Sunshine's Diary

part time artist and gamer, full time gf of deuce spade ♠️ SUNDEW AGENDA | idiot x idiot pfp: @skibidibabygirl 💙💛

[jils-things]

what if we fell in love while boogieing out huh!

initially i was gonna wait longer before i'd share this but uhh what the heck! i cannot wait! lol 🫪

so yeah. here's the new guy, charlie disco... has anyone played dead as disco yet? my bestie introduced it to me, incredibly good rhythm combat game. highly recommend it :) it's still in early access but it's that good for a work in progress!

he's so cool. and hot. that's all i can tell you really. also he's dead. as Disco. bam

[flxffyclvuds]

I think people should relearn the etiquette of "Don't like, don't read" and "you're not forced to engage"

Fanfic writers are writing for fun and shouldn't be taking the brunt of online hate for sharing what they wrote. People who can't keep themselves from being rude to others won't fix anything. In fact, they'll just complain about the lack of fics in the fandom.

What we need in a community is to uplift one another not tear someone up because they didn't write something that was your perfect cup of tea. You don't even need to comment anything! You have no obligation to do so.

"there's too much x, y and z, why can't people write a?"

Hmm, I don't know, maybe because fanfic writers write what they want? Maybe the people who're complaining should start writing the things you want to see more of? People aren't going to be at your beck and call because you want them too. It's so tiring to see this happen so often in fandom culture.

[willowas519]

STOP PUTTING YOUR OC UNDER “X READER”!!!!! I DONT WANT TO READ YOUR STINKY LOVE STORY, *I* WANT TO BE THE LOVE STORY!!!!

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[cozyepel]

Different version of me

⤷ In which you love all sides of Deuce

꒰ Background info: Some of the most precious memories of your childhood were of Deuce Spade. He was a kind and protective person. You were over the moon that Dylla (Deuce’s mom) was best friends with your mom. After all thats what brought you to Deuce. Things for the both of you were picture perfect, well until middle school hit. Deuce started to hang out with the wrong crowd and picked up fighting. And of course some of the people around tried to pick fights with you as well. That’s when Deuce started avoiding you at all costs. Was that his way of protecting you? ꒱

Tags: reader is a childhood friend, middle school Deuce mentioned, deuce x reader, Can be seen as romantic or platonic, might be ooc, slightly angsty (?) but fluffy

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♤୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Dylla was planning something. You knew it. You could tell from her sly grin as she frosted the donuts. “The others got the stall ready so now we just have to get there and bring these donuts,” She explained. “Mind putting them in the back of the truck for me?”

You nod, grabbing a stack of donut boxes. Dylla kept humming to herself and boxing the donuts away. “Hey, Mrs Dylla, what has you so cheerful today?” 

“Someone is coming to visit today for the white rabbit fest! You’re coming with me,” She beamed. 

You freeze, “I- I am?” 

She just happily nods and looks back at her work proudly. “Well that’s the last batch! Let’s get going. We need to see if our visitor is at the fest yet.” 

When you finally arrive at your stall, Dylla arranges the donuts in a beautiful display. Well all except for one box. “Could you carry this box? It’s for our visitor.” 

“Sure thing,” you replied. 

Next thing you know, Dylla is scanning the area and her face lights up as soon as she spots who she’s looking for. She gently grabbed your hand and took you with her. From afar you couldn’t really tell who she was so happy to find. But as soon as you laid eyes on him you flinched. 

It was Deuce Spade. Your best friend from childhood. The guy you thought you would never speak to again. But now there he was. Something about him was different. He no longer had bleached hair and went back to the natural color you had always loved. But as soon as everything was processed you panicked. 

He’s right here- and I’m right here! What if he gets upset that I’m here? I need to leave before he notices me. Those were the thoughts roaming in your head. And then in your panicked state you dropped the box of donuts. They splattered all over the floor catching Deuce's attention. 

“Y/N?” He gaped. 

“Deuce…” you mumbled, not daring to look up. 

