in your chair, your brain fried from trying to keep up. “I… I need to think about it.”

Ortho beamed. “That means they’re considering it! Success!”

Idia muttered something under his breath about “too much pressure” and “why is this so stressful,” but you caught a tiny flicker of a smile as he fiddled with one of the game pieces.

Azul, ever the businessman, handed you a brochure as you left. “Take your time. But remember—intellect always wins.”

You left the board game club feeling like you’d just survived a high-stakes negotiation. And as Ortho cheerfully waved goodbye, you couldn’t help but wonder if all the clubs were this intense.

Film Studies Club

You were rounding a corner, still recovering from your latest club recruitment ambush, when a perfectly manicured hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

Before you could even yelp, you found yourself being gracefully pulled into the Film Studies Clubroom by none other than Vil Schoenheit. His strides were purposeful, his posture impeccable, and his expression…well, let’s just say it was the definition of I’m doing you a favor, peasant.

“Vil?” you sputtered, barely managing to keep up. “What are you—”

“I need to vet you,” Vil said simply, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “The Film Studies Club could use some fresh blood, and you look… adequate.”

“Adequate?” you echoed, mildly offended but too intrigued to argue further.

He led you to the center of the room, gesturing for you to stand under a perfectly angled spotlight. “Don’t misunderstand,” Vil continued, crossing his arms and regarding you with a critical eye. “I’m merely evaluating your potential. Our club requires both talent and diligence—qualities that, if I’m being honest, are rare in this school.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Vil ignored you, pulling out a script and flipping through it like he was deciding your fate. “If you can’t pass the audition, you can still join as a backstage hand,” he said airily. “We’re short on those too.”

“Wow, what an inspiring pitch,” you muttered, but Vil’s sharp gaze silenced you immediately.

“Read this,” he instructed, handing you the script and gesturing for you to begin.

You hesitated, glancing at the lines. “You’re serious? Right now?”

“Do I look like someone who jokes about art?” Vil asked, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.

Point taken.

Clearing your throat, you started reading, trying to put some effort into it. Vil watched you intently, his expression inscrutable. He occasionally tilted his head, as if mentally dissecting every word you spoke, every movement you made.

When you finished, you looked at him expectantly, waiting for his verdict.

Vil tapped his chin, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not hopeless,” he said finally, in a tone that made it sound like a compliment. “Rough around the edges, yes, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly.

“Don’t be smug. You’ll need work,” Vil continued, ignoring your tone. “But I suppose you have potential.”

“And if I didn’t?”

Vil gave a delicate shrug, his expression cool. “Then you’d still be useful behind the scenes. But consider this your opportunity to elevate yourself. Being part of my club means striving for excellence—no exceptions.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Is this really about me, or are you just desperate for members?”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement there. “Desperation has nothing to do with it. I’m simply ensuring that my club remains unparalleled. If you happen to benefit from my guidance, so be it.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I'll think about it.”

Vil’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Smart choice. Now, don’t make me regret it.”

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving you standing there wondering what exactly you’d just signed up for—and if Vil’s idea of “elevating yourself” involved a complete personality overhaul.

Science Club

You barely had time to process Vil's dramatic exit when a familiar voice whispered theatrically, “Ah, my muse! Fate conspires to bring us together!”

Before you could react, Rook Hunt appeared—swooped, really—out of nowhere and expertly whisked you away from the Film Studies Clubroom. It was less like being led and more like being caught mid-flight by an overly enthusiastic bird of prey.

“Rook?!” you yelped as he practically danced you down the hallway. “What is happening?”

“Mon ami,” he declared, his eyes glittering with fervor, “you must see the science club! A world of wonder awaits you!”

“Wait—science?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’re in the science club?”

“Ah, oui! Science is but another stage upon which the beauty of nature and humanity performs its eternal dance! The experiments! The cultivation of life! The creation of culinary masterpieces! All expressions of art, no?”

You weren’t sure if he was describing scientific principles or poetry, but before you could argue, Rook had dragged you into the science clubroom.

The room was a chaotic mix of activities. One corner housed a vibrant garden under grow lights, another had chemistry equipment bubbling away ominously, and a third corner smelled suspiciously like freshly baked bread. Trey Clover stood near a counter, pulling cookies out of an oven as if this were the most normal thing to happen in a science lab.

“Ah, there you are,” Trey greeted, smiling warmly. “Rook said he’d bring someone by. I’m guessing you’re deciding on a club?”

You glanced between Rook, who was already gesturing dramatically at a rack of test tubes, and Trey, who held up a tray of cookies like a peace offering. “I… guess I am?”

“Bien sûr!” Rook exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward the greenery in the corner. “Behold! We grow life itself here! Tomatoes, basil, flowers—anything your heart desires!”

Trey added, “We also bake and cook as part of our activities. It’s a great way to learn about chemistry and make something useful at the same time.”

“And explosions!” Rook chimed in enthusiastically. “Occasionally, there are explosions.”

Trey shot him a look. “Not… intentionally.”

Rook turned back to you, his expression radiant. “Think of the possibilities, mon ami! With science, you can cultivate beauty, create masterpieces, and perhaps even unlock secrets of the universe! And, of course, I am here to guide you—to nurture the artistic soul that dwells within!”

“Also,” Trey added, far more pragmatically, “we’re not picky about what activities you want to try. It’s a flexible club, so you could do a little bit of everything.”

You considered this as Trey handed you a cookie. It was warm and delicious, which admittedly swayed your opinion a little.

“Hmm,” you said thoughtfully, “so I could garden, bake, and blow things up all in one club?”

“Exactly!” Trey said with a smile.

Rook leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And think, mon cher—if you hone your talents here, you could support Vil in creating the cinematic beauty he so envisions! Science and art, united in harmony!”

You blinked. “Wait, are you trying to recruit me for this club and help Vil at the same time?”

Rook grinned. “Nature does not limit itself to one purpose, mon ami, and neither do I.”

Trey sighed but didn’t deny it.

“Well, this is definitely… something,” you said, nibbling on the cookie. “I’ll think about it.”

“Ah, a maybe!” Rook clasped his hands together like you’d just promised him your soul. “A victory in itself!”

Before you could say anything else, Rook twirled you toward the door, clearly ready to drag you to your next destination—or possibly just keep talking about “the poetry of chlorophyll” until you gave in.

Pop Music Club

Just as you were beginning to suspect Rook was about to wax poetic about “the lyrical mysteries of yeast fermentation,” a sudden voice interrupted.

“Oh-ho, what’s this?”

Before you could even react, Lilia Vanrouge materialized out of thin air, practically glowing with chaotic energy. “Ah, my dear friend! You’re far too bright a star to waste away on science experiments! Come with me—pop stardom awaits!”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

And just like that, you were swept up in Lilia’s whirlwind. He dragged you down the hallway with a skip in his step and a mischievous laugh, leaving Rook and Trey in his dust.

“Lilia, I can walk, you know!” you said, stumbling to keep up.

“But where’s the drama in that?” Lilia replied, cackling as he pushed open the doors to the Pop Music Clubroom.

Inside, the room was a cacophony of sound and color. Disco lights spun, a half-finished banner reading ‘Next Big Thing!’ hung lopsidedly on the wall, and Kalim was gleefully banging away on a drum like it owed him money. Cater sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through his phone and periodically snapping selfies with sparkly filters.

“Oh, hey!” Kalim greeted you, waving so enthusiastically he almost hit himself with the drum stick. “You’re here to join us, right? This club is the best! We have music, dancing, and it’s all just super fun!”

Cater glanced up from his phone, his grin wide and just a little too calculated. “You’d fit right in! Think of all the magicam-worthy moments we could create together. Plus, the followers you’d get? Off the charts.”

