i don't understand why everybody is afraid of adult conversations. you don't like me? tell me. you don't wanna talk to me? don't ignore me. you mad at me? Iet me know. i'm wrong? let's talk. we don't agree? share your view points. its not that hard.
Synopsis - After a disastrous mission leaves the camp starving, you, Astarion, and Shadowheart venture into a ruined village in search of supplies. What begins as a simple task quickly turns catastrophic when the floor beneath you collapses into an ancient crypt filled with the undead. Exhausted and already injured, you make a choice without hesitation: protect Astarion at all costs.
Warnings - Injury and blood
Word Count - 5794
A/N - Had some of this written in my drafts for years, finally finished it as I heard about the Astarion book, it's pre-ordered and I can't wait!
The atmosphere in camp was heavy, thick with unspoken frustration that clung to everyone gathered around the dying light of the fire. No one wanted to be the first to say it aloud, though it sat plainly between them all like another wounded companion. After the day you, Astarion, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart had endured—dragging yourselves back through blood, dirt, and exhaustion that clung to your bones—no one had the energy left to turn the thought into words.
There was not enough food to go around.
You sat near the campfire with your knees drawn loosely in front of you, staring into the shifting orange glow. The heat did little for the ache in your body, a deep, bruised tiredness that settled into your muscles and refused to leave. Your stomach twisted faintly with hunger, but it felt distant compared to the sharper need for rest, for silence, for anything that wasn’t another fight or another decision.
“If no one intends to address the matter, then I suppose I shall be the bearer of unwelcome news,” Gale announced, stepping closer to the fire. The flickering light caught the edges of his purple robe, turning the fabric into something almost molten gold and shadow. “We are in short supply of provisions. In fact, I would argue we are perilously close to feeding ourselves on optimism alone.”
Lae’zel turned sharply at that, the movement crisp even in her exhaustion. Dirt and dried blood still marked her armor, streaking across metal and skin alike. She looked as though she had no patience left to spare for anything, least of all diplomacy.
“I do not see you volunteering to correct this,” she said coldly. “Why should the burden fall to us? Are your legs broken, wizard, or merely ornamental?”
By now, everyone had drifted into the firelight, forming a loose circle around it. You remained seated at the edge, half in shadow, watching rather than participating. The fire popped softly between them, sending sparks drifting upward into the dark like dying fireflies.
Gale exhaled through his nose, visibly restraining his temper. “If I recall correctly, you four were the ones who insisted on pushing ahead. It seems only fair that you contribute to ensuring we do not starve because of it.”
“I don’t recall ‘search every barrel for scraps’ being a priority while we were being ambushed by goblins,” you muttered under your breath, though your voice lacked any real bite.
Gale continued, undeterred. “A simple task, truly. Even a cursory search of the area—”
The firelight danced across all of them, warm and flickering against the cold night air, and for a moment you found yourself fixating on it. The movement was almost hypnotic, the way it shifted without care for the arguments circling it. If you stared long enough, you almost believed you could let everything else blur out, let the noise dissolve into the rhythm of flame and crackling wood.
Gale, Wyll, and Karlach all had their points, of course. It was meant to be part of the group’s responsibility to gather supplies along the way. Under normal circumstances, that would have been simple enough. But nothing about today had been normal. There had been a hag, clever and cruel in ways you were still trying to untangle in your mind, and after her defeat there had been goblins waiting like vultures picking at the aftermath. Food had not been something any of you had the luxury to prioritize.
Their voices blurred together, becoming something distant and indistinct as you stared into the fire. The argument stretched on, circling endlessly without resolution, and your exhaustion pressed heavier with every passing second. At this point, you would have gladly taken a long walk into the woods alone just to escape the noise.
“I will go.”
Your voice cut through the conversation cleanly. Not loud, but firm enough that it pulled attention back toward you.
You pushed yourself to your feet, slower than you would have liked, your body protesting every movement. There was no effort to hide how tired you were; there wasn’t enough energy left for pride.
Astarion’s voice came immediately, smooth as ever but edged with something more careful underneath.
“Darling, look at you,” he said, gaze flicking over you with sharp attention. You knew you were tired as you didn’t feel your usual butterflies with him calling you ‘darling’. “You are in no condition to be wandering off into the wilderness in search of supper. The wizard has survived far worse indignities than foraging. I am sure he can manage a few berries without collapsing from the effort.”
Gale opened his mouth to respond, but you cut in before the argument could continue.
“I will see what I can find in the village,” you said simply, already reaching for your sword and bag. The motion felt automatic, like your body was operating slightly ahead of your willingness to argue. “It’s fine.”
You didn’t wait for further objections. The weight of responsibility sat differently when you were already too tired to fight it. As you turned away, you could feel Gale’s hesitation behind you, the faint guilt of someone who hadn’t intended for things to land this way. But hunger rarely cared about intention.
You had barely made it a few steps beyond the firelight when you noticed the footsteps behind you.
Two sets.
You glanced over your shoulder to find Shadowheart already adjusting her armor, expression set in that calm, unreadable line she wore when she had already made a decision. Astarion, meanwhile, moved with effortless ease, slipping his bow into place as though he had never considered staying behind in the first place.
“You didn’t think we would let you go alone, did you?” Astarion said lightly, though there was something steadier beneath the words now, something less performative than usual, you couldn't tell if it was just the exhaustion.
Shadowheart gave a small nod in agreement, falling into step without needing to explain herself.
And despite everything—the exhaustion, the ache, the lingering weight of the day—you felt something in your chest loosen just slightly, as though the burden you had been about to carry alone had quietly been shared without permission.
The village took on a different shape at night.
What had been simply a collection of crumbling buildings and strangled greenery in daylight now felt hostile, as though the darkness itself had rewritten it. Shadows stretched too long between broken fences and leaning walls, and every distant sound—creaking wood, shifting stone, the whisper of wind through hollow spaces—seemed to carry intent. There was no comfort in it, only the quiet suggestion that something might be watching from just out of sight.
All three of you felt it.
Even without saying it aloud, there was a shared understanding that none of you were at your best. Exhaustion dulled your reflexes, softened your judgment in ways that made the unease worse. Still, you pushed forward, forcing focus where there was none to spare. Barrels, crates, anything usable—anything edible. That was all that mattered.
And yet, despite your best efforts, your attention kept slipping.
The dark between buildings felt deeper than it should have. The outlines of ruined structures seemed to shift when you weren’t looking directly at them. It wasn’t fear exactly, but it was the kind of creeping distraction that came just before things went wrong.
Eventually, fortune offered something small.
A rundown house, barely standing, its roof sagging under the weight of time and weather. Inside, half-hidden in the gloom, sat a barrel of fish—salted, preserved, something at least vaguely edible. Relief cut through the tension in all of you at once, sharp and immediate. Without hesitation, you all moved inside.
The floorboards groaned beneath your weight as you hurriedly filled your bag. The air was thick with damp rot and old wood, the smell of mould and decay clinging to everything like a second skin. The house itself sounded alive in its dying—creaking, sighing, whistling softly through gaps in the walls as the wind moved through it.
For a brief moment, it almost felt safe.
Then the world dropped out from beneath you.
There was no warning—just a sudden, violent collapse. Wood splintered, stone gave way, and all three of you fell in a chaotic tangle of motion and impact. The world spun, sound distorting into a harsh rush in your ears, and then came the heavy collision of stone against bone.
Pain flared dully through your body as you hit the ground, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust and debris filled the air around you, settling slowly like ash.
It took a moment too long to understand where you were.
The silence below the house was wrong. Heavy. Pressurised. Ancient.
Above you, a jagged hole in the ceiling framed a thin slice of night sky. Through it, distant moonlight spilled down in pale, broken beams.
And somewhere above that, you heard it—muffled, distorted, but unmistakably Shadowheart calling your name.
You blinked hard, trying to force your mind into focus, trying to catalogue your body for injuries. Everything felt distant, slightly unreal, like you were thinking through water. You had landed on your head—maybe. Or maybe it was the adrenaline fading too quickly.
Then you looked to the side.
Astarion lay near Shadowheart, too still in a way that made your stomach drop immediately. Moonlight caught the red staining him—too much of it, too bright against the pale stone floor. It wasn’t just surface blood either; it shone wetly across his clothes, his skin, marking him in a way that made your pulse spike with sudden, cold clarity.
Shadowheart was already kneeling beside him, hands moving with urgency you rarely saw from her—focused, precise, trying to assess, trying to stabilize. But even from where you stood, you could see the tension in her posture. This wasn’t a minor injury.
Your heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
Everything else narrowed.
You wanted to move immediately. To get to him. To pull him closer, to check if he was conscious, to do anything other than stand there watching blood soak into stone. The thought came fast and instinctive—offering your own life if it meant pulling him back from the edge, if that was what it took.
But something held you in place.
Because all around you, the sound changed.
Slow at first. Subtle. Like stone shifting in a place it hadn’t been meant to move for centuries.
Then the caskets began to open.
Wood scraped against stone. Old hinges groaned in protest. From every direction within the crypt, shapes began to rise—bodies in varying states of decay dragging themselves back into motion, drawn upward by something unseen and deeply wrong. Empty sockets turned toward you. Jawbones clicked. The air filled with the unmistakable certainty of the dead refusing to stay still.
The threat wasn’t approaching.
It was already here.
Your breath caught, sharp and shallow, as you unsheathed your weapon.
And still, even as the undead began to gather, your gaze flicked back—just once—to Astarion in Shadowheart’s care, because whatever came next, you were going to have to survive long enough to reach him again.
You may not have much left in you, but you knew what you had to do.
There was no room for hesitation now, no time for fear to catch up and drag you back down. You forced yourself upright through the ache in your body, every movement sharp with exhaustion, every breath feeling like something you had to fight for. Still, your grip tightened around your weapon as if it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
“Help Astarion,” you shouted, voice cutting through the chaos as the crypt around you groaned and shifted, the dead beginning to rise. “I will hold them back!”
Behind you, Astarion froze.
It wasn’t just stillness—it was shock so immediate it seemed to steal even the sound out of the air around him. For a moment, he simply stared at your back as though he hadn’t fully understood the words, as though his mind refused to translate them into something real.
Me.
The thought wasn’t spoken, but it hit him all the same, sharp and disorienting.
Because no one had ever done this before.
No one had ever stood between him and danger because he mattered more than survival.
For centuries—no, longer than he allowed himself to properly think about—there had only ever been Cazador. Control. Pain. Ownership. Everything had been about being used, being ordered, being less than someone else’s will.
And now—
Now you were here.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Standing on the edge of collapse like he was, like all of you were. He could see it clearly—could see exactly how little you had left to give. And still, you had chosen this. Not yourself. Not escape. Him.
Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest at the realization, tight and unplaceable, like a feeling that didn’t yet have a name he trusted.
He didn’t understand it.
But he knew, with sudden clarity that unsettled him more than the undead rising around you ever could, that you were about to risk everything you had left—for him.
With each swing of your sword, with every collision that rang out through the crypt, your body screamed louder in protest. Pain had become something constant now—burning through your muscles, settling deep into your bones, turning every movement into something heavier than it should have been. Your legs trembled under the strain, threatening to give out with every step, every pivot, every forced breath.
Rest felt like something impossibly distant. A promise your body demanded but your situation refused to grant.
More than anything, you wanted to turn.
To look back.
To check on him.
To see if the bleeding had stopped. If Shadowheart had managed to heal him. If he was still even conscious.
But you couldn’t.
Not with the undead pressing in from every direction. Not with the horde still rising, still crawling forward, still refusing to stay dead.
So you fought instead.
Trusting Shadowheart with a kind of exhausted certainty you didn’t have the energy to second-guess. You knew how difficult it was to cast under pressure, under pain, under exhaustion—but thinking about failure, about what could go wrong, was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Not now. Not when there was still something you could protect.
So you stayed standing.
You stayed moving.
And you stayed between them and everything that wanted to take him away.
The undead felt endless. Every time one fell, another seemed to take its place, dragging itself up through dust and bone and broken stone as though the crypt itself refused to let you leave. You swung until your arms felt like they no longer belonged to you, each movement slower than the last, each strike requiring more will than strength.
Your grip tightened around your weapon until it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.
Behind it all, faintly, there was Astarion.
Watching.
Not just watching the fight—but watching you.
He couldn’t understand it at first. It didn’t fit into anything he knew, anything he had lived through. People didn’t do this. Not for him. Not when he was injured. Not when survival demanded every ounce of sense be spent on oneself.
And yet you were still there.
Still fighting.
Still standing in front of death itself like it was a promise you intended to keep.
Something in him twisted sharply at the sight of it.
Centuries of control, of ownership, of being something used and discarded, all of it pressed against the reality unfolding in front of him. Because this wasn’t control. It wasn’t manipulation. It wasn’t fear or obligation.
It was a choice.
And worse than that—it was real.
A part of him, one he didn’t like acknowledging, had always understood relationships in terms of leverage. Of influence. Of survival through proximity and advantage. Even with you, even when he smiled and charmed and leaned into something softer, there had always been that instinct somewhere beneath it all.
But you were making that… impossible.
Because you were fighting like this.
For him.
Not for what he could give you. Not for what you could gain.
Just him.
And he didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know where to put it in his mind, how to name it, how to survive it without turning it into something sharp or cynical.
So instead, he just watched.
And waited.
Until finally—
“Let’s go!” Shadowheart’s voice cut through everything, sharp and urgent, dragging you back into motion.
An arm was hooked around Astarion’s shoulders, steadying him as she guided him through the chaos toward the exit. He was still unsteady, still bleeding, but moving—alive.
You followed without hesitation.
A quick, desperate decision.
An Alchemist’s Fire arced from your hand, shattering against the ground behind you in a bloom of roaring flame. The undead recoiled, the fire carving a temporary path of safety through the crypt, and for a moment there was nothing but heat and light and the promise of escape.
Then you were out.
The world above hit you like a shock.
Cold night air. Open sky. The pale glow of the moon spilling across broken ground and ruined stone. It felt unreal after the suffocating weight of the crypt, as though you had surfaced into a different world entirely.
And then your body gave up what little argument it still had left.