“Based on both of your heart rates I can conclude that you’re both nervous to see each other." A bright blue haired boy spoke out. “I wonder why that could be.” 

Deuce flinched and began to stammer incomprehensible words and you remained staring at the splattered donuts. “Guys this is Y/N and that’s my mom.” 

Dylla waved, introducing herself. You slowly looked up and waved as well, still not saying a word. Dylla glanced at you, grinning as if this was the best thing that could ever happen to her. She then went on teasing Deuce and hearing the intro of his friends from school. 

They all seemed quite nice. They were nothing like the crowd that he talked to in middle school. This warmed your heart. He was with people that wouldn’t cause him trouble. You silently thanked Silver, Epel, Yuu, and Grim for entering his life. They could be there for him how you couldn’t be. Deuce had made that clear when he pushed you out of his life. 

You seemed to drown in your thoughts again without noticing until Dylla put a hand on your shoulder. “We’re leaving to get the boys changed up into costumes.” 

Huh? Had you really missed that much of the conversation? 

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

“Y/N, could you join Ortho and Deuce in going to the blastcycle shop?” 

You looked at Deuce then back to Dylla. The thought of him not wanting you there still consumed you. You guessed Dylla could see right through that as she gave you a reassuring smile. You take a deep breath. “Sure thing.” 

When arriving at the shop Deuce knocked on the door. The door started to open but was immediately flung shut. “Go away Deuce! You’ll only cause trouble,” The shopkeeper shouted from within the store. 

Deuce grimaced, looking down at the floor. Maybe then he could see your heart that had fallen with the shopkeeper's words. Maybe then he could see how much you still truly cared. 

“Shopkeeper it’s me, Y/N! I promise Deuce isn’t here to cause any problems. We’re here to help out a friend who needs a few things,” You explained. 

The door slowly opened. “You better be telling the truth Y/N!” 

You smiled brightly, “Thank you so much sir!” 

Ortho and Deuce looked around the shop while you sat in a chair waiting. “Oh I forgot to tell you but the last few parts for the blastcycle you're making came last night,” the shopkeeper noted.

Deuce’s face seemed to light up and all the nerves he carried momentarily vanished. “You’re building a blastcycle!?” 

You jumped a little bit hearing him speak. You truly couldn’t believe that he was talking to you. “Mhm, want to see?” 

Deuce eagerly nodded, following your lead. As soon as he caught sight of the blastcycle his eyes sparkled in awe. “It’s looking so cool! How long has this taken you?” 

You smiled, explaining every little detail of that process. He looked at you and his heart felt warm but something within him ached. This moment felt just like the ones you used to share before things went south. He loved seeing you this happy and that’s why he pushed you away. To protect that smile from ever being stained with sadness. But ever since he got his acceptance to Night Raven college he knew he had to fix his act. For his mom, for himself, and for you. So that he could be the kind of friend he wanted for you. And today he was going to show that to you, no matter how nervous he felt. 

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

“Don’t be shy, come on out!” Dylla ushered. 

Deuce slowly walked into view. He seemed so nervous and shy to be seen in his costume but everyone was so happy to see him. All his friends showered him with compliments and Dylla was happy to see her little boy in costume once more. 

You giggled softly, “Just like when we were little kids.” 

Deuce gaped, pink tint appearing on his face. He quickly looked away in hopes you wouldn’t notice how your words affected him. 

Dylla grinned at his reaction but quickly cleared her throat. “Okay, you guys go out and have fun. I’ll round you guys up for rush hour!” 

“Mrs. Dylla but I promised to help you out at the stall.” You protested. 

“You’ve already helped out more than enough. Don’t worry you’ll be helping during the rush. Plus, Deuce needs you.” 

Your face flushed a bright red, “O-okay!” 

For the next hour you felt something shift. Deuce paid for your food, tried to win you a bunch of prizes, and never once left your side, making small comments here and there. It was so odd to see the boy who once detached himself from you be this close again. 