“Followers?” you echoed, glancing at Lilia.

“Ah, but of course!” Lilia said, flinging his arms wide as if presenting you to an adoring crowd. “The Pop Music Club isn’t just about music—it’s about presence! Charisma! The ability to captivate a room with a single note or a dazzling smile!”

“It’s also about having a good time!” Kalim added, spinning in a circle for no reason other than sheer joy.

Cater nodded, holding up his phone. “And don’t forget—every moment is a potential viral video. You, me, Lilia, and Kalim as the dream team? We’d own the algorithm.”

You hesitated. “Uh, I don’t even play an instrument.”

“Neither does he!” Lilia said brightly, pointing at some unfortunate bystander.

“Hey!” he protested. “I play the Kalimba!” He promptly tried to play a note, missed the rhythm entirely, and Lilia laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.

“See?” Lilia said, unfazed. “Talent is optional here. All we need is your spirit!”

Cater stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “We also dabble in choreography, so if you’ve got two left feet, don’t worry—we’ll teach you how to make them look intentional.”

“Come on, join us!” Kalim said, grabbing your hands and bouncing up and down like an overexcited puppy. “We could totally use your energy!”

“What energy?” you asked, deadpan. “I’ve been dragged between clubs all day—I barely have any left.”

“Exactly!” Lilia said with a wink. “We’ll channel what’s left into a glorious crescendo of pop music excellence!”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or just surrender entirely to the chaos. Lilia’s grin was practically infectious, Kalim’s enthusiasm radiated like the sun, and Cater was already adjusting the angle of his phone to catch you in the best light.

“Well,” you muttered, “at least it sounds… lively.”

“Lively is an understatement,” Cater said, snapping a selfie with you and Lilia in the background. “Hashtag PopStarsInTheMaking! You’re gonna love it here.”

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You’re already planning to upload that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Cater said with a wink.

Lilia clapped his hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, what do you say? Ready to unleash your inner star?”

“I… will think about it,” you replied, edging toward the door.

“Think fast!” Kalim called after you. “The bass is calling your name!”

You bolted before anyone could shove an instrument into your hands.

Equestrian Club

As you hurried down the hallway, still reeling from the pop music chaos you'd just escaped, you nearly collided with a flash of red.

"Ah, there you are!"

You blinked up at none other than Riddle Rosehearts, who looked as though he'd been scouring the entire school for you. His eyes narrowed, and his voice carried a tone of stern authority mixed with subtle relief.

"I've been looking for you," Riddle said, crossing his arms. "Ace and Deuce mentioned that you’re considering which club to join. As housewarden, it’s my responsibility to ensure you make a proper choice."

You blinked, still processing. "Oh, uh… thanks?"

"Enough dilly-dallying," Riddle said briskly, taking your wrist with surprising firmness. "You're coming with me to the Equestrian Club."

"Wait, what—"

Before you could finish, Riddle had already begun marching you toward the stables. You were half-dragged, half-guided, catching snippets of his lecture along the way about the merits of horseback riding, discipline, and poise.

When you arrived, the warm scent of hay filled the air, and the sound of soft nickering greeted you. The stables were pristine, the horses sleek and well-groomed. Standing nearby were Silver and Sebek, both tending to the horses.

"Riddle, you found them" Silver greeted you with his usual calm demeanor. He gave you a faint smile as he gently brushed a dappled gray mare. "Perfect timing—we were just about to go for a ride."

Sebek, on the other hand, straightened like a soldier at attention, his voice booming. "THEY WILL JOIN US, OF COURSE! IT IS ONLY FITTING FOR AN INDIVIDUAL OF WORTH TO EMBRACE SUCH A NOBLE ART!"

"Sebek, indoor voice," Riddle said sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I AM OUTDOORS!" Sebek retorted, though he did lower his volume slightly.

You glanced nervously at the horses. "Uh, I don’t know if I’m… horse material."

"Nonsense," Riddle said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Riding teaches discipline, focus, and responsibility. It’s the perfect club for fostering growth—and for avoiding unnecessary distractions like some less dignified clubs."

"Pop Music Club?" you guessed.

Riddle sniffed, his expression sour. "Among others."

Silver walked over, still holding the brush, and gave you a reassuring nod. "Don’t worry. The horses are gentle, and we can teach you everything. It’s a peaceful activity once you get used to it."

"Peaceful!" Sebek exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "It is a pursuit befitting the greatest warriors! EVEN LORD MALLEUS—"

"Sebek," Riddle interrupted, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Focus on the matter at hand."

"Apologies!" Sebek barked, saluting.

Riddle turned back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "The Equestrian Club isn’t just about riding horses. It’s about elegance, partnership, and understanding. You could benefit greatly from it."

"And the horses are great listeners," Silver added.

"Unlike some humans," Sebek muttered under his breath.

You bit back a laugh as Riddle gave Sebek another glare.

"What do you say?" Riddle asked, stepping aside to let you see one of the horses—a chestnut with a kind, inquisitive gaze. "This is Vorpal. Perhaps a ride would convince you?"

The horse whinnied softly, and for a moment, you considered it. There was something appealing about the tranquility of the stables, the camaraderie of the club members, and the undeniable charm of working with such majestic creatures.

But then you remembered the drum chaos, the science experiments, and Vil’s dramatic vetting process.

"Let me, uh… think about it?" you said, taking a step back.

Riddle sighed, though he looked more exasperated than disappointed. "Very well. But don’t wait too long—indecision is unbecoming."

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Got it."

As you made your escape, you could hear Sebek booming, "RIDING A HORSE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!"

You weren’t sure about that, but you were certain that escaping club recruitment was starting to feel like an Olympic sport.

Magift Club

As you staggered away from the stables, thoroughly frazzled by Sebek’s enthusiastic yelling and Riddle’s intense lecture on discipline, you barely had time to catch your breath before—

“Yo, gotcha!”

A pair of hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, and you let out a very undignified yelp. You turned to find Ruggie grinning up at you like a mischievous hyena that had just found its next meal.

“Ruggie! What—?”

“No time for questions, boss,” he said, practically dragging you down the path. “Leona’s orders. He told me to bring ya to the Magift Club.”

“The Magift Club?” you repeated, already sensing disaster.

Ruggie nodded, smirking. “Yup. Let’s go, let’s go!”

“But—wait—I don’t even have magic!” you protested as he hauled you toward the field.

“Details, details,” Ruggie waved off, his grip on your arm firm.

Soon enough, you were dumped unceremoniously on the sidelines of the Magift field. Leona was lounging on the grass under the shade of a tree, looking entirely too comfortable for someone allegedly trying to recruit you. Epel was nearby, aggressively practicing his throws while muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll show ‘em.”

Leona cracked one eye open lazily as Ruggie dropped you off. “’Bout time,” he drawled.

“Leona,” you said flatly, “why would you want me in the Magift Club? I don't even have magic.”

He yawned, looking entirely unbothered. “Yeah, I know that. You’re still better than the other herbivores running around. You can be the manager.”

“Manager?”

“Yup,” Ruggie chimed in, plopping down next to Leona. “You’d handle all the boring stuff—paperwork, schedules, snacks, makin’ sure Epel doesn’t throw a fit when he gets tackled.”

“I don’t throw fits!” Epel yelled, narrowly missing a hoop with his throw.

Leona smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

You crossed your arms, unconvinced. “Why me, though? You’re telling me I’m the best candidate for this?”

Leona sat up slightly, his sharp eyes locking on yours. “I’m sayin’ you’re the least annoying option. I don’t need some herbivore manager who’s gonna cry every time I take a nap instead of practicing. You’re not useless, so quit whining.”