All of you collapsed near the entrance, breath ragged, limbs shaking, the kind of exhaustion that went beyond fatigue and straight into collapse. Even the air felt too heavy to breathe properly.
But it was air.
And that alone felt like victory.
You dragged in a breath, trying to steady yourself as Shadowheart immediately began checking you over, hands quick and practiced despite her own exhaustion. You waved her off weakly, insisting you were fine—just needed a moment, just needed the world to stop spinning for a second.
Astarion didn’t speak.
Not immediately.
For once, there were no words ready at his tongue.
No effortless remark.
No charm sharpened into something usable.
Just silence.
You forced yourself upright with what little strength you had left, leaning heavily on your sword as you tried to make your way toward him. Every step felt like it cost something, like your body was arguing with your decision, but you moved anyway.
Because you weren’t done yet.
Not until you knew he was okay.
You finally reached him on unsteady legs, your sword dragging slightly against the ground before slipping from your grasp entirely. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crypt was fading now, leaving behind only exhaustion and pain so deep it felt stitched into your bones.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You crouched carefully in front of Astarion, hands immediately reaching for him despite the tremble in your fingers. Your eyes moved over him quickly, searching for anything worse than what you had already seen—the blood staining his clothes, the bruising beginning to darken beneath pale skin, the sharp tension he still carried despite trying to hide it.
“Astarion…” Your voice came out quieter than intended, roughened by exhaustion. “Are…are you okay?”
His eyes stayed fixed on you.
Not guarded.
Not teasing.
Just watching you with an intensity that felt strangely vulnerable in the pale moonlight.
“I should be asking you that,” he said softly after a moment, voice lacking its usual easy amusement. One of his hands lifted slightly, hesitant at first, before brushing near your temple. “You’re bleeding.”
You blinked, only then feeling the warmth trailing faintly down the side of your face. It explained the dizziness. The pounding ache behind your eyes.“Oh,” you murmured weakly, as though the realization hardly mattered now that he was conscious and speaking.
His brows pulled together faintly at your response.
You could see it then, in the silence between you—in the way his gaze lingered, in the way he looked almost unsettled by the sight of you kneeling there worrying over him while blood still ran down your own face.
No sarcasm came.
No sharp remark to deflect the moment.
For once, Astarion seemed too exhausted to hide behind them.
And somehow, that silence said far more than any joke ever could.
For someone who has spent centuries surviving alone, Astarion does not know what to do with the terrifying realization that your loyalty might be real.
Beside you, Shadowheart let out a slow breath as she finished gathering what little strength she had left. “We should leave,” she said quietly, though even her voice sounded worn thin. “Before something else decides to crawl out of the ground.”
The walk back to camp was silent. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. The events of the crypt lingered over all three of you like a shadow that refused to loosen its grip. No one had the energy left for conversation. Boots dragged against dirt paths, armor shifted softly with movement, and every now and then the distant sounds of the night reminded you just how vulnerable you still were.
Astarion walked between you and Shadowheart, one arm slung carefully over each of your shoulders. Shadowheart was exhausted from healing magic, and Astarion still lacked the strength to walk steadily on his own. The arrangement forced the three of you close together, stumbling occasionally but never quite falling.
Every so often, you could feel Astarion’s weight lean slightly more toward you.Not enough to comment on. Just enough to notice.
By the time camp finally came into view, relief hit so suddenly it nearly made your knees give out entirely.
The fire was still burning low when the others spotted you.
The reaction was immediate.
Karlach was the first to stand, eyes widening in alarm as she took in the state of all three of you. Gale quickly followed, concern replacing whatever exhaustion had settled over camp earlier. Wyll moved forward instinctively as though preparing to help catch one of you before you collapsed, while Lae'zel’s sharp eyes scanned for injuries with immediate tactical precision.
“What in the hells happened to you lot?” Karlach breathed.
You stared at them for a moment, too tired to even begin explaining.Then, without a word, you simply lifted the bag of fish slightly toward Gale.
The wizard looked at the bag. Then at the blood covering all three of you. “…Right,” he said faintly.
That was all the energy you had left for conversation.
Shadowheart caught your eye then, giving you a small, understanding nod as she adjusted her hold on Astarion—silent reassurance that she would take care of him from here, that she would make sure his wounds were properly treated.
You nodded back weakly.
As Shadowheart guided him toward his tent, Astarion glanced back over his shoulder at you.
The look only lasted a second, but something in his expression shifted the moment distance began forming between you again, something hollow and uncertain beneath the exhaustion. As though now that the danger had passed, he suddenly became aware of your absence beside him.
And judging by the strange tightness in your own chest as you watched him disappear into the dim firelight—you felt it too.
Unable to stand beneath everyone’s worried stares any longer, you turned away and made your way toward the lake at the edge of camp. The cold night air brushed against your skin as you knelt near the water, exhaustion settling heavier with every passing second.
Only now, with the adrenaline finally gone, did you truly begin to feel how much the night had taken from you.
You peeled your armor away piece by piece beside the lake, each buckle and leather strap feeling impossibly heavy beneath your trembling hands. The metal had begun to feel suffocating somewhere during the walk back to camp, restrictive against movements already stiff with pain and exhaustion. By the time the final piece dropped beside you onto the damp ground, your body felt lighter for it—though not by much.
The cold water helped somewhat.
You knelt at the water’s edge, dipping shaking hands into the lake and washing away as much dirt and blood as you could manage. Crimson swirled through the rippling water before disappearing into the dark. Cuts and bruises revealed themselves more clearly beneath the grime now, angry and swollen across your skin. Every touch stung.
Your head still throbbed dully from the fall, a lingering haze sitting stubbornly behind your eyes. You must have struck it harder than you first thought. But Shadowheart had already pushed herself dangerously far tonight, and the guilt of asking for more healing magic settled too heavily in your chest to ignore. A bandage would do.
Still, despite the pain clouding every inch of your body, your thoughts kept circling back to him.
The pale elf.
The vampire spawn.
Astarion.
You rose slowly from the lakeside, suppressing the ache that flared through your muscles as you pulled yourself upright. Camp was quieter now, the earlier panic replaced with weary relief. Around the fire, the others had finally begun eating the fish you had nearly died retrieving. Their voices were low, subdued, exhaustion weighing down even Karlach’s usual energy.
You barely registered them as you passed.
Your body carried you toward Astarion’s tent almost on instinct alone.
The fabric shifted softly as you stepped inside.
Astarion sat propped against a pile of blankets, shirtless now, pale skin illuminated softly by the warm glow of a nearby lantern. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, stark white against bruised skin. Seeing him like this—stripped of his usual effortless composure, visibly wounded and exhausted—sent something painful twisting through your chest.
He looked up as you entered, and immediately, his eyes fixed on you.
You crossed the small space between you before your knees finally gave out beneath the weight of the night, lowering yourself carefully in front of him. Even that small movement hurt.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Your hands moved slowly, brushing your hair aside to expose the curve of your neck to him. The vulnerable gesture felt strangely intimate in the quiet of the tent.
“You need to feed,” you murmured softly. “You lost too much blood.”
For a moment, Astarion simply stared at you.
Not because of the offer itself—you had offered before.
But because of now.
Because you were pale with exhaustion, blood still dried at your temple beneath the hastily wrapped bandage. Your hands trembled faintly from overexertion, your breathing still uneven from everything your body had endured tonight. Anyone with sense would have been resting. Protecting what little strength remained.
And yet you were here.
Offering him the last thing you had left to give.
Again.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression then, quieter and far more vulnerable than the usual amusement or practiced charm he wore so effortlessly.
Slowly, he shifted closer.
One hand lifted carefully to your neck, cool fingers resting against your skin as though testing whether you were truly there. His other hand settled against your waist, steadying you as he gently pulled you nearer. The movement was slow, deliberate, intimate enough that your breath caught despite yourself.
You tilted your head instinctively, giving him access to your neck, already bracing for the familiar sharp sting of his bite.
But it never came.
Instead, all you felt were his lips.
Soft.
Gentle.
A lingering kiss pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck with a tenderness that startled you far more than teeth ever could.
Astarion stayed there for a brief moment before pulling back slowly.
Your eyes met his immediately. There was something different in his gaze now—something quieter, stripped bare by exhaustion and everything you had done for him tonight.
“While I appreciate the offer,” he murmured softly, thumb brushing faintly against your waist, “you don’t have nearly enough to spare right now, darling.”
The words were light, but the meaning beneath them wasn’t.
Because, for perhaps the first time in longer than he could remember, Astarion did not look at you and think about survival first.
He looked at you and thought about your safety.
And somehow, that terrified him far more than the undead ever had.
“What was that down there?” Astarion’s voice was quiet in the dimness of the tent, lacking its usual theatrical edge. The lantern beside him cast soft gold across pale skin and loose white curls, shadows flickering gently across the sharpness of his features.
You frowned slightly, exhaustion still clouding your thoughts. “What do you mean?”
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching your face as though the answer might already be written there somewhere. “You were barely standing,” he said softly. “Half dead yourself and still throwing yourself between me and an entire crypt full of undead.” His brows furrowed faintly, genuine confusion slipping through the cracks of his composure. “Why?”
The answer came easier than you expected.
“For you, Astarion.”
Silence.
The kind that settled heavily between two people when something honest had been placed carefully into the space between them.
Astarion stared at you like he was waiting for the punchline. As though somewhere in the back of his mind he had already convinced himself this couldn’t possibly be real—that there had to be another motive hidden beneath your words, something safer and more understandable than simple care.
But there wasn’t.
And that realization seemed to unsettle him far more than anything else tonight.
“Why?” he asked again, quieter this time.
The vulnerability in the question appeared to catch even him off guard.
Almost immediately, you watched the shift happen.
The retreat.
The instinctive reach for humor like armor slipping back into place. “If that was your attempt at impressing me, darling,” he said lightly, a faint smirk finally tugging at his lips, “I’d say it was unnecessarily dramatic.”
A tired laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
And gods, hearing him joke again—hearing that familiar teasing tone return after the terror of seeing him bleeding in the crypt—sent relief flooding through you so suddenly it almost hurt.
Your smile softened as you looked at him.
Then, slowly, you reached for his hand.
The movement made him still instantly.
Not because the gesture itself was shocking, but because of how gentle it was. Careful. Intentional. Your fingers curled around his, warmth against the coolness of his skin.
For once, Astarion didn’t immediately know how to react.
“I did it because…” You hesitated briefly, searching for words through the exhaustion weighing down your mind. “Because somewhere along the way, you stopped just being someone I travel with.”
His expression faltered almost imperceptibly.
You rubbed your thumb softly across the back of his hand before continuing.
“You make me laugh when everything feels impossible. You stay close to me even when you pretend not to care. And when I look for you in a room…” Your voice softened slightly. “I always feel better once I find you there.”
Astarion’s breath caught faintly.
“You ask why I risked myself for you,” you murmured. “But to me, there wasn’t really another choice.”
The teasing expression he had been trying so hard to maintain faded quietly after that.It simply slipped away beneath the weight of your honesty until all that remained was something far softer. Something uncertain.
Like he still didn’t fully understand how to hold something so genuine without fearing it might disappear the moment he touched it.
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Small.
Instinctive.
But real.
“You really are terrible for my ego, you know that?” he said finally, voice quieter now, stripped of most of its usual performance. “How am I supposed to maintain any air of mystery when you insist on saying things like that?”
You smiled tiredly, the warmth of it lingering between you both.
And for the first time that night, the silence that followed no longer felt heavy at all.
Astarion held your gaze for a long moment after that, crimson eyes quieter than you had ever seen them. The usual sharpness behind them had softened into something almost dangerously sincere, as though exhaustion had worn down the walls he normally kept so carefully intact.
His thumb brushed once against your hand before he finally let out a slow breath through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement returning to his expression.
“Well,” Astarion murmured, voice gentler now, “I suppose nearly getting yourself killed for me has earned you the privilege of sharing my blankets.”
A tired laugh escaped you, soft and breathless, and something in his shoulders visibly loosened at the sound of it.
“There it is,” you teased weakly. “I was wondering when your ego would recover.”
“Oh, it’s hanging on by a thread,” he replied dryly. “Do try not to wound me further tonight. I am already tragically injured.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite how utterly exhausted you felt.
Astarion shifted carefully, suppressing a small wince as he moved further across the bedroll to make space for you beside him. The movement was slower than usual, lacking his normal effortless grace, but there was something strangely intimate about that too—seeing him allow himself to be seen like this, tired and hurting and real.
You hesitated only briefly before lying down beside him.
Every inch of your body protested the movement immediately.
The two of you awkwardly adjusted at first, exhaustion making even simple movements difficult as you both tried instinctively to avoid bruises, cuts, and freshly wrapped injuries. Your arm brushed carefully around his waist while avoiding the bandages across his torso, and his hand settled lightly against your side with surprising gentleness, mindful of the aches still lingering beneath your skin.
Eventually, you found something comfortable enough.
The blankets were warm around you both, carrying faint traces of leather, old parchment, and the familiar lingering scent of him. Outside the tent, the distant crackle of the campfire and muffled voices blurred softly into the background, fading further with every passing second.
For once, neither of you felt the need to speak.
Your head rested carefully against his shoulder, exhaustion pulling at you so heavily now that keeping your eyes open felt impossible. Beside you, Astarion had gone unusually still, his arm remaining loosely around you like he was still adjusting to the idea that someone had willingly chosen to be this close to him.
That someone had fought for him.
Cared for him.
Chosen him.
Even now, he still wasn’t entirely certain what to do with that feeling blooming painfully warm inside his chest.
But as your breathing slowly evened out against him, your body finally relaxing now that you knew he was safe, Astarion found that—for the first time in a very long while—the night did not feel quite so cold.
And somewhere between exhaustion and silence, the two of you finally let sleep claim you together.