Sure he talked to you back at the shop but you figured that’s because he loves blast cycles so much. But why is he doing all of this now? 

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

After the fest and all the events were over, here you were with Deuce at the beach alone. You both sat on the sand. Deuce appeared so nervous as he touched the sand. You began to let yourself sink into the silence when suddenly he spoke out.

“I’m sorry!” 

You gaped, “For what? I don’t understand…” 

“In middle school I- I kept you at arms length. I was cruel for avoiding you and leaving you without a single word! I was the worst possible kind of person. I got into fights all the time, I disappointed my mom, I skipped school, and I hurt you. I saw that you were slowly getting involved in my fights so I thought it was better to let you go… I thought it would keep you safe.” Deuce closed his eyes tightly. 

You let out a breath, gently holding his hand. “Deuce you don’t have to apologize. I was never mad at you or hurt by you. I also know for a fact your mom isn’t disappointed either.” 

Deuce slowly opened his eyes. “You should be mad at me.” 

“I’m not. Deuce you protected me from those fights. Who you were in middle school, I could tell it was because you were having a hard time. Either way the past doesn’t matter! You’re trying to better yourself,” You protested, hoping he could understand. “No matter what kind of Deuce you are, I wanted to be a part of it.”

Deuce teared up and hugged you as if you would fade if he didn’t hold you. You accepted him completely. Challenges and all.

----------------

A/N: Guys, Deuce is one of my favorite characters like you don't understand how much he means to me. This idea popped into my head the moment I saw him telling yuu about his past. I thought it would be so nice to see him have someone at home that loved him just as he is (Obvs his mom does but a friend). and finally I got the writing juices flowing to bring that thought to life. My execution of said idea might not be the best but I tried my best lol

꒰Masterlist꒱

~ apple (cozyepel) ٭˚🍎୨˚٭

[lavandulawrites]

The “can’t let their crush knows they love her without being awkward asf and getting friend zoned like crazy” trio:

[m4r-len3]

A Fateful Encounter. "In which [Name] meets a certain someone before the events of Book 8, written from the second perspective of a Gender Neutral!Reader."

Warning(s): It's been a while since I've written anything, so it might come off as ooc, or badly paced. This is just my way of getting back into the jist of things. Also this will be a multiple part series. And this Yuu is a little lost with living at the moment. Also, also- I made some additional changes to how Yuu sees the world of Twisted Wonderland, because I think those small details aren't explored enough. Reader/Yuu will be addressed as [Name] [Last Name].

Pairing: Minajael Tealrajah x Reader

"[Name], come on, we're leaving!"

The sound of Deuce's voice broke through your chain of thoughts as consciousness seemingly poured back into your brain. Realising that you had been staring at the books on display for a good long while.

"Be there in a second!" You replied, eyes glued to a specific novel that caught your attention, why did it look so familiar?

Shrugging the thought away, you shuffled towards your group of NRC students. Two first years and one little gremlin that impatiently climbed onto your shoulder the moment you were in reach. "Fnyah! The amazing Grim has no use for minions who zone out, you know?" The chippy tone only earned him a half-hearted apology and brief chuckle from all sides. Despite the complaint, the three of them had gotten used to your sudden zips from reality. You chalked it up to side effects of universe intersection and time in the Twisted Wonderland world moving differently compared to your own.

And since it would only happen over the course of a few minutes, you often snapped right back into your brain and continued on as if you hadn't experienced the last five seconds.

No big deal.

As the four of you made your way down the streets of Sage Island, heading back to campus after some mundane shopping, when realisation struck you like a gut-punch.

"I forgot my book!" The sentence sprung past your lips like an involuntary reaction before thrusting your furred companion into Ace's arm. Which startled Grim into opening his claws by surprise, causing the ginger to let out a pained yelp as they dug into his stomach. Even Deuce barely managed to grab your bag of tuna cans when you hastily passed it to him.

"You guys can head back without me, I'll catch up later!" With those words, you swiftly turned on your heels and jogged back to the small outdoor cafe near the dock where you had previously gone to for some drinks.