Ruggie leaned in conspiratorially. “Basically, you’re the only one Leona doesn’t feel like chasing off the field after two days.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”

Leona shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to me.”

At that moment, Epel ran up, panting slightly from his practice. “C’mon, you should join us!” he urged. “You don’t need magic to be part of the team. And if you ever wanna learn some tricks, I can teach ya!”

Leona gave him a lazy side-eye. “Don’t scare them off.”

“I’m not scarin’ ‘em! I’m convincin’ ‘em!” Epel shot back, glaring at Leona before turning back to you. “Seriously, we could use someone like you. The club’s fun, I promise!”

Ruggie snickered. “Fun’s a stretch. It’s more like… survival of the fittest with a ball involved.”

“And napping,” Leona added with a smirk.

Epel crossed his arms. “Well, maybe if someone practiced instead of nappin’, we’d win more games!”

Leona waved him off with a scoff.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know, guys. This sounds like a lot of chaos.”

“Chaos is half the fun,” Ruggie said with a grin. “C’mon, boss, think of all the free food we get during games. And you’d get to boss Leona around as the manager. Ain’t that worth it?”

Leona snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You glanced at the trio—Epel brimming with determination, Ruggie radiating mischief, and Leona looking like he didn’t care but also somehow cared just enough to try. It was… weirdly tempting, in its own way.

“I’ll… think about it,” you said finally.

“Fair enough,” Leona said, already reclining again. “Don’t take too long, though. We’ve got a game next week, and I’m not filling out paperwork.”

Ruggie winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll come around. Everyone does.”

As you left the field, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just been almost recruited into something much more taxing than a simple club.

Mountain Lovers Club

Before you could escape the Magift field and all its potential paperwork, you took a sharp turn—only to smack right into what felt like a wall of polite menace. A soft, knowing chuckle sounded above you.

“Oh dear, do be careful,” came Jade Leech’s unmistakably smooth voice.

You took a step back, already dreading the conversation. “Jade,” you said warily, “what are you doing here?”

His sharp smile grew ever so slightly. “Waiting for you, of course. Word travels fast, and I’ve heard you’re in the market for a club.”

“Oh no,” you muttered. “You’re not here to—”

Before you could finish, he was already guiding you away, his hand light on your arm but unyielding, like a vice hidden under a silk glove.

“Come now,” he said, his tone as polite as ever, “I simply must show you the Mountain Lovers Club.”

“The what now?” you asked, bewildered.

“The Mountain Lovers Club,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And… who else is in this club?”

“Why, just me.”

You stopped in your tracks. “It’s just you?”

“Yes.” Jade smiled serenely, as if this were not a glaring red flag. “I am the founder, leader, and sole member. But with your arrival, that could very well change.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d misheard. “Wait, so you’ve been running a one-person club this whole time?”

“Indeed.” His expression didn’t falter in the slightest. “The Mountain Lovers Club is dedicated to the appreciation of all things mountainous. Hiking through beautiful terrain, foraging for wild plants, observing unique ecosystems, and—on occasion—befriending the local fauna.”

“Befriending?”

“Examining, petting, observing closely…” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps all three.”

You shook your head, trying to process. “So… why me?”

Jade clasped his hands together, the picture of poised enthusiasm. “You strike me as someone who appreciates unique experiences. The Mountain Lovers Club offers a chance to explore the great outdoors, expand your horizons, and develop a deeper appreciation for nature’s wonders.”

“And by ‘great outdoors,’ you mean mountains?”

“Precisely.”

“And it’s just you?”

“For now,” he said, his tone warm but his gaze uncomfortably intense. “But every great journey begins with a single step. Yours could be joining this club.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Uh… I don’t think hiking through mountains is really my thing.”

“Ah, but how do you know unless you try?” Jade’s smile widened. “Besides, I’ll be there to guide you every step of the way. No need to worry about getting lost… or encountering anything unexpected.”

The way he said “unexpected” made you want to run for the hills (ironic, given the circumstances).

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I insist,” he cut in smoothly, his tone polite but with a note of finality. “At least allow me to show you the club’s activities. Perhaps a short hike this weekend? I’ve already prepared a route.”

You stared at him. “You’ve already…?”

“Of course.” His gaze was calm, calculating. “Preparation is key. I’ve even packed a lunch.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Jade, I—”

He tilted his head, his smile remaining perfectly composed. “Surely you wouldn’t refuse without at least giving it a chance? I’ve put so much thought into this.”

“Why do I feel like I don’t have a choice?” you muttered.

Jade’s smile was razor-sharp and utterly unrepentant. “Because you don’t.”

You sighed in defeat. “Fine. One hike.”

“Excellent,” he said, his tone soft and victorious. “I’ll see you this Saturday at dawn.”

“Dawn?!”

“Oh yes,” he said, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “The mountains are at their most beautiful in the early morning light. You’ll love it.”

As he sauntered away, leaving you to process your fate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just agreed to something far more treacherous than a simple hike.

Gargoyle Research Society

The moment you finally reached Ramshackle Dorm, exhausted from the whirlwind of club-hopping and increasingly bizarre sales pitches, you let out a long sigh of relief. The day had been nothing short of chaotic, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your creaky old bed and forget the words “club activities” ever existed.

But just as your hand touched the doorknob, a familiar voice, deep and regal, called out from the shadows.

“Child of man.”

You jumped slightly, spinning around to see none other than Malleus Draconia emerging from beneath the pale light of the moon, his presence as imposing and enigmatic as always. He stood by one of Ramshackle’s crumbling stone walls, his expression calm but his eyes bright with an unreadable intensity.

“Oh, Malleus,” you said, your voice tinged with weariness but also a touch of warmth. “Didn’t see you there.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I was merely admiring the architecture of your dorm. It has a certain… wistful charm.”

You smiled faintly. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Then, with the sort of graceful confidence only Malleus could manage, he stepped closer, his presence looming but never threatening. “I have heard,” he began, his tone soft and deliberate, “that you have been seeking a club to join.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “How did you—”

“The winds carry whispers,” he said cryptically.

“Right,” you muttered, deciding not to question it.

Malleus folded his hands neatly in front of him, looking every bit the picture of regal sincerity. “If you have not yet made your decision… I would like to invite you to join my club.”

Your brain, still reeling from Jade’s mountain escapades and Leona’s managerial demands, stalled for a moment. “Your… club?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet pride. “The Gargoyle Research Society.”

“The… what now?”

“The Gargoyle Research Society,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I am both its founder and sole member.”

Of course, he was.

Malleus seemed oblivious to your stunned silence as he continued, his expression softening into something almost earnest. “The society is dedicated to the appreciation and study of gargoyles. We explore the campus, observing their intricate designs and marveling at their history. There is so much beauty in their silent watch over us.”

You blinked. “So… you just walk around and look at gargoyles?”

“Precisely,” he said, his tone unironically enthusiastic.

“And… that’s it?”

Malleus nodded solemnly. “Indeed. It is a noble pursuit, one that nurtures both the mind and the spirit.”

For a moment, you were at a loss for words. Of all the clubs you’d encountered today, this might just take the crown for most niche.

Malleus, however, seemed utterly earnest. His eyes bore into yours, his expression sincere and unguarded. “I understand if this does not align with your current interests,” he said, his voice softening. “But should you ever feel the call of the gargoyles… know that you are always welcome.”

There was something so genuine in his tone, so quietly hopeful, that you felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about brushing him off. You sighed, offering him a tired but sincere smile. “You know what? I’ll definitely consider it.”

Malleus’s eyes lit up, his calm demeanor giving way to a flicker of pure joy. “Truly?”