Did you at least kiss the gun before shooting me 17 times — y’all, we have a contender for one of my favorite twst fanarts ever right here. I can’t stop staring omg
tags/warnings: jamil x reader (romantic), gn!reader, reader is yuu, jamil's POV, established relationship, vague/inaccurate description of basketball bc i’m not a baller 😔, not proofread as always bc i don’t have patience (i will probs make edits periodically)
a/n: inspired by this request, sorry it took SO LONG 😭 the writer’s block is REALLY kicking my ass… i’m not super satisfied with this but i’m just glad it’s done and out :’) definitely in my leona-loving era rn but each time i listen to jamil’s solo song I AM RE-JAMIL-BRAINED. HOLY FUTABA KANAME HE HAS THE VOICE OF A GORGEOUS SIREN. on an actual fic-related note, basketball jerseys typically aren’t custom-made for public schools, but for this fic, we’re gonna say it’s different for fancy private magic schools hehe
DO NOT FEED TO AI.
word count: 2.6k
dividers by @/firefly-graphics!
I.
Jamil is organized. Never a day unscheduled, never an action unjustified, never a hair out of place. Naturally, Jamil doesn't misplace things. He leaves that to Kalim, who loses enough stuff for the both of them (and which Jamil is also responsible for finding). It's a complete waste of time.
Thus, every belonging of Jamil's has a designated place. His hoodie, for instance, is folded neatly and placed on the top shelf of his dresser. He takes it from that place when he is to wear it, and once taken off, it returns to that place. The only exception to that is laundry day.
So when Jamil, on a non-laundry day, opens his dresser to find nothing on the top shelf, the anomaly is akin to breaking the law of gravity.
His first instinct is to question Kalim. It wouldn't be the first time he's taken or moved Jamil's stuff without asking.
But when asked, Kalim replies, "Your hoodie? Hmmm... I don't think I took it…"
So it wasn't him.
"But now that I'm thinking back, maybe…?" he continues. "But I don't think so! But maybe..."
Or it probably wasn't him. Jamil will just have to take his (first) word for it.
The next suspect is Jamil's roommate. Not because the guy is particularly suspicious, but because they do share a room, after all. Things tend to get mixed up in a shared room.
His roommate's underwhelming reply: "The red one you usually wear? Nah, sorry, haven't seen it. Have you asked Housewarden Kalim if he knows where it is?"
"He doesn't. But thanks.”
Jamil's final suspect is you. The possibility is too far-fetched though; you've never taken anything from him, you have no reason to do so, and you haven't even been to his room recently (all of the above to his well-concealed disappointment). So he decides against bothering you about it.
In short: your boyfriend really has no idea where his hoodie has gone. But no matter, he has a spare. It's a generic solid black and made of a cheaper material, but it'll do as a temporary replacement until he finds his usual one.
As Jamil makes his way to class, you’re the first to remark on the change.
You skip up to him from behind, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You look good in black,” you whisper, running off toward your class before Jamil has the chance to respond. Not that he’d have the composure to respond anyways, even if you’d stayed.
You look good in black.
You look good in black.
You look good in black.
Your compliment echoes through his mind all day, during class, during lunch, during club, during chores. Though you’ve been together for a little while now, Jamil’s still not immune to your charm.
He doesn’t even mind that he has to wear his spare for the next few days. Of course he doesn’t mind: you like how he looks in it.
It isn’t until next laundry day that the hoodie is finally found.
“Turns out, I did have it!” Jamil’s roommate chuckles, holding it out to him. “My bad, bro. I guess it ended up mixed in with my laundry.”
“It’s fine,” Jamil sighs, taking the article back. “Just glad it wasn’t actually lost.”
As Jamil tosses it into his own laundry pile, he catches a whiff of the fabric and the image of you materializes in his brain: clad in his hoodie and your usual pyjama pants, you’re lounging around Ramshackle, nestling adorably into the plush clothes.
He wishes he could’ve seen it in person—wait, what is he talking about? He shakes his head to dissipate the thought. That was just a fantasy; you didn’t touch the thing, you haven’t even stopped by Scarabia recently. But still—
Jamil retrieves the hoodie.
…No, it’s just wishful thinking.
He throws it back into the pile to be washed with the rest of his dirty laundry.
The moment he pulls it out the dryer, Jamil plunges his nose into the clean fabric. It smells of nothing but fresh laundry.
Good. I don’t want lingering scents on my clothes. It would be bothersome if it still smelled after washing.
That’s what Jamil tells himself.
But deep, deep, deep down, against all logic, he hopes that it was miraculously you whose scent was on his hoodie, and he wishes it still smelled of you. He would sooner shave his head and smack Kalim across the face with the chopped-off ponytail than ever admit that, though.
II.
It’s laundry day again. Among other things.
On top of laundry, Jamil still has to tutor Kalim, fill out paperwork for the dorm (on Kalim’s behalf), cook up a feast for yet another party that Kalim is throwing tonight, and then look after himself. But a never-ending to-do list is nothing new for your boyfriend.
He deeply appreciates how you come to Scarabia to help him shoulder the load, though. When Kalim begins to get sidetracked during homework, you nudge him back in the right direction. When Jamil is busy duel-wielding pans on the stove, you help him wash and chop ingredients. When Jamil needs just a second to breathe, you’re there to massage his shoulders.
He has you to thank when he finally reaches the bottom of his to-do list, and slightly ahead of schedule at that. All he has left to do is his laundry, so you supervise Kalim on his behalf in the meantime.
But of course, Jamil can’t get through a single day without something going wrong. His go-to washing machine was busted a few days ago by his dormmates, so Jamil now has to use a different, less reliable machine. And because he hasn’t vetted this one, he can’t say for sure whether it’ll eat his socks or not.
Well, good news: the machine does not end up swallowing his socks.
Bad news: it eats his basketball jersey instead. Which is objectively and significantly worse.
When Jamil realizes the jersey that he definitely put into the washing machine will not be coming out of said machine, he has to consciously restrain himself from collapsing into a sulky ball of exasperation.
He has a basketball game tomorrow.
But fortunately, as unlucky as Jamil is, he is equally as prepared. One perk of being a second-year Basketball Club member is that he still has his old jersey from last year. The design is slightly different so he won’t match with his teammates, but it’s certainly better than nothing.
“Hey, what’s with the weird jersey?” Ace is annoyingly more observant than Jamil would like to give him credit for and just as nosy.
“Laundry mishap,” Jamil replies bluntly, focussing on warming up. If only Ace would do the same.
“Hah!” the redhead barks. “I guess even the Great Jamil makes mistakes~”
Great Jamil simply glares. “It was the machine.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”
How are you friends with this guy?
NRC vs. RSA. It’s only an exhibition game so it technically doesn’t matter, but losing now would crush the team’s morale in the long run. Plus, it would be very satisfying to make RSA taste defeat for once.
Unfortunately, playing against RSA is always an uphill battle, and it doesn’t help that Floyd isn’t in a basketball mood (he didn’t even bother showing up). Thus NRC’s slim chance of victory is basically banking on Jamil. No pressure.
The bleachers are filled almost exclusively with RSA students, which is strange considering it’s an away game for them, and yet not strange considering their notorious school spirit. Though Jamil lacks the time to find you in the sea of goody-two-shoes, he has full faith that you’re here. You never fail to support him, a fact that gives Jamil a comforting sense of security.
Three quarters into the game, RSA is in the lead. It’s not impossible to make a comeback and Jamil makes sure to gradually close the gap with all the time he’s on the court, but it’s clear that NRC is losing steam.
And then, when he shoots a beautiful 3-pointer in the last couple seconds of the quarter, Jamil hears you over the buzzer.
“WOOO SWIIIISH!!! THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!”
He whips his head around, scanning the crowd for you. And then he spots you…
“I LOVE YOU, JAMIL!!!”
…wearing his jersey. The one that the washing machine ate. Or that he thought it ate.
He doesn’t know if he feels more embarrassed or flattered.
The second you lock eyes, a cheeky grin blooms on your face and you exit the bleachers. On the same wavelength, Jamil makes his way to meet you outside the gym.
“So it was you.”
“Straight to the point, huh?” you chuckle, and Jamil’s heart skips a beat. “I knew you had this spare, so, y’know. Took it out of the washer when you were busy.”
“I’m the only one wearing the old design,” he sighs. “It’s not uniform.”
“If it bothers you that much, I could theoretically give it back to you now,” you offer, “but I’m not really wearing anything underneath…”
Jamil feels his face heat up. Hopefully you’ll just attribute his flush to physical exertion, but the way you smile at him so sweetly indicates otherwise. He’s not gonna let you win, though.
“Then we’ll swap.” Grasping the neckline of his jersey before you can catch on, Jamil slips it over his head.
Overlooking the jersey in his outstretched hand, you sputter, blatantly ogling your boyfriend’s bare chest and abs. While intense attention usually makes him uncomfortable, it’s different when it’s from you.
“You took my hoodie too, didn’t you?” he probes, feeling a hearty dose of pride at the way you fluster. You giggle guiltily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Once you finally manage to collect yourself and change jerseys, Jamil hums in satisfaction at the sight. His clothes suit you.
“The last quarter’s gonna start,” you remind him nervously, pushing his rightful jersey into his hands. “Kick their asses, okay? I’ll be cheering you on!”
Needless to say, NRC wins the game. All thanks to the MVP Jamil, fuelled by your encouragement and the image of you in his jersey.
You don’t return it after the game, and Jamil doesn’t ask. If you were to bring it up, he’d simply say he forgot about it. He didn’t, of course, but please don’t question his claim.
(And please wear the jersey to all his games.)
III.
Following the two occurrences of his clothes going ‘missing’, the thought of you wearing his stuff plagues Jamil’s mind for weeks on end.
In every one of his thoughts and dreams, you’re wearing something of his. A t-shirt, sweatpants, tank top, sweater. Any or all of the above. Each time he puts something on, he no longer thinks about how he looks in it and instead thinks about how you’d look in it.
To Jamil’s dismay, it gets to the point where he’s almost shocked to see you in real life wearing your own clothes. And with the weather getting oddly frigid as of late, the sight of you layering every piece in your measly wardrobe is not only shocking, but concerning.
One particularly frosty Tuesday morning, Jamil finally decides to bring up his concern.
“I’m guessing you don’t have winter clothes,” he notes pointedly, eyeing your outfit. With what must be four t-shirts layered (read: stuffed) under your button down shirt, topped with your uniform blazer, this truly has to be every article in your possession. He casually takes hold of your bare hands. “Or gloves.”
Your freezing hands nestle into the warm embrace of his own mittened ones. “It’s fine,” you smile, nose flushed. “I’m inside pretty much the whole day.”
“Your classes are on the other side of campus,” he points out incredulously. “And then you have to walk all the way back to Ramshackle—does Ramshackle even have heating?”
You stay suspiciously quiet.
“You’re going to catch a cold. I’ll come by in the evening to give you warmer clothes.” His warmer clothes, that is.
Beaming at him, you sniffle. “Thanks, Jamil. I’ll try to stay inside as much as I can until then.”
After the day’s classes, your boyfriend abides by his word, putting together a care package of thermal socks, thermal underwear, gloves, a scarf, a toque, an overcoat, and his softest sw—wait, where’s his sweatshirt?
Jamil is mid-search when he remembers:
His significant other is a clothes thief. A wardrobe raider. A closet crook.
He sighs and makes his way to Ramshackle, incomplete care package in hand, knowing that it’ll be complete once it gets to you.
Wasting no time to prove him right, you open the door wearing it. And just like that, you’ve got Jamil’s heart in your sleeve-buried hands. You look so innocent and precious despite how you literally stole the clothes from under his nose. How ironic.
“Jamil?” you prompt after a moment, smirk barely repressed. “You coming in?”
Right. Coming in. You need stuff. The stuff he’s brought with him. Right.
“Yes,” he manages, somehow without any hint of fluster. “Now shut the door quickly before the cold gets in.”
Per Jamil’s ask, you close the creaky wooden door behind him.
“Here.” Jamil holds the package out to you, forcing himself to meet your eyes. The way your expression visibly lights up has him fighting the urge to turtle up in his hood and pull the drawstrings taut.
You gently take it from his hold, your brilliant smile unwavering. And then, to your boyfriend’s elation dismay, you lean in to kiss him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” you chuckle softly, turning to make your way upstairs. “I’m gonna go put these away, but I’ve got the fire on. Get yourself warm, ‘kay? Be right back!” You whiz away and Jamil makes quick work of shedding his jacket and shoes, hanging the former on your coat rack and swapping the latter for the designated pair of slippers you’ve set aside for him.
As he enters the lounge with the fireplace, Jamil notes that Ramshackle is actually warmer than he’d expected (not that the bar was high), a huge relief for him. You’re at least safe from freezing while in here, especially if you sit by the fire, like Jamil is right now.
“I’m gonna make some hot chocolate,” you call out. You must’ve returned downstairs while Jamil was distracted. “Want some?”
“Please,” he answers, trusting you enough that he doesn’t avert his gaze from the flames.
Minutes later, you deposit a cocoa-filled mug into his hands and plop yourself onto the nearby couch. The frigid wind taps a tree branch against the window, the muffled conversations between Grim and the resident ghosts can be barely heard through the cracks in the wood, and the fire crackles quite excitedly, but you and Jamil otherwise stew in comfortable silence. And then you take a quiet breath.
“Love you, Jamil.”
Jamil’s head shoots up and he takes in the sight of you: on your front, drowning in his baggy sweatshirt, feet kicking around slowly behind you.
Your squished cheeks resting in your palms, Jamil finds himself feeling a new way.
As a member of the Basketball Club, Jamil has front row seats to the questionable behaviour of Floyd Leech. One of the many things that Jamil never understood about the menace was his frequent urge to squeeze.
But with the way your eyes soften so sweetly as he stares into them, Jamil can’t help but realize:
Now he understands.
Jamil notices three new things the next day:
You’re appropriately dressed for the subzero weather. In his clothes, of course. Each time Jamil catches sight of you, he has to fight the urge to smirk and brag.
You’ve changed your phone background to a picture from yesterday: a selfie of you in Jamil’s sweatshirt, with said Jamil wrapping himself around you. Your smile in the photo is infectious.
One of his t-shirts has gone missing. He gets the feeling he knows who’s responsible.
Intro: He was going to break up with you on your first anniversary. He was going to break up with you before he went to internships. He was going to break up with you after he graduated.
Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, does jade count as a warning, reader is not yuu, established long term relationship, depression jokes, not proofread
A/N: Sorry, the brainrot got to me. College apparently cannot stop me from thinking about my least favorite character ever. Also, my favorite trope is 'i think they hate me' and 'i want them so bad i'm about to kill someone'.
Masterlist
There's a thick notebook in one of the boxes. Curiosity killed the eel mer, sure, but Jade is attracted to its plain leather cover. On the corner is your name, etched in an elegant cursive he's sure isn't yours.
After four years of romantic partnership, of course he knows your handwriting.
He gingerly fishes it out of its pile—your pile of clutter to get rid of before moving into your new shared home—and decides that of course it is fully within his right to open your journal. Diary, perhaps?
He can't help the grin pulling up the corners of his lips.
Oh dear, you've gotten so lax with such things, darling. Are you banking on his love for you to stop him from borrowing your private thoughts? Such confidence. Misplaced. Such a shame.
The first page has his name.
It takes him aback, but he delightfully relishes in the thought, the possibility, that all your feelings for him over several years would be gathered and spilled into its yellowed pages. Was there a stage of hatred? Rivalry? Were you crushing on him like a little schoolgirl? Such cute (excellent) memories (blackmail) from your youth (material)~ He flips to the second page and reads with unparalleled attentiveness he usually reserves for documents on his favorite projects.
September 1st, 20x1
Sunny
: |
It's orientation, and I'm following my ma's words about keeping a diary of sorts to keep track of interesting things. I wore the cultist uniform of NRC (fugly ass robes) and stood in line to get sorted to my dorm by the mirror. I got into Octavinelle. I don't know if it's the dorm I would have chosen for myself to be honest, but sure. I can't argue with the magical artifact.
What I would like to argue about is the vice housewarden.
His brows furrow slightly in intrigue. Did he do something wrong? He remembered being nothing but a kind, angelic upperclassman to your batch of freshmen.
He's so fucking pretty.
Jade chuckles.
He looks like he's about to eat me whole and fuck, I don't mind if he does!!! He's so tall, and so so attractive, and sevens I thought I came to NRC to study but I think I'm here to fulfill my destiny of becoming his <3
He launches into full-blown laughter. He takes his phone out from his pocket to snap multiple pictures, saving them in a locked folder labeled rather inconspicuously in his gallery.
There's a series of entries after that. Nothing too interesting (he's scanned every single page), just you detailing every second of your (at this point, nonexistent) love life. You write about how many times you'd seen him in a day, and how 'cute' he looks in his school uniform, and how 'adorable' he is when he's hanging onto his broom for dear life in PE. He ignores the fact that you shouldn't have seen him in PE classes because his schedule didn't match yours at that time. Then, there's one that you'd written right before realizing you'd fallen into his love trap~
October 3rd, 20x1
Cloudy
:<
I think I got tricked into being someone's s/o.
I thought he's been inviting me to random outings and stuff, alone, together, as like, a threat maybe. Today I found out Floyd (and therefore Azul, and definitely also him) think of me as Jade's significant other. Which is so weird.
I'm so confused???
There's a little chibi drawing on the corner of your face with a blank expression.
I thought we were friends and then his brother tells me that the guy I like doesn't think of me as a friend. Okay??????
JADE LEECH IS TREATING ME LIKE HIS PARTNER AND I DON'T KNOW WHEN IT HAPPENED.
(but i like it :D)
Well, you've always been a bit slow, haven't you, darling? You never even noticed when Jade began to take an interest in you, slowly steering you towards his own hobbies, even his club activities. After all, he studied your interests, so isn't it only fair? He likes being able to converse with you. He likes the sound of your voice. He likes the movement of your lips. Is it so bad, then, that he did a few perfectly legal things to somehow shoe you in right by his side?
In the diary, you detail every feeling in every date. You like picnics. You hated the hike up that mountain with poisonous snakes. You liked the parfait he made for you. You disliked the slightly poisonous mushroom he sauteed and put into your chicken alfredo. Shame.
July 23rd, 20x2
Rainy
:(
It takes its first turn about a week before the first anniversary of the day you met him (you don't have a 'real' anniversary since you don't even know when you started dating him).
I think he's going to break up with me soon.
His breath hitches in his throat. He's not sure how to feel upon reading that sentence, but he doesn't like it.
(Why were you so sure, darling?)
He's going to be in third year by the time the school year comes around again. He'll be busy with the lounge and studying and vice housewarden stuff. Maybe he won't have time for me anymore.
But that's okay.
I realized something. The twins are not the type of people for long term relationships. After knowing more about Jade, I've learned he's not too different from Floyd concerning several aspects.
1.) He only likes interesting things.
Jade likes weird, and fun, and spontaneous. I think he liked me then because I was new and so strange. After all, I didn't know that the guy I loved at first sight was such a feared figure, for good reason too. There was nobody in school who would stick around him so much like I do.
2.) He gets bored just as easily.
Jade is the mirror image of Floyd here. Floyd is more moody, but Jade is good at pretending. He likes to play around. Until he doesn't. I know I won't see it coming, but one day, I will be predictable. And he'll get bored. I will no longer be interesting.
He leans back slightly on his chair. He needs to take a few deep breaths before he can even continue to read your writing.
Has he always struck you that way?
If he doesn't want to play with me anymore, what am I supposed to do?
I need to prepare myself.
Someday, he'll leave me, and I need to be stronger then than I am now. Right now, I'll break if he abandons me. Surely if I desensitize myself to the scenario, I can mitigate the damage.
You talk of your own heart like a building in the middle of the Ring of Fire, and Jade's the biggest earthquake that's about to arrive since millennia.
It's not often he finds himself questioning his own morality. Gray is his preference, but then, why does he see this version of himself in your eyes in all black? Has he been anything but kind to you? He's tried, really. If it wasn't enough, he should've seen it in your eyes. He should have known.
The following pages go back to their previous light-hearted tone, slowly leaving the saccharine sweet honeymoon phase and dipping into comfortable and warm. You don't mention that entry again, or even that line of thought. He likes that. Jade would prefer you refusing to humor such blatant nonsense than actually spend time worrying your pretty little head about it. It's just a bit worrying. Like a volcano with lava filling up, is it not dangerous to block the outflow?
Why have you never discussed your thoughts with him?
August 3rd, 20x3
Sunny
:<
He has to consider that it might be seasonal depression if the entries keep getting darker around the same time. Like a switch has been flipped, the words turn into blades again, cutting into his skin as though they could never draw blood.
I think he's really going to break up with me soon.
Oh sevens.
He has internships, which means he won't even be at school most of the time. It's upsetting because I think he'll find so many people out there. And they'll be much more interesting than me.
And then what?
I don't know where he's interning, it's probably because he doesn't want me to be a part of his life any longer.
How did he never know how prone you were to overthinking?
He hasn't gotten bored of me yet, but that's not to say it won't happen when he gets a taste of the real world and realizes how limited he is by this place. By me. Am I holding him back? I never say anything to him about these kinds of feelings because it might burden him. Which is a really funny sentence to write considering this is Jade Leech I'm talking about. It's not like he cares about other people's opinions enough for it to be a burden to him.
Why then, Jade wonders, would you ever consider yourself as 'other people'?
I hope he lets me down gently, at least.
Why would he ever let you down at all?
It's a shame to say but I think I love him.
And again, like nothing ever happened at all, the following recorded dates speak nothing of your plight. Instead, you jot down your visits to Jade in his chosen workplace, since obviously, he'd given you the details despite your previous doubts. The records of your life when not with him are few and far between, as you usually opted to write about Jade when together with him. There's an entry about the time you went to the amusement park with him, and threw up all over his jacket. There's one about the cake you failed horribly at baking during his birthday.
There's an entry about the first time you explored intimacy with him.
So it gives him severe whiplash when the entry after that is back to the same 'break up' tone as before, right around the same time as the other two.
(He should call a therapist for you.)
August 1st, 20x4
Sunny
>:(
He will definitely break up with me soon!
Why is this one so enthusiastic about it, though?
Maybe it's been in his plans all along. Only until graduation! This time, he'll definitely, definitely break up with me. Yes! I mean, I shouldn't be happy about it, but my two predictions beforehand were incorrect, and it makes me very nervous.
So I have a plan.
On his graduation, I'm going to give him a bouquet of flowers and a terrarium that I personally made.
Yes he remembers that. He still has the terrarium in his collection room.
And then, I'm going to confess my love for him.
Yes he remembers that too. You said 'I love you', and though slightly taken aback, he returned your sentiments.
And it would be the perfect gateway for him to talk about breaking up with me.
Huh. That's definitely not what he thought of it then. Is that why you were so surprised when he said 'I love you too'?
And it would probably hurt, but I think I can get away with not crying in front of him.
I really love him.
But I think it would be for the best that he leaves now, when I can still let him go with grace. Someday, I'll be in love with him, maybe to the point that I'd break down at his feet and beg for him to pick up the pieces. But I don't want him to see me like that.
He doesn't want to see that either.
(But rest assured, should it happen, he will pick up every piece of you and glue it back together with his love. Rather cheesy, though.)
Wish me luck!!!
Jade's lips curl up into a lazy grin, flipping to the last page on the notebook. There's not much, but he reads through it with a soft chuckle and writes in the corner with a blue pen. "Jade! The moving company will be here soon," you pop your head through the doorway, only glancing at him briefly before walking away, "I'm almost done with the kitchen."
He places your diary into his box of 'to keep', sealing the cardboard shut with some tape.
August 2, 20x4
Cloudy
:o
He said he loves me too.
I could be wrong, but I think Jade's never going to break up with me.
June 16, 20x5
Sunny
:)
Let's get married soon, darling. I'm looking forward to the rest of our life together.
you confess to jade with one goal: to get rejected. things do not go according to plan.
tags/warnings: jade leech x reader (romantic), gn!reader, reader is yuu, swearing, set at the end of NRC year 1, confession crack, first date, reader is miraculously/momentarily a god at Dance Dance Revolution, not proofread cuz i’m lazy
a/n: so i DOUBLY made a liar of myself: i said i’d write a bunch a few weeks ago, didn’t; and then said i wouldn’t write for a while, then did. life’s still kicking my ass and i have midterms this week but i’m neglecting my responsibilities in favour of writing fanfic :D this one was actually meant to be the beginning of a wip request, but it was so long that i split it off and expanded it. that’s maybe half the reason it's so winding yet virtually plotless ;-; anyways so this is basically a prologue to that wip, but i’ll make it so that you can read either one as standalone :)
follow-up fic here :D
DO NOT FEED THIS TO AI.
word count: 3.2k
dividers by @/cafekitsune!
“I’m gonna do it,” you whisper.
“Don’t do it,” your entire first-year friend group whispers back, ears picking up on your stupidity even beneath the drone of Crowley’s long and winding year-end speech. They plead with you now more out of resignation than hope of persuasion. That ship has already sailed, and everyone knows it.
You eye the figure three rows ahead, clad in ceremonial uniform yet identifiable thanks to their towering height.
“I have to…” you sigh dramatically.
The ‘it’ in question that you shouldn’t do: confessing to Jade Leech, a sharp-toothed and sharper-witted eel with sketchy intentions and tendencies. It's a terrible decision that you’re unfortunately already firm on, but to be fair, this decision has been thoroughly deliberated. Your main reasons are as follows:
#1: You have a stupid crush on Jade Leech, arguably one of the worst people to have feelings for. Jade Leech is the type of person to leverage any crush for his benefit, let alone a crush on him. And confessing is the quickest way to get rid of your pesky feelings, something you’re very eager to do.
#2: After this, summer break will begin and school will be out of session. ‘Distance makes the heart grow fonder’, as they say, and your feelings will absolutely compound if you don’t confess now. The break works in your favour though, as you won’t have to deal with repercussions until September comes back around. Best case scenario, everyone will forget by the time you return to school. Worst case scenario, you’ll at least get two months free of awkwardness and teasing. Which leads to:
#3: Jade will 100%, absolutely, undoubtedly reject you. He’s the type of person who only makes choices that benefit him, and you have nothing to offer. And though humiliation sucks, a one-and-done micro-moment of mortifying rejection is a small price to pay for emotional freedom.
It’s not that you want to confess to Jade Leech. It’s that you have to.
So with that airtight reasoning in mind as the ceremony finally comes to a close, you rush through the sea of eager students, your destination not a where but a whom.
The moment he’s within reach, you grab his sleeve. “Jade.”
He freezes; the crowd doesn’t. Even Floyd and Azul vanish in the flow of people. Still, though students shove past you ceaselessly, you stand strong.
“Prefect?”
You realize you’re cooked when Jade turns to face you. His eyes are wide in shock—adorably so—and surprise is a rare expression to see on Jade. It’s affecting you more than you’d like to admit.
“Um, could I talk with you?” you ask sheepishly, just as someone shoves you from behind. Luckily, you manage to right yourself before crashing straight into Jade, sparing yourself the extra embarrassment. “Preferably somewhere less busy?”
His expression morphs back into his usual: a coy, composed smile with eyes too scrutinizing for anyone’s comfort.
“Of course.” You repress a smitten grin at the sound of his voice. Soon, you won’t have to do that consciously anymore, and that thought is exhilarating. “Let’s be on our way, then. Stay close to me, Prefect.”
And you obey, never once dropping your grasp of his sleeve so as to not lose him.
It’s in the courtyard, beneath the apple tree, that Jade finally stops and you release his sleeve. With most students staying in the hallways and subjecting themselves to traffic jams by foot, only a sprinkling of smarter students pass through.
“What is it you’d like to tell me?” Jade asks, heterochromic eyes glimmering in the dappled sunlight. For a second, you almost forget that you’re here to be rejected.
Besides him, the scene isn’t picture-perfect: trampled apple blossoms decay beneath your feet, a brawl has broken out in the hall nearby, and you’re coated in sweat from being smushed in the crowd earlier. It’s pathetic and imperfect, which makes it perfect for your purpose.
You take a deep breath and brace for impact.
“Um…” you start, looking anywhere but his perfect face. “Well, y’know…”
Jade doesn’t rush you, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He’s perfectly patient.