Wind blew past your face whilst you climbed up the stony steps which led you to an open grass area with humble chairs and tables. Owned by the stand a few feet away. No wonder why you were staring at that specific cahier back then! A curse was whispered under your breath as you scanned the area. Looking to recognise the table you'd been at last, before landing on the sight of a beautiful young man, with a scarf braid in his hair, he was leaning back on his seat reading- Isn't that yours?

"U-um, excuse me? I think you have something that belongs to me..."

The mysterious pretty boy perked up at the sound of your voice. "Mhm? Ah, this is yours? My apologies, I found it lying unattended and curiosity got the better of me." He gently closed the hardback before handing it over with a polite expression on his face.

"That so?"

He nodded, moving to rest his chin against his palm. "Quite, you have good taste."

The casual compliment made you return his easy smile as your gaze fell towards the title. "...You would call 'The tales of a lost Monarch' good taste?"

Your question only received a non-committal shrug in response. "It's managed to capture my attention." He mused, your eyes finally meeting.

"...Well. There's a store that sells copies... I could show you the way if you'd like?"

"Sure, why not?" Wow that was easy, okay, damn. What's next, marry me- You didn't expect him to agree so quickly, but there was no way of taking it back now.

"...Alright then."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"..." You walked back to Ramshackle in silence, your gaze was glued to the slip of paper in your right hand, on it was the address of a candied apple shop. With a promise in mind, you briefly recalled his suggestion of paying you back in two week's time. Something about being busy during the week...

Busy...

...Busy with a play.

You paused, looking up at the sky before narrowing your eyes as the memories sinked in. "...Huh."

Right, the pretty boy with a scarf for a braid had forgotten his wallet. He realised it by the time you both reached that bookstore, and perhaps too charmed to think clearly, you volunteered to buy it for him. The thought alone made you feel a little ashamed. He was definitely used to getting special treatment with a face card like that.

The sense of shame increased tenfold, causing you to let out a long-suffering sigh of disappointment.

You weak, weak person. Folding like an origami bird...

Your thumb brushed the fold open, you couldn't even remember when and how he noted it down, do hot people here carry pens and little pieces of parchment knowing somebody might ask for their number? ...Should you start doing that too? ...The idea gives you pause before travelling to the back of your head.

You'll consider it for another time. Now it's time to reflect on your impulses of a doormat.

Tucking the note back into your pocket, you crossed the grassy plaines surrounding your dorm and opened the door to find your heartslabyul friends sat in the living room space alongside Grim.

"There you are, what took you so long?" Ace looked up from the deck of cards he was shuffling with a questioning frown. "Did you find it?" Deuce followed.

"Find it? Oh the book, yeah, I... Got it back." You shifted your focus onto the novel in your left hand, before lifting your head up and just blurting out: "A really handsome guy took it though."

Everything had gone quiet.

Then-

"Huh?"

Their unionised noise of confusion somehow convinced you to keep going, "No like, he was REALLY handsome." Gorgeous brown hair, big brown eyes, clear hazel skin and everything!

"Did you hit your head on the way or something?"

"And I bought him a copy since he read the beginning and liked it-"

"You what the what because what?!" Ace exclaimed.

"[Name], who even is this dude?" Deuce asked, genuinely concerned.

"...He was-" You froze. Did- did you seriously forget to ask for his name? The first thing most people think of doing? Most NORMAL people? Then again, he didn't ask for yours, so now we've got two weirdos going around following strangers and shopping for each other-

"I don't know who he was."

Grim slapped a paw over his face.

Ouch, okay, not the family dog being upset with you too.

"And you spent your money on this man?"

"...Yeah."

"...We're never leaving you along next time." Deuce muttered out.

"Definitely." Grim's exasperated comment only drove the 'folded origami idiot' flag further down your throat. There was no way you were going to let them know your plans on seeing him again.

Stay tuned for part 2... Please guys just hear me out.