“Truly,” you said, nodding.

“Then I shall look forward to the day you join me,” he said, his voice as soft as a promise.

With that, he gave you a small, graceful bow before disappearing back into the night, leaving you to wonder how you’d managed to end the day not only agreeing to a potential club but also feeling oddly flattered by the idea of studying gargoyles.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What a day…”

Masterlist

Part 2: Choosing a club

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is in film studies sorry :(

[solxamber]

And I Pick...

In which you choose the club that caught your eye

Part 1

After much contemplation you've finally decided to pick the:

Basketball Club

The basketball court was quiet for all of two seconds after you announced your decision.

Then Ace exploded.

"HA! I knew you’d pick us! I called it!" He was practically doing laps around the court, pointing at nothing in particular. "Ace Trappola: the ultimate recruiter, the club MVP, and now the guy who brought you on board! This is the best day of my life!"

"Eh, it’s about time," Floyd drawled, stretching lazily. "Took ya long enough to figure out where the fun is." His sharp-toothed grin widened. "Now we can play my version of full-contact basketball. Hehehe."

"Absolutely not," Jamil cut in, but Floyd wasn’t listening.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like you’d been lifelong teammates. "If you survive the first practice, you’ll survive all the practices. Probably."

Ace jogged back over, breathless but triumphant. "I told you we’re the best club! No boring rules, no endless laps like in Deuce's lame track team, and best of all—" He struck a dramatic pose, arms wide. "You get to hang out with me every day!"

"Please don’t make them quit on the first week," Jamil muttered, giving you a look that seemed to say, Are you sure about this?

"Quit? Nahhh!" Ace grinned. "They’re gonna thrive here. I’ll even teach them my signature moves—like my no-look, backwards, mid-air layup."

"You can’t even do that," Jamil said flatly.

"Not yet," Ace shot back. "But it’s the thought that counts."

Floyd leaned in closer, his grin somehow growing wider. "You better keep up, shrimpy. Otherwise, I might have to… spice things up a little."

"Spice things up?" you echoed, immediately suspicious.

"He means doing things like replacing the basketballs with watermelons," Jamil deadpanned.

Ace snorted. "Or throwing the ball at the hoop so hard it breaks the backboard. Oh wait, that actually happened. Twice."

"It was fun," Floyd said, completely unrepentant.

Jamil sighed like a man who’d aged a decade in the last five minutes. But then, to your surprise, he turned to you and offered a small, genuine smile. "Still… I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to the team."

The words were simple, but coming from Jamil, they felt like a warm endorsement.

Ace clapped his hands together, clearly ready to move things along. "Alright, enough talking! Let’s get you on the court and see what you’ve got!"

"Or we could start slow," Jamil suggested, but Ace was already dragging you toward the center of the court, Floyd trailing behind with a basketball under one arm.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, tossing the ball up and catching it effortlessly. "If ya mess up, we’ll just laugh at ya a little. No big deal~."

"No one’s laughing at anyone," Jamil said firmly, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ace threw an arm around your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. "Ignore him. We’re gonna have a blast! First practice starts now!"

You weren’t sure what you’d gotten yourself into, but judging by their enthusiasm (and Floyd’s maniacal laughter), you were in for one chaotic ride.

Track and Field Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the track and field club, Deuce’s face lit up like someone had just told him he passed his midterms.

“You’re… really joining?” he asked, like he needed double confirmation. When you nodded, his grin widened, the kind that made him look both relieved and excited. “That’s awesome! Uh—welcome to the team! Seriously, it’s great to have you.” His usual earnestness shone through, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m still kind of learning the ropes, but we can figure things out together. It’s gonna be great!”

Jack, standing beside him, gave a firm nod of approval. “Good call. Track and field’s a solid choice. You’ll fit right in.” His tail wagged just enough to betray how happy he was, even if his tone stayed calm.

"Yeah!" Deuce agreed. “And, uh, don’t worry about keeping up or anything. It’s all about improving at your own pace. Right, Jack?”

“Sure,” Jack replied, glancing at you. Then he added, almost casually, “We’ll work on your stamina. You’re gonna need it.”

It took you a second to catch the faint glint in his eye, and then you remembered—oh no, the fridge comment. Jack had been disturbed ever since.

Deuce, oblivious to the subtext, chimed in, “Yeah, Jack’s great at that stuff! He’s got this crazy endurance. Like, he can run forever. I’m still working on it, but, uh, you’re in good hands!”

Jack’s tail swished again. “Just be ready to push yourself. But don’t worry—we’ve got your back.”

“Exactly!” Deuce said, his fists clenching like he was ready to run a marathon right there. “This is gonna be awesome. I mean, not that it wasn’t already great, but now it’s even better. Right, Jack?”

Jack gave a small, satisfied smile. “Right.”

As they led you toward the field, you couldn’t help but wonder what you’d just signed up for. One thing was certain, though—Jack’s still thinking about that fridge, and he will make sure it’s not an issue anymore.

Board Game Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the board game club, Azul adjusted his glasses, looking smugly pleased with himself, like he'd just negotiated the deal of the century.

"An excellent decision," he said, his voice as smooth as the perfectly polished board games stacked behind him. "With your addition to our club, I foresee a new golden age of strategic victories."

Idia, sitting half-hidden behind a pile of unopened game boxes, choked on his energy drink. "W-Wait, you’re serious? They actually chose us?" His hair flared a brilliant shade of pink for a moment before he pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. "Th-this isn’t some prank, right? Like, I’m not gonna look up and see them bolting out the door laughing, right?"

"Nope," you replied with a grin. "I’m all in."

Ortho, ever the enthusiastic hype man, zipped into the room with his jet thrusters. "Welcome to the club! Now we have a full party for dungeon raids. This is amazing!"

Azul cleared his throat, waving a hand. "Ahem, while cooperative RPGs are certainly an option, I believe we should start with a game of strategy and wit to introduce them properly. Perhaps a round of Chess of Betrayal?"

Idia groaned, sinking further into his hoodie. "Ugh, that game takes, like, three hours. If you’re gonna scare them away, at least wait until they’re too deep in to quit. Why don’t we start with something easy, like Goblin King Gauntlet?"

Ortho clapped his hands. "Ooh, I love that one! It has a random trap mechanic! Let’s play that!"

Azul raised an eyebrow, his smile shark-like. "Trap mechanics are hardly a proper welcome. It would be far better to demonstrate the finer nuances of strategy, wouldn’t you agree?"

Idia muttered something about Azul turning everything into a power play, but you interrupted before they could spiral into a full-blown debate. "Honestly, I’m fine with anything. Just deal me in."

Azul’s smirk widened. "Very well, then. I shall prepare the game board. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain you’re fully equipped for our upcoming campaigns. You’ll find we offer more than just fun—we offer victory."

Idia peeked out from his hoodie, a small, hopeful smile creeping onto his face. "You’re not bad at this whole club thing. Maybe this won’t be so terrible."

As they started setting up the game, you felt an unexpected warmth. Sure, it was just a board game club, but there was something endearing about their chaotic enthusiasm.

Though one thing was clear—Azul would probably try to sell you game tokens at some point, and Idia would absolutely try to teach you how to min-max your dice rolls.

But hey, you were ready for it.

Film Studies Club

When you announced your decision to join the film studies club, Vil paused mid-sip of his herbal tea, one elegantly arched eyebrow rising. For a moment, he looked like he was considering whether he had heard you correctly. Then, with a practiced air of nonchalance, he set the teacup down.

"Hm. Acceptable," he said coolly, though his tone betrayed a slight uptick of satisfaction. "It’s rare to find someone with enough taste to appreciate the art of cinema. I suppose your presence will be… useful."