“You probably know this already, but—oh Sevens, I’m regretting this even now—so I… ah, fuck it.
“I have a crush on you,” you blurt.
…
…
…
“Do it quickly, please,” you add once the silence stretches five seconds too long for your liking.
“...Do what quickly?”
Jade’s seeming ignorance simultaneously baffles and infuriates you enough to make you look back up at him. The cunning smirk that you expect is nowhere to be found. In its place: pure, genuine confusion. Which confuses you.
“Uh… reject me?”
“Did you not just confess that you liked me?” he questions slowly. “Why do you want me to reject you?”
“Why wouldn’t you reject me?” you counter. “Just get it over with.”
And with that, the confusion washes from his face, and the composed smile you’d been expecting in the first place reappears.
“And if I were to decline? What would you do then?”
“Then I’d be fucked!” you think aloud accidentally.
The cutest chuckle leaks from his lips and rattles your heart in your chest. You slap your hand over Jade’s mouth before he can inflict more emotional damage on you.
“Oya oya?” you hear muffled against your palm, Jade’s eyes crinkling with mirth. “Quite forward of you~”
With your other hand, you hold an authoritative finger in his face. “Stop it. Quit being charming and cute. Just turn me down, please.”
As you feel his lips pull into a sharp grin, your hand flinches away on the off chance that he bites you à la Floyd. But Jade is quicker, catching your retracting hand in his own.
“No.” He says it firmly, a stark contrast with how gently he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “I’ll see you soon, Prefect.”
Jade leaves you with a pat on the head, a rejected rejection, and a mess of thoughts and feelings. Somehow, in all your overoptimistic deliberation, you’d neglected to take into account your crush’s stubbornness and affinity for playing the long game.
Kicking at the wilted apple blooms under your soles reveals the small mushrooms sprouting underneath.
Fuck.
Deuce is the first of your friends to find out how unsuccessful you were in your mission, him and his mom having very generously offered you and Grim a place to stay for the summer.
“You’re cooked,” Deuce helpfully comments while you’re settling into the spare room. Grim, on the other hand, has already crashed on the floor. “Jade’s totally stringing you along!”
You groan your entire soul out your throat. “I know.”
“Just DM him and reject him yourself!”
“mMMmmmm…” you whine. “Fiiiine…” You unlock your phone for the first time since passing through the mirror at NRC and open the Magicam app. For all the mental and emotional turmoil that Jade put you through today, you don’t expect him to spare you the satisfaction of replying to your DMs right away.
Well, it's not the first time you've been wrong about him.
Jade messaged you first. 42 minutes ago, to be exact.
Good evening, dear Prefect :) Where would you like to go for our first date?
You place your phone face-down on the dresser and place yourself face-down on the floor.
You lie there for a good minute before Deuce’s concern catches up to him. “Uh, Prefect…? You good?”
You flop about like a fish. “uUurGghhhHhh.”
“Wait, is he blackmailing you? If he is, I’ll teach him a lesson.” Bless Deuce’s sweet delinquent soul. “Just tell me. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not that,” you groan into the hardwood before lifting your head. “It’s worse. He’s asking me on a date.”
“WHAT?!” Deuce practically screams. “He’s totally playing you! Or else he’s gonna bring you up a mountain and we’ll never find your body! Tell him no!”
“Yeah, I know,” you sigh. “Okay.”
Jade, I'm gonna have to reject your rejection of my rejection. Sorry for bothering you. Have a good summer break 👍
“Done,” you update. “I think he’s literally in the ocean so he’s probably gonna leave me on sent—oh Sevens he read it!”
Deuce leaps across the room to see your screen.
“Oh fuck, he’s typing!” you shriek, causing your friend to glance around warily and Grim to flip over in his sleep. “Oh shit, oh fuck.”
You shove your phone into Deuce’s hands. “W-What? What do you want me to do?” he sputters.
“Just—! If he sends something bad,” you instruct, “don't tell me what it is, just block him.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
You wait in charged silence for what feels like an eternity. Then:
“Prefect?” Deuce treads carefully.
“…what.”
“What counts as ‘bad’?” And slowly, he turns the screen toward you.
It’s a single sentence.
Even if I want to date you as well?
Yeah, that's bad.
Really bad.
Your first date is at a summer fair in a coastal town of the Kingdom of Roses.
You try to bail on Jade, really, you do! Or well, you try to convince yourself to bail on him.
He’s taking advantage of your naïveté for his amusement, whispers your brain as you agree on a time and place.
Tell him you don’t like sleazy schemers like him, it advises while you thoughtfully pick out your cutest outfit.
Say you got food poisoning and can’t meet him; the thought rattles through your mind on the 1-hour bus ride to the date spot.
Even as you arrive at your destination, your self-preservation endures. Even at the sight of Jade in a casual t-shirt and jeans, checking his phone for messages from you, It’s not too late to turn around!
Unfortunately though, your heart has been a whole lot louder than your mind lately. That fact becomes especially clear when Jade spots you: his eyes gain a twinkle to them as they meet yours, effectively shutting down every blaring alarm in your head.
“Hello, Prefect. You look lovely.”
“Um, thanks,” you respond choppily. “So do you.”
And because you’re in the palm of his hand and he knows it, Jade holds out said palm for you to take. “Shall we?”
It’s your Cinderella moment; of course you take it. If you’re this deep into a bad decision, you might as well go all in and enjoy yourself before the clock strikes twelve.
The date is… really nice.
You make pleasant conversation. About your hobbies, about your summer plans, about the shenanigans of the past school year. You tell him about the summer job you got to earn your keep at Deuce’s, and Jade tells you about the mesocosm he’d made with flora from Sage’s Island. He’s voluble when it comes to his interests, and you’re equally receptive when your guard is down. Together, you’re peak yappers.
“Are you hungry?” Jade asks when you (try to) subtly eye the food stalls.
You chuckle bashfully. “Just a little. It smells really good.”
“Good. I’m quite hungry myself,” he replies. “If you don’t mind finding us a seat, I’ll be back in a moment.”
And so you plop yourself down at a clean table for two, and wait for your date to return. With little else to do, you pull out your phone for the first time since meeting up. The notifications you’re met with—both the nature and the quantity—give you whiplash.
96 missed calls, 114 texts from Deuce, 201 from Ace, 1049 from your first-year group chat and counting. All spread across the past two hours, all with the gist of: ‘ARE YOU STILL ALIVE???’
You simply open your camera app, stick out your tongue and shut your eyes in a play-dead face, and snap a selfie. Into the group chat it goes!
baymax!: Prefect! Hi!
ass: oh tahnk sevens he hasnt killed them yet
doos: Are you in danger????? Do you need help????????
🍎: damn i lowk thought deuce was lying about you going out with jade lmao
You: no deuce i’m chilling dw he’s actually super sweet
got that DAWG in him: You don’t know what he’s thinking. Call us if you feel something’s off
“WAKASAMAAA”: DO NOT let him take you to a secondary location.
You: guys i’m fine lol
[ass started a video call]
You: bruh what do you want
ass: just pick up dude
ass: gotta make sure
When you do pick up, everyone’s already there. “Hiii~” you greet.
Your friends collectively sigh in relief. And then they start drilling you with questions.
“WHY???”
“Did he make you sign an NDA? Or some other life-binding contract?”
“He hasn’t poisoned you or anything, right? Don’t eat anything he gives you!”
“Guys, it’s fine,” you laugh. “He’s getting us food now.”
“Don’t let your guard down! That’s how he’ll get you.”
“Oh Sevens, they’re cooked. He’s stringing them along.”
“You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” you sigh. “It’s just one date, guys. We’re not dating.”
“Is that so?” Jade’s voice croons from behind you. You scream. Your friends scream. Jade chuckles, laying out a feast-worthy spread of street food onto the table.
Your stomach drops at the sheer amount of stuff he bought. “Jade—this is so much. How much did this cost?”
“It’s my treat,” he assures you quietly, while your friends yell at you through the screen not to fall into his loan shark trap. “Don’t worry about it.”
“PASS US TO THE EEL,” Ace articulates loudly, but Jade gently takes the phone from your hand himself. “Listen here, Leech,” the redhead threatens. “If you do anything to the Prefect—”
“You’ll be sleeping with the fishes,” Deuce finishes, “and not literally.”
“Of course,” Jade smiles politely, and you groan in pure mortification. “Rest assured that I have no ill intentions with the Prefect. I’ll do nothing against their will.”
“That means nothing! It’s you, so they’re gonna be willing either way!”
“ACE!” you scold, snatching your phone back from Jade. “Appreciate the concern guys, but I’m fine. BYE.” You hang up and bury your face in your hands, quietly screaming. Jade laughs, whether at your friends’ passion or your mortification or both, you’re not 100% sure.
“Your friends care very deeply about you,” he giggles, finally taking the seat across from you.
“Yeah. Um, just ignore everything they said. They’re really spirited,” you plead. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
“No need to apologize,” Jade reassures you. “I find it very endearing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
A particularly loud growl cuts you off before you can refute him again. From a stomach. Your stomach.
“Please, dig in,” Jade invites, unfazed. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
Despite everything, your embarrassment quickly dissipates as you two work through the buffet, exchanging reviews for each dish as you go. Even when you’ve eaten your fill, Jade is still ravenous. It’s impressive how a cute boy like him can have such a boundless appetite and daintily pat his mouth with a napkin like he didn’t just effortlessly Kirby-inhale three times as much as you did.
It’s annoyingly charming.
Bellies full, you slip back into easy conversation, and before you know it, the sun has nearly fully set. Lingering copper sunlight skips across the rippling surface of the sea, tinting the town with warmth (as if your rose-tinted glasses weren’t enough).
“The last bus back to Clock Town leaves in 40 minutes,” Jade alerts you. “Would you like to check out the rest of the stalls before we part ways?”
“Sure, let’s do that!” You slip your hand into the crook of Jade’s elbow as he offers it, the gentleman. “We still haven’t seen the vendors or the game stalls.”
You browse the pop-up vendors selling magical trinkets, handmade charms, jewellery, all sorts of wares, but nothing catches your eye nor Jade’s. And as you walk through the area of game stalls, you begin to think that you might have the same luck here, too.
Except a gasp from Jade stops you in your tracks. Like you, he’s equally frozen to the spot, but his gaze is trained on one particular game stall: what looks to be… Dance Dance Revolution? Well, to be more specific, it’s not the game that entrances him, but the prize.
It’s a jumbo mushroom plush. Like, you-sized-level jumbo.
“Wanna try?” you ask him.
It takes a moment for Jade to come back to his senses. “Ah, no, no need.” But the stiffness in his posture betrays his reluctance.
“C’mon,” you coax, tapping your fingers on his elbow. “Let’s do it.”
Unfortunately for Jade, his two years of experience with legs never prepared him for the impossible gauntlet that is Dance Dance Revolution. Five seconds into the game, it becomes clear to everyone that Jade’s dream of winning the mushroom is nothing more than that: a mere fantasy.
Well, not if you can help it. The second he steps off the platform, you’re up. Failure is not a possibility, let alone an option.
Your legs move unlike ever before. Even as you’d run for your life from overblot monsters, your legs never had this speed. Even as you were training for your VDC audition, your legs never had this level of coordination and precision. The omnipotent Spirit of Dance Dance Revolution has possessed your body.
And so, naturally, you win the game. The stall owner’s jaw is dropped, the passersby are applauding, and your date stares at you with so much wonder that you chuckle a little.
Jade is so adorably awestruck when you pass the mushroom to him, you almost forget how bad of an idea he is. Well, either way, at the moment, he’s perfectly harmless with both his arms wrapped around the giant stuffed stalk.
“Thank you,” he whispers, more tenderly than you’d ever thought possible for him.
“It’s my pleasure. You’re the one who bought me an all-you-can-eat buffet earlier, anyways.”
“Fufufu, I’d told you it was my treat,” he hums. “There was no need to repay me.”
“It’s alright, I’d rather not leave with debt anyways.” You do, after all, know that being indebted to the trio from Octavinelle is bad news, regardless of how sweet Jade seems. “Speaking of, my bus leaves in 10 minutes, so I should probably get going.”
“I’ll walk you to the bus stop, then.”
And so, as your bus approaches in the distance, your Cinderella moment comes to a close. Both of you got this date out of your systems, so now Jade’ll find you boring and leave you alone, and now you can die knowing what it’s like to go on a date with Jade Leech. All’s well that ends well, right?
Except, you find yourself thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad to miss your bus if it meant spending a little more time with Jade. The next bus comes at 6 in the morning; you know that would be a seriously bad idea. But you also think that if Jade asked you to, you’d still do it.
So in a last-ditch attempt to save your soul, you ask again, “Can you reject me now?”
He laughs. “No.”
“Hm. Worth a shot.”
“Instead, actually…” Jade starts, his hold tightening around the mushroom, “would you be interested in doing this again sometime?”
Synopsis: You noticed that Floyd doesn't call you Shrimpy anymore.
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Floyd Leech x Reader
The first time Floyd called you by your name, it had given you whiplash. Part of it was because you had never heard the tall eel-mer say your name before, much less scream it from across the courtyard. It felt oddly natural, the way it escaped his lips in that cheery way he always spoke.
But the other part was because he had practically bulldozed through you and your group of friends to scoop you in his arms, eliciting panicked yelps and bewildered expressions from everyone—including Ace, who had recovered the fastest and carried a sort of subdued smile, almost as if this was the last time he’ll ever see you again. You couldn’t hold back cursing at him when Floyd carried you away with a maniacal cackle.
The fact that Floyd didn’t call you by his sea life-themed nickname had quickly disappeared from your mind. No, you were too busy laughing as the eel had nearly face-planted rounding a corner too fast.
The second time Floyd called you by your name, you were still taken aback. When Floyd had said it this time around, you were on your way to your first period alone as Grim was forced to take an early morning remedial lesson with Professor Trein. The mer had scared you by suddenly draping his much bigger form over your body, nearly making you crumple under his weight with a strangled yelp all while Jade stood by his side with an amused smile. You barely had a chance to shoot the vice-housewarden a glare when the taller twin unceremoniously dumped a lunchbox bundled in a cute eel cloth in your shaky arms.