[bm-0435]

Grim and Grim and MORE GRIM!!!

[mika-the-xd]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚𝓟eople keeps overlooking Yuu and Grim's relationship— but let's actually make a little drabble about an AU! where Grim and Yuu are platonic soulmates in every universe

Back in your world, you had a grumpy, mischievous, and hungry cat that you found in the trash and decided to foster, and later on you adopted him because no one wanted him. You were broke, and struggling, but you always bought the most expensive cat food in the pet store because that was the only thing that your cat wanted, and you couldn't let him starve— no matter how many meals you had to skip because of that, you would rather starve than ever see your cat go hungry or even upset.

So when you got transported in twisted wonderland, you were really distressed about the condition of your cat back in your world— "please I have to go home! My cat can't sleep without me" you begged the mirror, "how will he eat now?" You mumbled when the mirror revealed that it didn't find such a place here.

You missed your fatass cat.

"Who will take care of Grim? He won't let anyone touch him unless it's me! Please! Just let me go home!"

And ultimately, you gave up.

But a peculiar Tanuki looking creature broke in mid-begging and broke your concentration.

He introduced himself as Grim.

Deja vu hit you like a truck when he introduced himself. And as he continued to wreck havoc on the school, you can't help but think that "this is exactly how my cat will act if he could breath fire" you snorted.

When Grim broke in again in the courtyard. Your heart kept tugging on it's heartstrings when you pinned it to the ground with your broom— you ignored it, thinking that you just found him cute. But, as you two spent more time together, and ultimately ended up as a student in NRC. This tugging kept on happening, and everytime, you can't help but think 'is this some kind of soulmate thing?'— and yeah, you've read about soulmates before, but this little Tanuki can't be your soul mate right?

Grim, before his life with you, was meek, boring, and very miserable. He had to hunt scraps to eat, sometimes he starved, and sometimes people threw stones at him. So when he met you, he had this unexplainable feeling that you two were meant to meet together, fated to be stuck together as you ventured in this unfamiliar world, and as Grim got used to the unfamiliar social constructs and magic stuff.

'That doesn't make sense' he thinks. 'Me and my henchhuman never met before, so why do I have this feeling that we did?'

He asked you about it while you two were studying in the library— well, while you were studying and Grim was on his belly on your lap getting pets and all. Because that's how it always been, you even enabled his spoiled behaviors— much to your friends protests: you would reward him for doing the bare minimum, feed him expensive tuna while you essentially starved, and you would also keep him cleaned when you could barely do that without help.

"Henchhuman" he called out to you while you rubbed circles on his belly, you hummed as you read through your textbooks. "What do ya' call a feeling where: ya' feel like ya've met someone before even though ya' have never met this person in all your life"

You stopped for a second before you effortlessly replied. "I think that's called Deja Vu" he nodded in response.

"Y'know..." You continued "in my world, they say that if you experience Deja Vu with a person, it means that you are soulmates?" "What's that?" He asked gruffly as you continued to pet his fur and occasionally brush it using your fingers.

"Soulmates are two people that are together in every universe— or world"

He went quiet for a moment.

"Do ya' think we're soulmates?" You smiled and glanced down then pinced his chubby cheeks— probably from all the snacking he'd do during class that you would enable.

"wha- HEY!-" "of course I do" you chuckled. He huffed then settled down on your lap before purring. "Of course we are! Ya' would never survive without me"

You laughed and patted his head. "Hmmm... Of course I won't, you little fattie" you mumbled the last part with a snicker.

𝗔/𝗻: Grim and Yuu is my Roman empire 🥹 like I bare so much love for the two of them that you guys probably know because of how frequently I write the two of them 👀 and I know I keep saying that I love Idia BUT no one can top Grim and Yuu 🫶 my babies 🥺

[bm-0435]

Want to share these little Heartslabyul guys I made(and Grim being attacked).