But the slight curl of his lips gave him away.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, and gave you an appraising look. "We have much to discuss. If you’re serious about this, you’ll need to commit entirely—no half-measures, no excuses. The camera is unforgiving, and I have no intention of allowing this club to falter under subpar contributions."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already pacing, gesturing dramatically like the star of an avant-garde production. "Lighting, blocking, composition—they are all integral to creating art, not merely entertainment. I trust you won’t embarrass yourself, or me, for that matter."

Despite his words, you caught the faintest hint of pride in his gaze as he turned to face you fully. "And, if for some reason, acting isn’t your strength, there are other roles. Cinematography, set design, editing… Perhaps backstage work would suit you, should you fail the audition."

He didn’t say it to be harsh; this was Vil’s version of encouragement. And as he continued outlining the club’s vision—"a modern renaissance in storytelling"—you realized he was genuinely excited to have you there, even if he’d rather gargle poison than openly admit it.

Finally, he stopped and gave you a small, approving nod. "Welcome to the film studies club. Don’t make me regret this."

Translation: I’m glad you’re here.

Science Club

The moment you announced your decision to join the science club, Rook’s eyes lit up like you’d just declared him the ruler of the universe.

"Ah, mon ami! What a magnifique choice!" he exclaimed, sweeping you into a theatrical bow so deep you thought he might topple over. "You possess the soul of an explorer, a true seeker of knowledge! Together, we shall unlock the mysteries of nature and celebrate its beauty in all its forms!"

"Uh… don’t scare them off, Rook," Trey interjected, though he was smiling. He adjusted his apron, clearly relieved that you hadn’t bolted under Rook’s enthusiastic greeting. "We’re glad to have you. Really. It’s nice to have someone else around who won’t accidentally set the lab on fire."

You raised an eyebrow. "That’s a low bar."

Trey shrugged. "You’d be surprised how many fail to meet it."

Before you could respond, Rook was already spinning grand plans. "Imagine the adventures we will have! Scaling mountains, crafting elixirs, nurturing delicate blossoms—ah, the poetry of science!" He clasped his hands to his chest, radiating so much joy that you were worried he’d break into song.

Trey, ever the grounded one, sighed fondly. "What he means is: we do a little bit of everything. Growing plants, chemistry experiments, cooking—you’ll fit right in. Assuming Rook doesn’t scare you off first."

Rook turned to Trey with an exaggerated gasp, as if the very suggestion of him being overwhelming was the greatest insult he’d ever received. "Chevalier des Roses, how could you wound me so?" He turned back to you with a theatrical flourish. "Fear not! I shall be your guide, your companion, your—"

"Assistant," Trey cut in, giving you a knowing look. "We'll assist you. Don’t let him take over your projects."

You grinned, feeling oddly at home already. Between Rook’s boundless enthusiasm and Trey’s steadying presence, you realized the science club might just be the perfect balance of chaos and calm.

Pop Music Club

When you announced your decision to join the Pop Music Club, Lilia was the first to react. He shot up from his chair with a dramatic flourish, his cape—where did the cape come from?—billowing as if on cue.

"Ah, an excellent choice! Welcome to the most electrifying club in the entire school!" Lilia declared, his voice reverberating like an arena announcer. He played an imaginary riff on an air guitar, complete with sound effects that you were almost certain were magically amplified.

Kalim clapped his hands, beaming as brightly as the sun. "This is going to be so much fun! We can sing duets, make up dances, throw a party for every new song we write—oh! We should have a welcome party for you right now!" He was already halfway to grabbing balloons out of thin air before Cater stopped him.

"Easy there, Kalim," Cater said with a laugh, pulling out his phone to snap a picture. "We haven’t even started jamming yet! Gotta document this first—‘New Member Alert 🚨🎶! Welcome to the coolest club at NRC!’” He posed next to you, flipping through filters. "Ooh, should we do a pastel vibe or go all-out neon?"

"Why not both?" Lilia suggested, somehow holding a tambourine he hadn’t been holding two seconds ago. He shook it with gusto, the jingles creating an impromptu beat.

Kalim joined in instantly, dancing around the room with energy that could probably power a small city. "This is going to be amazing! Do you play any instruments? Can you sing? Or maybe you’ll write the songs? Wait, can you do all three?!"

Before you could answer, Lilia leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Don’t worry, even if you’re terrible, I can teach you. After all, I’ve had centuries of experience."

"Centuries of experience at what exactly?" you asked, though you weren’t entirely sure you wanted the answer.

"Everything," Lilia replied cryptically, shaking the tambourine once more for emphasis.

Cater gave you a wink. "Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s mostly harmless. Mostly."

As the chaos swirled around you, you realized joining the Pop Music Club was probably going to be as much about managing everyone’s energy as it was about making music.

But looking at their genuine excitement, you couldn’t help but feel you’d made the right choice. It was going to be loud, unpredictable, and—most importantly—a lot of fun.

Equestrian Club

When you chose the Equestrian Club, Riddle’s reaction was immediate and deeply Riddle. He straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and gave you a small but dignified nod, though his ears turned the faintest shade of pink.

“A wise decision,” he said primly, but his voice wavered just enough to give away his excitement. “The Equestrian Club values discipline and care, and I trust you will uphold those values. Welcome.” He paused, then added with uncharacteristic softness, “I’m glad you chose us.”

Sebek, on the other hand, reacted with his usual intensity, which was to say, very loudly.

“AS EXPECTED OF SOMEONE WITH DISCERNING TASTE!” Sebek bellowed, saluting for no discernible reason. “THE EQUESTRIAN CLUB IS A PLACE OF HONOR AND DILIGENCE. YOU HAVE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, AND I, SEBEK ZIGVOLT, SHALL PERSONALLY ENSURE YOU MEET OUR HIGH STANDARDS!”

“You’re going to scare the horses,” Silver muttered, patting a dozing mare who didn’t even flinch at Sebek’s volume. Clearly, she’d built up an immunity.

Silver turned to you with a sleepy but genuine smile. “Welcome. It’ll be nice having another person around who actually seems calm. I’ll show you the best places to ride, and we’ll make sure you’re comfortable with the horses.”

“And with the rules,” Riddle interjected, already retrieving a stack of laminated pages. “Equestrian care is not something to take lightly. You’ll need to memorize these guidelines to ensure both your safety and that of the horses.”

Sebek leaned over your shoulder to inspect the stack and immediately saluted again. “AN EXCELLENT INITIATIVE, HOUSEWARDEN ROSEHEARTS! I, TOO, WILL MEMORIZE THESE IN CASE THEY EVER REQUIRE REINFORCEMENT!”

“I think they’re fine,” Silver said. “We don’t need to make this harder than it needs to be.”

Riddle frowned. “Standards exist for a reason, Silver. Though I appreciate your enthusiasm, perhaps we can—Sebek, stop shouting—perhaps we can go over the basics first before overwhelming them.”

As Riddle and Sebek debated, Silver handed you a carrot to feed one of the horses. “Don’t worry,” he said, as the horse happily munched away. “It’s not as intense as it seems. Usually.”

You glanced at the stack of rules in Riddle’s hand and the fervent look in Sebek’s eyes. It was definitely going to be an adjustment. But seeing how genuinely happy they all were to have you—yes, even Sebek—you felt like this would be worth it.

Magift Club

When you announced your decision to join the Magift Club as their manager, the reaction was instantaneous and… surprisingly chaotic.

Ruggie let out a whoop, immediately dropping to the floor in a mock bow. "Ayo, everyone, bow to the boss! Finally, someone who can keep this circus in line!"