“Here, Jade made a bunch of mushroom dishes, but I don’t wanna eat it,” He explained with a disgusted grimace upon seeing your confused appearance. Jade let out a chuckle, raising a curved finger to his lips to hide his sharpened teeth.
“This past excursion was rather bountiful,” The eel visibly preened. He must’ve noticed the wariness in your stare cause Jade simply placed a hand on his chest with a grin that was a little too wide for your liking. “Do not worry. There isn’t anything too harmful, but do let me know if you experience any side effects,”
“You’ll eat it all up, won’t you?” The way Floyd spoke made it sound like it was less of a question and more of a demand, but you were too focused on how he said your name once more. It easily slipped in at the end, where his usual “Shrimpy” would’ve been in that sunny tone that stirred something inside of you.
And judging by Jade’s countenance, he noticed the change too. Despite him still carrying a perfectly polite expression on his face, there was a noticeable widening of his eyes and sudden stillness that told you he was just as stunned as you were. However, it disappeared shortly afterwards and his lips stretched wider into something much sharper that sent chills down your spine. But before you could comment on it, Floyd had dragged Jade away with a dazzling smile and an enthusiastic wave over his shoulder.
The third time Floyd called you by your name, you were determined to ask about it. It was unfortunately one of the times where the eel had swooped in and deemed that if he was going to be stuck at Mostro Lounge, then you were going to be there too.
Floyd was oddly compliant working that day, perhaps in one of his favorable good moods. He had sat you in a booth and walked away into the kitchen for several minutes. When you had started to question if you had been abandoned or not, Floyd had returned with a rather scrumptious looking dish. He set it before you with a flourish of his hands and expectant glimmer in his gaze that practically insisted you to take a bite. So when you did, Floyd’s already happy demeanor grew brighter. He had practically crooned your name as he leaned down to nuzzle the crown of your head.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” You began after swallowing your bite, your eyes shooting upwards. Floyd hummed in response, the vibrations rumbled nicely against you, but you ignored it in favor of finally getting an answer to your burning question. “Why did you start using my name instead of Shrimpy?”
“Huh?” Floyd had pulled back with a curious blink. The moray eel stared at you for a moment, and there was something flickering in his dual-colored hues before a wide grin broke out across his face. With a barking laugh, Floyd reached out to pat your head, akin to petting a dog for doing something cute. “‘Cause that’s your name, duh! You’re so silly!”
And then he walked away, effectively ending the conversation without a second thought. Unfortunately for you, Floyd’s response had very much not answered your question—Though it was a pretty standard Floyd reply if you had ever heard of one.
So with a long sigh, you had returned to your meal, shoving another spoonful into your mouth. As you chewed, you noticed Jade approaching your table with a colorful fizzy drink in hand. The eel nodded politely at you as he set down the glass within your reach.
“Here you go, prefect,” Jade said smoothly with a smile that had an ominous tinge to it. The sight had you scooting further away from the brother, but Jade took a step forward in tandem with your movement. “You know, Floyd has always given people his endearing nicknames, ever since we were young elvers. When we first met Azul, he had dubbed him ‘Octy’,”
“But he doesn’t call him that anymore,” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion while you peered up at the tall eel-mer. His predatory leer had long honed in on you, his golden eye seemingly gleamed underneath the lounge’s violet and blue lights.
“No, he doesn’t,”
“Why?”
“In Floyd’s words, “Azul is Azul”. Thus, there is no need for a nickname for him,” He responded, an amused air radiating around him. “Perhaps to him, you’re just you,”
“What does that mean?” You groaned, falling back into your seat with a huff. As always, Jade was acting both cryptic and smug—a wicked combination that could only belong to the cunning Leech. And it seemed to be at your expense, judging by the chuckle that he released; one that he wanted you to know he was laughing at you.
“Though you do end up doing incredibly idiotic things at times—” Jade started, ignoring your indignant sputtering. “I would like to think you, yourself, aren’t so stupid,”
“That’s not exactly a compliment, Jade,” You said, dryly. Jade’s smile spanned across his face.
“I never said it was,” Jade said, pleasantly. Your frown deepened at his words, but perhaps he finally took pity on your poor, unfortunate soul because his gloved hand came to rest on your shoulder. “My dear brother tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. I suggest you take the time to observe it,”
There was a particular knowing look in his eyes that had you nodding, taking his advice to heart.
The fourth time Floyd called you by name, it was during one of his bad moods. Azul was the one that called you. Apparently, it was a particularly bad day for Floyd, though the housewarden didn’t go into too much detail.
Why did he call you? That you couldn’t say, but you still stood up from your ramshackle couch, told Grim you’d be back, and made your way to Octavinelle. You breezed past the Mostro Lounge and headed straight to the dorm’s pool. After knocking and not receiving a response, you entered the room.
The lights were dimmed, but it was just enough for you to make your way to the pool’s edge. You slipped off your shoes and socks and dipped your feet into the cool waters, watching the ripples disturbed the surface. The pool was dark and inky, almost mirroring the bottom of the Coral Sea. You couldn’t make out anything in the murky depths, but you knew you weren’t alone.
“Hello…?” You called out, yet nothing happened for a handful of seconds. Your voice echoed off the tiled walls and there was a solemn silence that hung instead.
Then there was a little ripple that broke the calm waters. It was a little away from you, but you noticed strands of teal hair and Floyd’s golden and olive gray hues emerging from the depths. Even with his face scrunched in a nasty scowl, he was still breathtakingly beautiful in his merform.
“Go away,” Floyd growled, the sound very unlike how it usually was. Instead of it being high and lilting, it was low and full of barely restrained anger. “Not in the mood, and I don’t wanna take it out on ya,”
In spite of his foul mood, the way he spoke your name was surprisingly kind, almost as if he didn’t want to taint your name. And that was enough to have your heart stuttering in your chest and Jade’s words echoing in your head.
Floyd truly did wear his heart on his sleeve.
“Well, I don’t want to leave,” You spoke softly, never once looking away from him. “We don’t have to do anything, but I’d like to sit here with you,”
For a few moments, Floyd was eerily still, just staring straight into your eyes. Whatever he found in your gaze had his scowl softening, and he sank back into the pool. Not a beat later did Floyd’s long arms emerge from the water and coiled around your waist. The eel slithered his upper body out of the pool shortly afterwards, his fins fluttering as he rested his head on your lap. He was dripping water onto your clothes, but you didn’t mind.
Instead, you raised your hand to rake your fingernails against his scalp, displacing his damp strands. There was a low hum that came from him and the tight tension built into Floyd’s body slowly ebbed away. You don’t know how long you sat there in silence, giving Floyd head rubs. With how even his breath was and how slack his form became, you would’ve assumed he had fallen asleep if it weren’t for his unblinking eyes staring up at you.
“You’re too nice,” Floyd had broken the silence with a steady tone and a squeeze of your waist. His golden eye glowed rather enchantingly, capturing your attention like prey to an anglerfish’s lure. “Someone’s gonna take advantage of ya,”
“Maybe,” You hummed in response while your hand drifted down to cup his face. Your thumb ghosted the facial markings on his cheek that smoothed over his shimmering scales, earning another charming hum from him. “But you wouldn’t let them, right?”
Finally, Floyd blinked. Then he laughed. It wasn’t sharp or biting—No, it was high-pitched and breathy, the same, familiar way that told you he found something incredibly amusing. And it was the same one that made everything else disappear and cause your face to break out into a smile.
Slowly, his laughter softened into tiny chuckles. Floyd pulled himself further out of the water to nuzzle against your stomach. His arms tightened more around your waist, staying perfectly firm and not overly tight.
“Nah, I’d bite them if they tried,” He replied and tilted his head upwards. The mer gnashed his pointy teeth together, making an exaggerated biting motion that had you giggling at the sight with a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.
And you whole-heartedly believed him. After all, how could you not when he said it with such a sweet and honest gaze?
So, the fifth time Floyd called you by your name, it had all clicked. Classes had just released for the day, and you were walking down the hall by yourself. Deuce had plans to meet up with Cater to help fix an amp for the Pop Music Club, Ace left to participate in a croquet tournament at Riddle’s behest, and Grim had bolted to the cafeteria for an afternoon snack.
As you had no real plans, aside from some homework sheets that were due in a few days, you were in no rush to get back to the Ramshackle dorm. So you were okay with clinging to the side of the hallway, standing next to one of the many open windows as other students left their classes and made their way to club rooms or the Hall of Mirrors. The hallway was rather crowded, and you were more than happy to not get squished in between the numerous bodies.
Among the sea of students, you spotted a flash of teal that stood much taller than most of the student body. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you noticed the laid-back expression on Floyd’s face. His eyes drifted across the hall lazily before landing on you off to the side. There was a noticeable shift in his demeanor, and he physically perked up once your eyes connected.
He yelled your name so loudly, startling the nearby students around him. To many, it would’ve been terrifying watching the tall moray eel make a bee-line towards them, but you rather enjoyed it. In spite of the fearful students scampering to get out of his way, you would say Floyd looked downright endearing.
And in that moment, watching Floyd with his giddy grin and outstretched arms, everything had suddenly fallen into place. It was by all means a usual sight, yet something just clicked for you. The reason why he called you by your name suddenly made sense, and you could feel your adoration towards him nearly bursting at the seams.
So, as he was a few feet from you, you extended your arms to the sides, fully ready for the incoming hug.
“Floyd!” His name left your lips in the manner yours did from his: Natural, sunny, and kind. And you can see that something tender shifted heterochromatic hues before he scooped you into his arms. His hold was unyielding yet wholly him as he practically swung you around, making the hallway and nearby students turn into streaks of colors. But you didn’t mind at all.
Because to you, Floyd was Floyd, and that was all you needed.
SUMMARY: you were just trying to get some food when you are suddenly faced with a child who is freezing the cafeteria. but the most surprising thing was that he called you mother and has an undeniable resemblance to both yourself and malleus.
PAIRING: malleus draconia x reader
WARNINGS: biological children are implied and the usage of mother
It was time you put your foot down and stop your food from being stolen. Well, you didn't really put your foot down. You just told your friends that you would eat later in the cafeteria when they all went. It was a drastic measure, but you couldn't continue living like that.
Every time you, Deuce, Ace, and Grim ate together, you never got nearly enough food in your stomach, because Ace and Grim seemed to believe that your food was also their food.
So now you were on your way to have lunch on your own. Hopefully, someone you knew is also still there. Otherwise, it will be super awkward to sit at a table with a bunch of strangers. It will make you self-conscious of how you eat...
But it seems you didn't need to worry about eating right now.
A group of students came frantically running from the cafeteria, nearly knocking you over in the process. You barely got out of the way in time by stepping between two statues in the hallway.
One of your fellow students seemed to have the same idea, because he squeezed himself beside you, so he could catch his breath for a moment.
"What is going on? Why is everyone running?" you asked him, seizing the opportunity to get answers without needing to possibly get involved in the chaos.
The unknown student took a few heavy breaths before answering. "An attack! Someone is freezing the cafeteria. I think some students even got frozen."
"What?" You were in disbelief that it was really that bad. "Are you sure it's not just a prank from a few mischievous students or ghosts?"
"I know what I saw. That definitely wasn't a prank!" the student said, clearly offended you’d even suggest it.
You turned to the entrance of the cafeteria when you felt the temperature in the hallway drop. You couldn't see anything from your place. But you could feel the pressure of magic in the air. It felt powerful. So it must be true what the student said. But there were only a handful of things that could charge the air with this amount of magic.
"Was it an Overblot?" you asked the student, now sharing his panic.
"I don't know. Do you think I stayed long enough to check?" he snapped at you, before his voice returned to a more civilized tone. "I don't think I saw blot ink or a phantom anywhere... But does it even matter? We should get outta here and let someone else deal with whatever is in the cafeteria."
The student didn't wait for you and instead sprinted off. You wanted to follow, but stopped when you suddenly heard what sounded like the hysterical cry of a child.
Your breath hitched as the temperature dipped again, cold nipping at your cheeks and frosting the edges of the hallway tiles. The crack of ice spreading echoed faintly from the cafeteria doors. And then that cry came again.
Who would bring a child to Night Raven College? And why would they be alone?
The impulse to run warred with your instincts. But something about the sound rooted you in place. A chill that had nothing to do with ice crept up your spine.
So once again, throwing any sense of self-preservation out the window, you decided to investigate the cafeteria.
As you approached the entrance, a thin layer of ice curled and crept across the floor beneath your feet. The temperature was dropping as if the air itself recoiled with sadness.
And then you saw it.
The cafeteria doors were open, hanging slightly ajar, frost spiderwebbing from their hinges. The cafeteria was a frozen winter scene. Tables were rimmed with rime. Plates of forgotten lunches sat frozen mid-bite. Students who hadn’t escaped in time were partially encased in thick magical ice. Thankfully, it didn't seem like they were injured. They are just trapped.
And in the center of it all, curled up and trembling within a growing circle of frost, was a boy.
He couldn’t have been older than five or six. His hands covered his face as sobs wracked his tiny frame. You were struck by the sight of such a young child in this place. A child who seemed so out of place amidst the suffering he unintentionally caused.
The ice creeped outward with each of his hiccupping sobs, the magic surging with raw, unchecked emotion. His hair shared the same color as yours. Small horns peeked out from beneath the tousled locks. They were curved, and unmistakably draconic.
Your breath hitched.
Horns.
The resemblance to Malleus was impossible to ignore. Not just the horns, but also the gentle curve of the boy’s brow, and the elegant bone structure of his tear-stained face. But there was something in his eyes, when he finally looked up at you. They were wide, watery, and impossibly green. But lacking the sharp edge Malleus would have had. The boy's eyes were softer and his nose cute. That hit deeper.
Not like Malleus. Like... you.
You looked at the boy in silence for a few moments, not sure what to say. "Eh... Are you hurt?" you asked eventually your tone of voice awkward, as you tried to smile reassuringly at him.
The boy's big, round eyes were staring at you. He blinked a few times. "M-mother...?"
Huh?
Before you could ask or clarify anything, the boy ran toward you and launched himself into your arms. His tiny frame seemed to hide an impossible strength, because you felt like he would actually snap your spine if he hugged you any tighter. "Mother!!"