Leona, lounging on the sidelines, cracked open an eye and smirked. “’Bout time. Herbivores usually flake out, but I knew you were better than the rest.” He stretched lazily, like he’d personally orchestrated your decision. “Just keep the snacks coming, and we’ll get along fine.”

Epel looked between them and grinned, his enthusiasm much more grounded. “It’s great to have ya! With you around, maybe Leona will actually show up to warmups... or not just sleep through it.” He shot a pointed glance at their captain, who was, of course, ignoring him entirely.

“Eh,” Leona drawled, flicking his tail dismissively.

“You could work on that attitude,” you muttered, earning a low chuckle from him.

“See, I told you they’d fit right in!” Ruggie said, gesturing at you dramatically. “They’re already roasting him. This is gonna be great!”

Epel, suddenly inspired, added, “And they’ll keep Ruggie from stealing the fresh apple juice we get after games. That’s worth it alone.”

As the reality of your new role settled in, you felt a bit like a lion tamer walking into a den of mischievous cubs and one very lazy big cat. But their enthusiasm—expressed in their own peculiar ways—was endearing.

Ruggie threw an arm around your shoulder. “Alright, boss, first order of business: snacks! Let’s discuss our game day budget and whether I can convince you to sneak me a sandwich before practice.”

Leona snorted but didn’t argue, which you took as a sign of approval. Epel pumped his fist. “We’re gonna crush it this year!”

Maybe managing this bunch wouldn’t be so bad after all. If nothing else, it’d definitely be entertaining.

Mountain Lovers Club

When you joined Jade for a hike to "test the waters" of the Mountain Lovers Club, you had your doubts. You were prepared for a lot of things—maybe getting lost in the wilderness, maybe Jade pulling out his eerie cryptid knowledge, or maybe just a weirdly formal lecture about moss. What you weren’t prepared for was… actually enjoying yourself.

Jade led the way with an unhurried confidence, pointing out various wild plants, their uses, and fun facts about the environment. He wasn’t his usual enigmatic self, either. He seemed lighter, almost enthusiastic, as he described a tiny wildflower you would’ve missed entirely.

“This particular species only blooms during the autumn months,” he said, crouching to show you. “Quite fascinating how it adapts to the cooler temperatures, don’t you think?”

You nodded, trying not to stare too hard at how his face lit up when he spoke. Jade was… cute? When he wasn’t talking about mushrooms in a way that made you question your mortality, he was actually kind of charming.

By the time you reached a rocky outcrop with a gorgeous view of the campus, you realized you’d been smiling for most of the hike. Jade noticed too.

“It seems I’ve made a decent impression,” he said, turning toward you with a soft grin. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself.”

“It’s… relaxing,” you admitted, surprising even yourself. “I didn’t think it’d be this fun.”

Jade tilted his head. “Does that mean you’d consider joining the Mountain Lovers Club?”

You hesitated for a moment, but as you looked at the breathtaking view and the rare, genuine smile on his face, the answer came easily. “Yeah. I’ll join.”

For a split second, Jade’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly schooled his expression into his usual composed smile. “Wonderful. I must say, I wasn’t expecting this outcome, but I’m glad. It’s not every day someone sees the beauty in what I love.”

There was an odd warmth in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. As he turned to lead the way back, he added, “Now that we’re a team, I look forward to our next adventure.”

Jade Leech was genuinely happy. And, you realized, so were you.

Gargoyle Research Society

When you told Malleus you were joining the Gargoyle Research Society, his reaction was almost imperceptible at first. A slight widening of his eyes, a pause as though he was waiting to see if you were serious, and then—pure, unfiltered delight.

"You have an interest in gargoyles?" he asked, his voice both surprised and reverent, as if you'd just confessed to enjoying a rare and ancient art form.

You nodded. "Yeah. I think they're fascinating. The designs, the history… They’re like stone guardians with stories etched into them."

For a moment, Malleus simply looked at you, his emerald eyes shimmering like the light of distant stars. Then, as if unable to contain his joy, he smiled—a soft, genuine expression that sent a wave of warmth through the chilly Ramshackle evening.

"This pleases me greatly," he said, his tone unusually light. “Not many share my appreciation for gargoyles. Often, I speak of them, and others… how do I put it? Pretend to listen.”

“Well, I’m definitely not pretending,” you said, grinning. “I’m in for real.”

Malleus clasped his hands together in what could only be described as regal excitement. "Then I must share something with you. Sometimes, I create gargoyles myself."

“You what?” you asked, laughing in delight.

“Yes,” he replied earnestly, his eyes alight. “Carving stone requires patience, but there is a certain satisfaction in breathing life into something lifeless. Well, not literal life, of course, but a soul of sorts.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, the image of Malleus with a chisel and hammer popping into your head. “I never would have guessed. That’s… really cool.”

“I can show you some of my creations, if you’d like,” he offered, almost shyly.

“I’d love that,” you said, genuinely glad to have joined him. “I think I’m going to enjoy this club.”

The glow in his expression was impossible to miss. It wasn’t just that you had joined his club—it was that, for once, someone truly shared his passion. “And I am glad to have you,” he said softly.

In that moment, under the watchful eyes of the stone guardians scattered around campus, it felt like you had chosen exactly the right place.

Masterlist

tags: @techno-danger

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is a part of film studies sorry :(

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Housewardens

Riddle Rosehearts

The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as you flopped onto the couch with all the grace of a cat forcibly denied its favorite sunny spot.

The argument still hung in the air, an unspoken tension that neither you nor Riddle were willing to breach—at least not yet. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely, but he wasn’t right either. The impasse was as thick as the silence between you.

Determined to make a statement, you yanked the blanket off the couch arm and cocooned yourself in it, defiantly turning your back to the door. No way were you crawling back to bed tonight. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Let him stew in his perfectly fluffed, oversized bed.

Meanwhile, in his room, Riddle’s impeccable composure was fraying at the edges. He lay stiff as a board under his duvet, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his mistakes. His pillows seemed unusually hard, the blankets too suffocating, and no matter how he adjusted, something felt... wrong.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprit: you weren’t there.

He groaned softly into the darkness. Guilt clawed at his insides, sharp and relentless, each tick of the clock making it harder to bear. He’d handled things poorly—he could admit that, now that the heat of the argument had ebbed. And worse, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being upset, out there on the couch, all because of his stubbornness.

With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, he threw off his blanket and shuffled into the common room. His breath caught when he saw you.

There you were, fast asleep, your cheek smushed against the arm of the couch, one arm dangling off the side. The sight was far too adorable for the emotional train wreck he’d become. His guilt doubled.

Riddle knelt by the couch quietly, determined not to wake you. But as he crouched there, the exhaustion hit him—of the argument, the guilt, the restless tossing and turning. Maybe just sitting here would suffice. He wouldn’t disturb you.

A few minutes turned into an hour. Before he knew it, he’d slumped sideways against the couch, head lolling onto his arms, fast asleep in what had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable.

When you stirred awake, the morning light was peeking through the curtains. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes, the previous night’s anger feeling like a distant shadow. That was when you noticed him—his normally pristine figure curled up on the floor, head resting uncomfortably close to your dangling hand.

Your chest ached at the sight. The idiot. The sweet, guilty idiot.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hair. “Riddle,” you whispered. “Hey… wake up.”

He stirred, blinking up at you with sleep-clouded eyes, disoriented but instantly softening when he saw your face. Without a word, he shifted closer, arms wrapping around your middle as he buried his face against your stomach.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, voice thick and quiet.

You freeze but quickly recover, leaning into his embrace. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your blanket. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand.”

Your throat tightened, and you found yourself carding your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “Let’s not fight like that again.”

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, wrapped up in quiet forgiveness. When he finally looked up at you, there was a hesitant, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Will you come back to bed now?” he asked softly.

“Only if you promise to use it too. No more couch-floor accommodations,” you teased, pinching his cheek lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured, and together, you made your way back—closer than before, warmth filling the space where anger once was.

Leona Kingscholar

The argument had been sharp, biting, and the kind of fight where you both refused to back down. Storming out of the bedroom felt dramatic enough to match the vibe, so you grabbed a blanket, stomped to the living room, and threw yourself onto the couch with the weight of your indignation. “Fine,” you muttered into the cushions. “Let him have the stupid bed. I don’t care.”

And at the time, you didn't. You were replaying his snarky remarks and cursing his stubborn attitude. But the couch was lumpy, the blanket too short, and sleep came grudgingly after what felt like hours of stewing.

When you finally woke, disoriented and achy, something felt...off. For starters, you weren’t on the couch anymore. You were in the bed, wrapped snugly in the comforter that still carried Leona’s scent.

Blinking against the sunlight, you sat up, confusion clouding your thoughts. At the foot of the bed was the blanket you’d dragged out last night, now neatly folded like some taunting symbol of Leona’s existence.

And Leona himself? Missing.

You slid out of bed and wandered to the living room, where the answer to your mystery lay sprawled across the couch. The sight of him, however, made your irritation waver.

Leona was far too large for the couch. His long legs hung over the edge at weird angles, and one arm was slung over his face to block the light filtering through the curtains. He looked wildly uncomfortable, but his usual arrogance softened in sleep, his face peaceful and unguarded.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. He must have carried you to bed sometime in the night, only to exile himself to the lumpy couch. The guy could be maddeningly stubborn, but this... this unexpected gesture had you torn between wanting to yell at him or simply kissing him awake.

Ultimately, you decided to settle for the middle ground.

Crouching next to the couch, you reached out and brushed the stray strands of hair from his face. Before you could withdraw, one eye cracked open, and a lazy grin spread across his lips.

“Caught ya,” he drawled, voice rough from sleep.

You raised an eyebrow. “You moved me to the bed, didn’t you?”

He huffed, clearly uninterested in owning up to the sentimentality of it. “Couldn’t leave you out there whining in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t whining!” you protested, even though your cheeks were burning.

“Sure you weren’t,” he replied smoothly, grabbing your wrist before you could retreat. With a sharp tug, he pulled you down, practically pinning you against him. “Don’t see the big deal. You’re mine, aren’t ya? ‘Course I’m gonna take care of you.”

The casual way he said it didn’t make it any less sincere.

You sighed, melting into his warmth despite yourself. “I hate how sweet you can be when I’m trying to stay mad at you.”

His smirk widened, and he tucked you closer, burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to piss you off,” he murmured against your temple. “But you’re not leaving this couch till we make up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice softened. “Deal.”

As the tension melted away and his arms tightened around you, the couch didn’t seem quite so lumpy anymore. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad place to be.

Azul Ashengrotto

The argument had been tense, the kind where you both said things you probably shouldn’t have. Frustrated and too stubborn to stay in the same space as Azul, you grabbed a pillow and marched out to the couch. He’d barely tried to stop you, his pride seemingly keeping him rooted in the bedroom.

But pride was a fickle thing, and now you were left trying to fall asleep on the stiff cushions. Every creak of the floorboards made you feel a little guilty, knowing exactly who it was.

You didn’t even need to look; you could feel Azul’s presence lingering in the doorway, his usual composure clearly absent. The sound of shuffling footsteps returned to the bedroom, and you thought maybe he’d finally leave you alone—only to hear those same footsteps inch closer again a minute later.

"Azul, I know you're there," you muttered, cracking an eye open and turning toward the doorway. Sure enough, there he was, peeking out. His glasses caught the faint glow of the hallway light, and he immediately froze like he’d been caught stealing treasure.

“I-I wasn’t...” he started, before trailing off, clearly scrambling for an excuse.

You sighed and sat up, your frustration ebbing in the face of how uncharacteristically sheepish he looked. This was Azul Ashengrotto, the calculating businessman who could sell ice to Yetis—and yet he couldn’t even apologize without peering at you like a child who’d been scolded.

“If you’re just going to lurk there all night, we’re both going to lose sleep,” you said, finally beckoning him over with a wave.

Azul hesitated for a fraction of a second before his composure cracked, and he shuffled toward the couch. “I didn’t mean for things to escalate...” he started, sitting next to you, his head ducked low, voice soft.

You smirked despite yourself. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”

He bristled, his dignity rallying as he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “I am not—”

“You’re very cute,” you interrupted, and the smallest flicker of a pout crossed his lips.

Azul looked away, a hint of color dusting his pale cheeks. “You’re the worst.”

“And you still love me,” you countered, pulling him down beside you. “Truce?”

He glanced at you, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “Truce.”

Apologies came in murmured exchanges after that, both of you acknowledging where you’d gone wrong. You knew you’d both let pride get in the way—typical for two people as headstrong as yourselves.

Eventually, Azul’s head rested on your shoulder, his warm weight grounding you. You leaned back against the couch, and despite its discomfort, it felt perfect with him there.

“You know,” you whispered, running a hand gently through his hair, “for a guy who’s made half of Twisted Wonderland sign contracts, you really can’t stand your ground for the life of you.”

Azul huffed, turning his face into your shoulder to hide. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Nope. I think I’ll just enjoy this.”

And with that, the two of you finally let the tension of the argument melt away, falling asleep together on the couch in an imperfect, perfectly “you and Azul” sort of peace.

Kalim Al-Asim

The argument had been uncharacteristically heated—rare for someone as sunny and easygoing as Kalim—but even he had limits, and so did you. When your stubborn streak flared, it ended with you grabbing a blanket and storming off to the couch.

“No, Kalim, I’m fine. You sleep in the bed, I’ll sleep here,” you snapped, cutting off his attempts to follow you. His face fell, but for once, he didn’t argue, retreating to the bedroom with a defeated slump of his shoulders.

You burrowed into the couch cushions, determined to stay mad, but as sleep started to claim you, the anger dulled into annoyance. It didn’t matter. He started it, you thought stubbornly, clutching the blanket tighter.

A soft rustle of fabric woke you, tugging you from the edges of sleep. Blinking groggily, you turned your head to see Kalim crouched beside the couch, carefully tucking another blanket over you. He had his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, his touch so gentle that it was clear he didn’t want to wake you.

“What are you doing?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Kalim flinched, looking at you like a startled puppy caught raiding the kitchen. “Oh, I—uh—I just thought you might be cold, so I…”

He trailed off, clearly expecting you to brush him off again. Instead, you sighed, your irritation melting as you realized just how ridiculous he looked, trying to coddle you even while you were angry at him.

“Come here,” you said, sitting up and pulling the blanket back a bit.

“What? No, I don’t want to—”

“Kalim.”

His protest crumbled immediately, and he slid onto the couch beside you, tucking his legs up awkwardly. You wrapped the blanket over both of you, and after a moment of stunned hesitation, Kalim relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice small and earnest. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You sighed, tilting your head to rest on his. “I’m sorry too. I overreacted.”

He perked up slightly at that, his usual cheer trying to peek through. “So… does this mean you won’t sleep out here alone again?”

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you under this blanket, Asim,” you teased, though your smile softened the words.

Kalim beamed, his arms wrapping snugly around your middle. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever!”

You rolled your eyes fondly, leaning back into the cushions. The couch wasn’t exactly built for two people, but the warmth of his presence made it easy to ignore. Slowly, you both drifted to sleep, Kalim murmuring sweet nothings even as his breaths evened out.