You were as frozen in place as the unfortunate students, who didn't get away in time. You didn't know how to handle this situation. You were pretty sure you didn't spawn a child in your time in Twisted Wonderland. The only thing coming close to a child you took care of was your ever-hungry cat-weasel companion. Certainly not a real breathing kid.
Despite your inexperience with children, you could tell that explaining to this traumatized, and very much powerful little boy, that you can't be his mother, wasn't a smart idea. So you just told yourself that he just called every woman 'mother'. That's something children do, right?
You patted the boys back in hopes his crushing grip on you would loosen at least a little. "There, there. Everything is fine."
Well, actually, nothing was fine, but you also needed the reassurance of your own words.
You gently pried his arms away enough to kneel down in front of him. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
"Everything was different and strange. Not like home. I was here, and there were so many people and-" His words were interrupted by a wrenching sob. "I was scared, and I didn’t mean to! I just wanted you, but-b-but you weren’t there, and then everyone started running and they yelled at me, and, and-"
As the coldness in the air heightens again, you rub the boy's shoulders gently, despite feeling slightly panicked that he might freeze the entire school. "It's fine. It's fine. You were just scared. No one will get angry with you," you smiled at him. "Do you maybe know a way to fix this?"
He shook his head. "No. Father always does."
"Well, it's not that important anyway. The Headmage will figure something out... Probably," you say when you saw his face twisting with guilt. Although you could feel the stare of a frozen student nearby, who definitely does not agree with you.
The boy nodded at your words.
You paused. You didn’t even know his name. Just calling him 'boy' is certainly weird. "Say, do you remember your name?"
He looked at you in silence before suddenly beginning to cry again, leaving you very confused. "Why are you acting like you don’t know me? I don’t like this game!"
Someone seemed to be sensitive. While you had no experiments with children, Grim certainly taught you how to deal with sudden mood swings and tantrums. Although using tuna as a distraction probably won't work.
"But how can I be sure you are the real you and not a spy, if you won't tell me the right answer?" you replied playfully, poking his stomach. "So? What's your name?"
He giggled when you poked him and stopped crying. "You are being silly, Mother," he said. "My name is Maledor, of course!"
You nodded, as if you knew that as well. Hoping that he didn't turn the tables on you to test you, and said the wrong name. But certainly a child wouldn't do that, right?
"Aha! Maledor. That’s a perfectly real name. You’re clear. No spy here."
You think about what you should do next. Seeing that no help or rescue had come in all this time, you could assume that none of the students who got away actually told the staff. You shouldn’t be surprised by that. After all, this was a school full of self-centered and mischievous students.
You couldn’t leave Maledor alone. And you had little faith that going to Crowley for help would do anything. He would end up dumping the work on you anyway, so you might as well search for a solution on your own, before Ramshackle gets a new member.
By Maledor's pointy ears and little horns, it wasn’t hard to tell that he must be a fae. So, going to Diasomnia is probably the best course of action. Maybe someone there knew who this little boy belonged to. And maybe Malleus or Lilia can defreeze the cafeteria.
You took Maledor by the hand as you led him to the Diasomnia Dorm. Every so often, his grip would tighten, like he was making sure you wouldn’t suddenly disappear. As soon as you went through the mirror and arrived on the bridge that led to the castle, which was the dorm, you could feel Maledor visibly relaxing.
"This is better! I like it here. It looks like home," he said with a cheerful voice. Seemed like you did good by bringing him here.
Right when you were about to enter the dorm, Sebek suddenly crossed your path. His sharp eyes fell upon Maledor. "Human! Why do you have a fae child with you?!" he demanded. Then somehow jumped to: "Have you kidnapped him?! Hand over the child at once!"
"When do you think I kidnapped a magical fae child, from its magical parents?" you shot back. "Do you think I walked to Briar Valley and back in an afternoon?"
Sebek didn’t listen to your words to hung up on the idea that you kidnapped a child. Like that wasn’t something faes usually did to humans, right?
"I said hand over the child!" he shouted, before trying to grab Maledor.
You didn’t know why, but a sudden protective streak came over you, and you stepped in front of Maledor, blocking Sebeks' hand. "Don’t just grab a child!"
Sebek recoiled, shock flickering across his face at your boldness. "Are you impeding one of Lord Malleus' loyal knights, human?"
Sebek tried to grab Maledor again, not listening to you. Maledor, on the other hand, obviously did not want to be grabbed by Sebek and was hiding further behind you, grabbing your jacket. "Mother, I don’t want to go…!"
When Maledor said that, Sebek paused. "M-Mother..?" he repeated, shocked. For a second, you think Sebek might actually let you explain the situation, but he immediately began shouting again. "How dare you steal away a fae child and then confuse it so much?! What wicked human trickery have you used?!"
You grit your teeth, trying hard not to let Sebek's ear-splitting accusations break your patience or your eardrums. "I didn’t do anything to him! And can you not yell? You’re scaring him." You glance at Maledor, who is now peeking nervously from behind your leg, clutching your jacket tightly.
Sebek falters only a split-second before putting himself between you and the entryway. This standoff would be comical if it weren’t so tense. "I will not allow a potential kidnapper entrance to Prince Malleus’s domain!"
"Look, I didn’t kidnap anyone," you said. "He appeared in the cafeteria, scared, and accidentally froze half the room. I thought someone in Diasomnia might recognize him or help fix the mess."
Sebek’s eyes darted from you to Maledor and back. "You expect me to take the word of a human? Of Night Raven’s resident troublemaker?"
Sebek's next rant was kept short when suddenly Lilia appeared swinging between the two of you. You screamed. Then Sebek screamed. And Maledor giggled.
Lilia landed lightly between you and Sebek, his eyes glinting mischievously as always, although there was a subtle alertness there. "My, my. Such excitement at the gates! Am I crashing a secret meeting?" he laughed.
You tried to catch your breath. How did Lilia always manage to appear exactly when you least expected it? "Lilia! Don’t sneak up like that," you gasped, half-laughing but mostly frazzled.
Sebek, who was embarrassed for also screaming, now tried to act as if he didn’t. "L-Lilia! The Prefect has procured a fae child and refuses to answer for it!"
"Oh? My, what an adorable little visitor we have…" Lilia said, studying Maledor’s face with recognition. He seemed to be delighted by Maledor.
"Uncle Lilia!" Maledor said, before coming out from behind you.
"Uncle?" you repeated, flabbergasted as you watched Maledor and Lilia interact as if they were long-lost family. "Do you know Maledor, Lilia?"
Lilia’s smile widened, a spark of mischief glittering in his eyes as he knelt down to Maledor’s level. "Of course I know this one," he said. "It’s been some time since we’ve had such a precious visitor from, shall we say, afar."
Maledor’s worry seemed to melt under Lilia’s reassurance. "Uncle Lilia, where’s Father?" he sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. "Everything’s scary and cold."
You blinked, looking between the two of them, feeling very much like you’d accidentally walked into someone else’s family reunion in the middle of things. "Wait, you really do know him?" you asked Lilia, carefully keeping your voice level.
Meanwhile, Sebek had gone uncharacteristically quiet, torn between his usual outrage and a suspicion that something much bigger than an abduction was happening.
Lilia stood up. His gaze softened as he addressed Maledor. "Don’t worry, Maledor. Your father is very busy today, as are all great kings-in-training. Why don’t you stay with your-" Lilia’s eyes danced over to you, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if privately amused by some secret. "beloved caretaker for now? I’m sure they’ll keep you safe."
Sebek straightened, suspicion not quite dispelled. "Are you certain, Sir, that the Prefect has not enchanted this child into believing-"
"Sebek," Lilia interjected. "Surely you would not accuse our dear Prefect of such underhanded magic?"
Sebek’s mouth opened and closed, before he replied. "I…I would never dare suggest you are incapable of seeing through such tricks, Sir! But this situation is most unusual. We must consider the safety of Prince Malleus. And yet the Prefect is still refusing to offer a proper explanation!"
Sebek puffed out his chest but glanced uneasily at Maledor, who peeked from behind you, still clutching your jacket. Despite his horns and emerald eyes, Maledor looked anything but menacing. Nevertheless, Sebek clung to the role of vigilant sentinel.
You took a deep breath, trying not to get annoyed. "I already told you that I found Maledor in the cafeteria, scared and alone. I don’t know anything else. And anyway, if he were out to get Malleus, freezing the cafeteria wouldn’t exactly be subtle, right? And who would send a child in the first place?"
Sebek seemed ready to continue his barrage of suspicions, but Lilia only chuckled. He bent down, gently patting Maledor’s shoulder while casting a reassuring glance your way. "I think what we all need right now is some warmth and a calm mind. The hallway is no place for important discussions or guests. Why not bring our little visitor and the prefect inside? Come, let’s have tea. We can sort out facts and fancies over something sweet, hm?"
Maledor’s eyes brightened at the mention of sweets. He nodded, tugging lightly at your sleeve as if afraid you’d vanish again.
All of you headed inside. When Lilia offered to brew the tea and bring some sweets, you immediately volunteered to do it instead. After all, the first rule to surviving a visit to Diasomnia was: Never eat or drink something Lilia made.
"I’ll handle the tea," you say quickly before Lilia’s hand can get anywhere near the kettle. Your voice is a bit brighter than usual, and you offer a smile to Lilia that’s ninety percent nerves and ten percent sincere gratitude.
"Oh, are you sure? I was hoping to try a new blend…" Lilia said.
"I insist," you reply, perhaps more quickly than you mean to. "It’s the least I can do after all the chaos."
After returning to the lounge room with the tea and sweets, you all sit down. Maledor is quick to take a seat beside you, while Lilia has to urge Sebek to sit down as well instead of standing guard by the windows.
Steam rose from the cups you carefully poured. Maledor watched you, swinging his little feet under the chair, his misery momentarily forgotten in anticipation of sweets.
As you sit down as well, Maledor asked. "Can I take a cookie, Mother?"
The repeated use of the title 'mother' still caught you off guard every time, as did Maledor asking you if he was allowed to eat a cookie. You nodded eventually. "Yeah, sure."
Maledor’s face lit up as you granted him permission. He snatched a cookie with both hands and promptly stuffed half of it into his mouth, crumbs dotting his cheeks as he beamed triumphantly.
"Say, Maledor," Lilia began, tone filled with curiosity. "it must have been quite an adventure to find yourself here, hm? Do you remember anything? Anything at all about how you arrived at the cafeteria, or where you were before?"
Maledor looked down, chewing his cookie with squirrel-like intensity. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he swung his legs and frowned in concentration. "I… I was in the castle. Not this one… my home. Father was teaching me magic because I wanted to be big! Like him. And then…There was this bright green light, all swirly. It was so pretty, but it got really loud and windy. I called for you." he looked up at you. "But I couldn’t find you or Father, and then I was here. It was scary. I didn’t like it. I just wanted to go home."
You picked up a napkin when you saw that Maledor had finished eating. You cleaned his chocolate-covered fingers and mouth. To which Maledor reacted with a 'Thank you, mother,' after you were done.
Sebek, in the meantime, asked. "Who is your father? Can you say his name?"
Maledor brightened, as if relieved to be asked something simple. "My Father is Malleus! Malleus Draconia."
You barely had time to process Maledor’s answer before the tea caught in your throat, a cough sputtering out of you in disbelief. You blinked hard, as if somehow the world would flicker and correct itself. Instead, the bright-eyed boy just looked up at you, awaiting your response with absolute trust.
Lilia’s eyes sparkled with a private, knowing delight, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched the chaos unfold with all the satisfaction of someone who had seen the punchline coming a mile away.
Sebek, on the other hand, was completely stunned. The rigid guard posture dissolved into total shock. His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut in a series of fishlike gasps. He gripped his teacup so tightly it threatened to snap in half. He blinked, then searched Maledor’s face. His gaze darted between the delicate, unmistakable horns and those deep, green eyes. For a second, you wondered if Sebek was about to faint. "Malleus… Draconia?" he finally choked out. "Impossible! The Young Master has no offspring! There must be a mistake. Some… imposter trickery!"
"Wait, wait," you managed, gesturing rapidly between Maledor and Sebek. "Hold on, Maledor. You said your father is Malleus Draconia. You mean, the Malleus? Diasomnia’s Malleus? Tall, horns, kind of brooding, makes storms when he’s in a mood: Malleus?"
Maledor blinked up at you. His head cocked with innocent confusion, as if he couldn’t comprehend why you were asking something so obvious. "Of course, Father is Malleus Draconia!" he said, the words sounding so simple, so certain, as if you’d just asked him whether he liked cookies. "You know that, Mother… Why are you pretending?"
You sat, frozen in your seat, Maledor’s certainty striking through you more powerfully than any ice he could have summoned. Your brain scrambled wildly for any logical explanation. Was this a trick? A dream? Did the world flip upside down when you weren’t looking?
"IMPOSSIBLE!" Sebek barked, jumping up so quickly his chair almost fell. "You must be mistaken! The Young Master does not have, could not have, a child without telling his loyal knights!" He pointed a finger at you. "And you, Prefect! What have you done to this child?!"
"I swear, I’m not lying!" you answered, finally finding your voice. "I didn’t do anything to Maledor. He called me mother from the start. Before I even knew his name!"
Sebek, torn between devotion and confusion, snapped. "This cannot be! The Young Master would never keep such secrets. And…" His mind worked frantically. "The time makes no sense! My Liege and the Prefect… you… are not even married!"
You flushed, mortified and indignant. "Excuse you! We’re not anything." You glanced at Maledor, lowering your voice. "Not like that. Just friends, really."
Lilia clapped his hands softly, his voice clear and sure in the commotion. "No need for dramatics. You know, Sebek, sometimes the wind brings secrets from times yet to come. Briar Valley holds many old mysteries, does it not?"
Sebek bristled, trying to regain composure. "Sir Lilia, with all respect, how can we trust-"
Lilia cut him off with a gentle but authoritative voice. "Sebek, look at the child." Lilia turned to Maledor. "You were frightened, weren’t you? Do you remember any enchantments or trickery? Did anyone put strange ideas in your head?"
Maledor shook his head. "No. I just wanted Mother. And Father." He glanced sidewise at you, hope flickering in his green eyes. "I’m not lying. I promise."
Lilia patted his shoulder. "Of course you’re not. Sometimes things happen that even us grown-ups do not immediately understand. Time, magic, fate. I think our little prince here is simply… lost between stories."
"But what does that mean, Lilia?" you asked for clarification, not being able to wrap your head around this situation. "Is Maledor truly Malleus... And my…" You didn't finish your sentence with 'child'. It just sounded too weird.
"Sometimes, the river of time chooses curious eddies," Lilia mused with a gentle smile. "A leaf from tomorrow might find itself drifting among the branches of today. If it’s not a trick, not a spell, and not a child’s tale, perhaps we must accept that sometimes, the world permits a riddle to live before its answer."
You stared, mouth poised between laughter and a plea for sanity. "Are you saying… he’s from the future?" The words felt ridiculous as they left your lips.
Lilia shrugged lightly. "Magic has never cared much for clocks or calendars. Wouldn’t be the first time something important arrived a little ahead of schedule."
While you were still trying to wrap your head around this, Sebek seemed to accept Lilias' words in a split second. "My Lieges…" Sebek’s voice faltered, then swelled with fervor. "My Liege's heir! Of course! There can be no other explanation befitting Prince Malleus’s unparalleled greatness! Only Prince Malleus, scion of the glorious Draconia line, could sire such a prodigy! Such strength, such majesty, even at such a young age. Freezing the entire cafeteria! Behold, the testament of our great lord’s power!"
"You are the proof of Prince Malleus’s supremacy. Even time itself cannot contain his legacy!" he gushed. "A scion born of unmatched power and noble heritage! To think, I am in the presence of my Liege's heir -his magnificent progeny!"
"Forgive me, young prince!" He dropped to one knee before Maledor, completely ignoring you now, and offered a bow so deep it was a miracle he didn’t hit his head on the floor. "Forgive me for doubting your identity for even a second. I, Sebek Zigvolt, am at your service, just like I am at your glorious father's service!"
Sebek’s 180-degree turn gave you mental whiplash. Two minutes ago, he was about to lock you up for kidnapping a child. And now he was praising Maledor as if he was the second coming of Jesus. And anyway, where was your praise? After all, if Maledor was yours and Malleus's child, you had also contributed half to this cute little boy.
No, on a second thought, you'd rather not be the subject of Sebek’s loud and lavish praise. You were still in denial about all of this. Honestly, you were just surprised by Sebek’s sudden turn. Like, wasn’t he super concerned that Malleus and you weren’t even married a second ago? As if Sebek thinks children could only be conceived if their parents really love each other and wish for one. He was so innocent.
"This must be announced at once! The other knights deserve to weep at this glory. Everyone in Diasomnia needs to know. No, the entire College must know. Briar Valley must be informed. And the Young Master!"
Sebek’s words left you even more mortified than the entire situation already did. You are vaguely wishing the frosted cafeteria had swallowed you whole. You couldn’t face Malleus right now. What were you supposed to say? You rather die than face that embarrassment.
"No! We can’t tell anyone! Especially not Malleus," you interrupted in a voice that could rival Sebeks, before clearing your throat and continuing in a normal voice. "What I mean is, how are we going to explain this? Like, no one is going to believe that a child just showed up from the future, right? They will think Malleus had a secret love child or something."
"I can’t keep the Young Master in the dark about his own flesh and blood. It is my knightly duty to inform him about everything that is happening in his absence!"
Sebek, as always, did not listen, and Lilia was just enjoying the drama for now. In a burst of desperation, you grabbed a cupcake and threw it across the table at Sebek. He stood there, utterly stunned. A thick glob of icing clung to his cheek and crumbs slided down his jacket. He blinked, still processing your audacious cupcake attack. Meanwhile, Maledor, not understanding anything, laughed at that.
"Seems like you can’t go to Malleus now. You wouldn’t stand before your Liege covered in icing, right?" you said, trying to buy time.
"H-How dare you assault one of Prince Malleus’s loyal knights with pastries, human!" he barked.
The feeling that you brought the situation under control immediately vanished when the door opened. There, calmly and tall, stood the regal figure of Malleus, as if the universe liked seeing your misery. Those sharp green eyes found you immediately and lingered for a breath before shifting to Maledor.
"Father!" Maledor’s cry rang bright and clear. His little legs scrambed down from the chair. He rushed to Malleus with unerring speed, arms stretched wide open.
Malleus knelt smoothly. His regal composure melting enough to open his arms and receive the child -his child- into a gentle embrace. "So it was you I sensed. A presence so like my own, yet unlike any I have felt before."
Heat flooded your face as the initial shock passed. Your first instinct was to bolt from sheer embarrassment. Somehow, you managed to find your voice. "You’re not surprised, Malleus?"
"Surprised?" he repeated "No, not at all. I recognized the resonance of my own magic the moment Maledor appeared." He regarded you calmly. "You seem greatly unsettled. Is it so shocking to you?"
"I mean, yeah! Everyone would be shocked," you replied honestly.
"You truly cannot feel it?" Malleus asekd. "Even now, the air shimmers with our blood intertwined. A melody only you and I could create."
You thought about his words for a moment. Putting it like that, you suppose you did feel something. Although definitely not as clear as Malleus did. "Still, shouldn’t we be more concerned?"
"Concern is natural. But you underestimate the strength of the Draconia blood. And your own as well. Our child would never be so easily lost to time without reason. He will return," Malleus said, voice absolute. "The magic that called him here is already unraveling."
"So the problem will fix itself?" you question. That sounded like better circumstances than most problems you have run into in Twisted Wonderland. "Everything will go back to normal soon?"
Malleus nodded. "Yes. This visit, while precious, is unintended. The magic that summoned him here is unstable and will not last much longer. The world has its ways of correcting itself."
Some of the tension in your chest loosened at his certainty.
Lilia, barely restraining a wide grin, chimed in. "It seems time itself favors your union, hmm?"
Your face went hot again, just as your flustered heart was about to calm down a little. "Y-You can’t just say something like that out of nowhere…!" you stuttered. Your voice sounded more like a nervous squeak.
"But it's a wonderful thing, isn't it?" Lilia replied. Beneath his light tone, you could sense the sincerity in his eyes. Like a guardian who is relieved to see his forsterling in good hands.
Malleus regarded Lilia for a moment, then turned back to you, his emerald gaze gentle but searching. "Does it trouble you?" he asked. "If such a future would come to pass would it be so unwelcome?"
Despite your flustered state it didn’t take long for you to shook your head. "No… It wouldn't be unwelcome."
Maledor, oblivious to the tension and simply happy to be near both his parents, studied your face. He shuffled over from Malleus’s embrace and returned to your side, hugging you tightly enough to drive the air from your lungs. "Your face is all red, Mother! When Sebek gets red he gets loud. When Mother gets red she gets quiet," he commented, which made you only more flustered. "I think ice cream makes everything better. Can we eat ice cream?"
You softly pinch Maledor's cheek. "I think someone already had enough sugar for a day with all the cookies and cupcakes."
Maledor’s smile faltered for half a second, his wide eyes shimmering with a betrayed kind of innocence that only a child could muster. Then, with all the cunning of someone who’d clearly inherited far too much of Malleus’s intelligence and dramatic tendencies, he turned slowly toward his father.
Malleus tilted his head. His expression was calm and unreadable. Maledor’s lip trembled just enough to be convincing. "Father..." he began, voice so heart-wrenchingly sweet it could’ve earned him ten free sundaes anywhere in Twisted Wonderland. "Mother said no to ice cream."
The underlying message was clear: Mother rejected me. Only you can right this cruel injustice, Father.
"A most tragic betrayal," Malleus said solemnly. "To be denied joy by one’s own mother. This is indeed a grievous matter."
"Are you siding with him?" you asked, eyes darting from dragon fae to dragon fae. "He’s a little sugar gremlin who just weaponized his cuteness!"
"I am merely acknowledging his diplomatic tact," Malleus replied with a perfectly neutral expression, though the slight twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. He patted Maledor’s hair, then gently guided him back to your side. "A future prince must know how to plead his case with grace and strategic flair."
"Don’t encourage him," you grumbled, though your lips tugged up in spite of yourself. This entire situation defied logic and physics, maybe even sanity, but somehow... it wasn't as terrifying as it first seemed, not with the way Malleus stood beside you like an unwavering anchor in a storm, and how Maledor leaned against you like he had always belonged there.
"He encourages me," Maledor beamed up at his father.
"I do," Malleus agreed without hesitation.
"I manipulate Mother."
"You do," Malleus affirmed with serene approval.
"You are literally both saying the scheme out loud while I’m right here!" you pointed out. "You’re not supposed to straight-up say it’s manipulation!"
"Don’t worry, Father. Mother always forgives you when you hug her from behind. You do that a lot in the future," Maledor said to comfort Malleus after seeing your grumpy reaction.
Your soul nearly left your body.
Malleus blinked. Then turned to look at you intensely.
You snapped your head toward the child in horror. "Maledor!"
"What?" he asked, blinking up at you with wide, guileless eyes. "It’s true. When you get all ‘grumpy-grumbly’ and tell Father to leave you alone, Father just hugs you from behind, really slow and gentle, and you get all red and mutter something like, 'You know I can’t stay mad at you.'"
"Slow and gentle, you say," Malleus repeated. His expression was thoughtful, as if he was memorizing every word Maledor said. "Hmm. So gentle physical affection dissolves your irritation. I will need to remember that approach."
"That is not the takeaway here!" you interrupted.
"I am merely collecting useful knowledge of what pleases my future consort," Malleus responded smoothly. With almost academic intrigue. "Maledor’s insights are quite enlightening."
Sebek’s complexion was caught somewhere between ghostly pale and tomato red. "Y-Young Prince! This is hardly appropriate information to share in a public setting!"
Maledor blinked at Sebek, completely unbothered. "But Sebek, you said it’s a knight’s duty to speak the truth and uphold honor. I’m just being helpful."
"Yes, but there are degrees of helpfulness...! Some truths are best kept private, especially when discussing the... the subtle... the-" Sebek finally broke eye contact and wheezed, "hugging techniques."
"I agree! We should just stop talking about this," you agreed, hoping the embarrassment would be over now, but then something came to your mind. "No, wait. It is only fair if you also share embarrassing things about Malle- Eh, your Father, Maledor."
Sebek, still recovering from the previous exchange, audibly gasped. "Y-young prince! The Young Master is above embarrassment!"
"No, he’s not," you said flatly.
"Well, Mother says it’s fair," Maledor chirped. "So. When you’re not around, Father gets really weird."
"Weird?" Malleus repeated. His tone remained level, but one graceful brow arched inquisitively.
"Mhmm. Sometimes he just stands in the hallway. Just... standing. Staring out a window. All dramatic and sad," Maledor said before adding brightly. "Oh, and when you come back, even if it’s just from the bathroom, he teleports to your side and says 'Ah, as I suspected, the world only feels whole in your presence again.'"
Malleus remained unshaken, which somehow made it worse. "There is no shame in expressing adoration," he said. "Is it so strange, to long for the presence of the one who stirs your soul?"
Somehow, your idea backfired on you. Not only was Malleus not the least bothered by Maledor's revelations, you are even more flustered now. You didn’t even know what to say, but thankfully Maledor filled the silence again.
"And one time. Mother kissed Father’s cheek right before a council meeting, and he smiled the whole time. The old scary ministers freaked out and thought Father was about to declare war because he never smiles like that during council."
"Alright, that's enough glimpses into the future!" you interrupted hastily, cutting off any further soul-exposing anecdotes. "Didn’t you say you wanted ice cream, Maledor?"
"Yes, ice cream!" Maledor shouted excitedly.
"If it pleases the young prince, I shall fetch the finest ice cream the college kitchens offer," Sebek declared utterly serious, though his face was still visibly red from the "inappropriate" things Maledor revealed.
Lilia, who looked like he was thriving in this chaos, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. "This might be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in a hundred years. And I fought a manticore while wearing a tutu once."
"...Why?" you couldn’t help asking.
"There was a wager. Long story." He winked.
You just accepted what Lilia said without further questions. In a room together with your future child, that just appeared out of thin air, Lilia might still be the biggest enigma.
You all find your seats at the table again. It didn’t take long for Sebek to arrive with the ice cream. Maledor’s eyes sparkled as he eyed the huge bowl full of brightly-colored ice cream that you placed in front of him. Despite his eagerness, he still waited quietly until you gave him permission to begin eating. Seated beside him, Malleus also seemed to enjoy his bowl of ice cream with quiet contentment. You had the suspicion that he also wanted one from the beginning.
As you also began eating your ice cream, you began to really process what was happening. Does this encounter mean that your future was now predestined? Does this mean you will stay in Twisted Wonderland and never find a way back home to your world? Will you become the consort of one of the most powerful mages in the whole world, reigning beside him? They were all worthy, existential questions, but one in particular rose above the rest in your mind.
"Wait. Isn’t it a thing that dragon faes hatch from eggs? So… does that mean I'm going to lay an egg someday? Or is this a seahorse type of situation, and Malleus will lay the egg?"
The room was silent for a moment, but before anyone could answer that very crucial question, Sebek raised his voice. "Seahorse? How dare you compare the Great Malleus Draconia with an unremarkable creature such as a seahorse?!"
While a new round of chaos broke out on the table, Silver probably just woke up wondering why Sebek never came to wake him up for his guard duty. And the frozen students are till waiting for help.
I have been a sheep caretaker for like two days and already I'm like. Wow. I get it.
I get why these were some of the earliest mammals to ever be domesticated. They look up to humans with this sort of dumb but all at once innocent and pure and trusting expression. They're happy to see you. They follow you around. They like to be rubbed under their chins. Maybe its just some latent Scottish highland shepherd DNA I still have in me but I look at my sheep charges and suddenly I see why the love of God for humanity is so often described as a shepherd and his sheep. I'd fight a wolf for these guys. I'd go way the Hell out of my way for them. I'd carry their young for miles on my own back.
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
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dededos
snowghoul