Maybe next time, you thought sleepily, you’d just let him win.

The argument left both of you simmering in silence, which for Vil was a rarity. Instead of his usual icy composure, he seemed genuinely rattled. You, however, weren’t in the mood to care. Grabbing a blanket with theatrical flair, you stomped to the couch.

“You can have your perfectly fluffed pillows and skincare routine in peace,” you muttered, tucking yourself in with a spiteful sense of triumph.

Once comfortably cocooned, you scrolled on your phone, trying to drown out the lingering annoyance. That’s when you heard it—sharp, purposeful footsteps marching toward you.

Before you could react, Vil appeared like a vengeful storm god, looking every bit as flawless as a deity would while furious. With a huff that could make kingdoms tremble, he reached for your arm and began dragging you back to the bedroom.

“Vil, what are you—let me go! I’m fine out here!” you protested, but his grip was firm, his annoyance palpable.

Once you were unceremoniously deposited by the bed, he turned to you, pointing at your neatly made side. “You are sleeping there,” he declared.

You folded your arms. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Deal with it.”

He tilted his head, his expression a dangerous blend of frustration and disbelief. “Absolutely not. You’ve ruined my entire evening, and now you expect me to suffer further by sleeping alone?”

“Ruined? Seriously?” you shot back.

“Yes! I require my beauty sleep, and I can’t possibly get it knowing you’re out there, sulking on a couch. It’s impossible to relax without you next to me—so you, are going to have to take responsibility!”

The sheer audacity of his statement left you blinking. It was so dramatic and entirely Vil that you couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not a little chuckle, but a full-bodied, slightly wheezing laugh that made you clutch your sides.

Vil crossed his arms, arching an offended brow. “I fail to see what’s funny.”

“You,” you said between giggles. “This whole ‘it’s your fault I can’t sleep because I love you’ nonsense. You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed, and once your laughter subsided, he gestured to the bed again, this time more softly. “Please. Don’t make me sleep without you.”

You relented, sliding under the blankets. As you settled in, Vil switched off the lights, the room going still.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment. His tone was sincere, lacking the sharp edges from earlier.

You shifted closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him gently against you. “I’m sorry too.”

Vil let out a contented hum, nestling into your hold. With your body heat mingling and the earlier tension dissipating, it didn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep—together, as it should be.

The argument had been rough—sharp words, bitter edges, the kind of fight that left your chest heavy. It didn’t matter how much Idia stammered his way through an apology or tried to explain his side; you weren’t ready to hear it yet. So, in an act of frustrated finality, you grabbed a blanket and retreated to the couch, refusing to spare him another glance.

Sleep came in patches, your mind replaying the fight in a loop. At some point, the dull ache in your bladder forced you to stumble toward the bathroom. On your way back, you froze, hearing quiet, panicked murmurs drifting from Idia’s room.

“Ortho, what do I do? I think I really messed up this time,” his voice wavered, thick with worry. “They probably hate me now. Like, actual hate—no respawn, no restart. I mean, who else would put up with me? I’ve completely blown it.”

You sighed, anger ebbing as guilt trickled in. You hadn’t meant to push him that far, and his usual self-deprecating spiral sounded more frayed than usual.

Pushing the door open, you caught the tail end of Ortho’s voice. “Big Brother, you should—oh!” His robotic eyes darted to you, scanning the scene. A moment later, he gave a tiny thumbs-up and practically zoomed out of the room, leaving you and Idia alone.

Idia froze when he noticed you. His shoulders hunched as if he could shrink his already wiry frame. “I-I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Sorry for being pathetic. Again.”

Rolling your eyes fondly, you stepped forward and opened your arms. “Come here, you dramatic dork.”

His eyes widened, hesitation etched into every inch of his posture. When you didn’t move or drop your arms, he finally shuffled over, nervously slipping into your embrace. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him securely, and his entire body seemed to deflate as tension drained out of him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You huffed softly, rubbing his back. “Idia, I wasn’t leaving. Just... needed space to cool off. And honestly, hearing you lose your mind over it made it hard to stay mad.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he mumbled, the words tumbling in an embarrassed rush. “Um, does this mean...?”

“It means I still love you,” you interrupted gently.

His grip on you tightened for a moment before he pulled back, pink dusting his cheeks and his hair glowing pink at the ends. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry too,” you replied, kissing his cheek and earning a startled squeak.

Together, you made your way back to bed. As you settled under the blankets, his fingers tangled hesitantly with yours. The argument seemed miles away now, replaced by the steady warmth of simply being with him.

“I’ll try to be better,” he murmured into the quiet.

“You’re already enough, Idia,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles, grounding both of you in the quiet comfort of reconciliation.

The argument left both of you tense, and you were too mad to deal with Malleus' brooding silence. Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off toward the couch, refusing to even glance at him. "I'm sleeping on the couch," you announced. "Goodnight."

Malleus stood frozen for a moment, processing your declaration, and you could feel his pout even with your back turned. "You do not need to sleep on the couch," he finally said.

"I'm not changing my mind," you shot back, tossing the blanket onto the couch for emphasis.

There was a brief, sulking pause. Then, he went quiet—suspiciously quiet. You peeked over your shoulder just in time to catch him crossing his arms with a look of smug triumph spreading across his face.

“Malleus—”

Before you could finish the thought, a flash of green lightning struck the couch, reducing it to a pile of ash with alarming precision. You stood there, jaw dropping as the faint smell of charred upholstery wafted in the air.

"Well," Malleus said, ever so matter-of-factly, "it seems the couch is… out of commission. A most unfortunate turn of events."

You turned to him, dumbfounded. "Did you seriously just smite your own couch?"

He looked at you expectantly, his lips pressed into an overly calm smile. "The bed is still available," he offered, gesturing toward the bedroom as though that solved everything.

Your anger reignited—if that was even possible after witnessing such sheer audacity. Without a word, you dropped your blanket onto the floor, flopping down dramatically as if making it your personal mission to out-stubborn a dragon fae.

He stared at you in bewilderment, clearly expecting a different outcome. For a long moment, he didn’t move, as though trying to process your act of defiance. Then, with an audible sigh, he finally caved.

“Alright,” he said softly, crouching to your level. His eyes held a rare vulnerability. “I… overreacted. I apologize for upsetting you.”

You bit back a smirk, pretending to be unimpressed even as you felt your resolve softening. "I wasn’t thrilled about it, yeah."

Malleus tilted his head, something of a pout returning to his expression. “Will you come back to bed, then? The floor hardly befits someone so precious to me.”

“Only if you promise not to zap anything else," you teased, finally relenting as you reached out to take his offered hand.

He helped you up gently, his grip firm but careful, as though he feared breaking you. “I cannot promise to never act rashly in defense of my love,” he murmured, leading you back to the room.

Settling into the bed together, you couldn’t resist poking at him one last time. “You really destroyed your own couch just to keep me near you, huh? You know they make couple’s therapy for this, right?”

He chuckled softly, pulling you close. “I would smite an entire castle if it meant you stayed by my side.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the warmth in your chest. As you both drifted off, tangled in the sheets, you couldn’t help but think how absurdly lucky you were to be loved by someone so dramatic—and so utterly devoted.

Masterlist

[lemondytart]

Men are animals. Literally.

1: Lions are highly territorial!

2: Hyenas can be cuddly and affectionate!

3: Wolves mate for life and yes they wag their tail when they're happy just in case no one knows or is unsure!

Sorry if they're not as good! (⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠)

[danijaci]

prank gone wrong w/ childe

based on a tiktok audio!

HE FUCKING THAT SHIT UPPPPPPP

[saintfaux]