[mika-the-xd]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚𝓙ust some Yuu headcanons but they're all canon because I said so

Grim has nightmares of you someday leaving him and he wakes up crying and screaming, it wakes you up everytime he has nightmares because hearing Grim cry immediately makes you distressed. He would snuggle up to you more and you would sing him a lullaby back home to help him fall asleep and it always works. However you can't fall asleep back because you know after you go back home Grim will be alone in the Ramshackle with no one to take care of him.

On the topic of sleeping; you would sometimes tell him a bedtime story from your back home if he couldn't fall asleep. Stories with bad endings makes him upset even though he tells you otherwise so you would often make up a happy ending for him— even though the original story had the most gut wrenching bad ending.

The students at NRC view both you and Grim as a parent and son duo respectively— this would get reinforced when you call him little one occasionally. Grim actually likes being viewed as your son but would never tell you that, you know that he secretly likes being your dubbed son because he puffs out his chest whenever your dynamic gets mentioned. He also likes being babied, but would rather die than admit that to you.

He gets overprotective over you, like: whenever a guy asks for your number while you're away from him or when a guy seems more closer to you than normal he immediately gets mad and would get into fights if not for you intervening. And if anyone tries to steal a seat near you? Best believe he's gonna throw a fit, he literally cannot be seated away from you because he needs physical touch from you. Ace and Malleus catches strays from him because of the amount of times they tried to sit next to you.

You have four jars of savings hidden away just incase; one jar is for you, it's for when you want something nice but can't get it because of the allowance Crowley gives you— it's not even full, dare I say it's ninety percent empty. Meanwhile the other three are for Grim, it's for when you leave back home, and since you don't want Grim to starve, you left him some cash because you doubt Crowley will. You thought of this after overthinking late at night for what you will do incase you ever got the opportunity to go back home.

The ghosts promised to take care of Grim when you ever go back. This promise was made after watching the two of you (mainly Grim) cry at night about the possibility of you going back home.

If you have any jewelry in you, (I do, so this is like a self indulgence) you will most likely give it to Grim to help him cope your eventual disappearance. And if you have more then you probably gave it to Ace and Deuce. They most likely had to hold back tears while you have it to them; now they fidget with it when they ever feel anxious or if they miss you.

The people who are close to you got used to you being so touchy with them (this is actually canon, Yuu in the game has physical touch as their love language) and started doing it back to you. And if they're not usually touchy to other people, you're most likely the only exception.

There is practically no chance that you didn't have some kind of scarring during the overblots. You probably do have some littered all over your body.

You are camera shy. How did your friends find out? It's because you always take pictures of them, but whenever someone offers to take pictures so you could join them you would always turn it down. So when you leave they will most likely forget your face, they know this that's why they try to include you in the photos, but you will always reason with them. However Grim is the only exception for this panicking because you have a picture of only the two of you baking in your kitchen, miraculously you were in frame because it was a selfie. You made it into a locket so you could give it to your son (yes son) when you depart from twisted wonderland.

𝗔/𝗻: this is a super small thought while I was sleeping so when I woke up I immediately got to work and wrote this while I was half asleep— not beta read duh so if you see asscheek grammar no you didn't

[cursedcola]

Prompt: 'Misunderstandings' Continuation! What if they said or did something to hurt your feelings? -- Silver Vanrouge Edition Requisitioner: Silvercrumbs! Warnings: None! Words: 1666! (Purchase: Custom Fiction.) A/N: Hello everyone! We've got another commission to be shared, requested over on my ko-fi! This one comes to you by the sponsor 'SilverCrumbs!' -- Silvercrumbs put in a request that I write a variant of one of my pre-existing posts for Silver Vanrouge. This details the first lovers quarrel, following a miscommunication and a few bumps in the road. It was fun revisiting one of my first ever works on this blog and seeing how far my understanding of the characters has grown :) If you would like to submit a commission of your own, feel free to check me out HERE! If you'd like to learn about my medical journey, view my rates, or learn why I'm accepting commissions. Click: HERE!

Silver rushed through the streets of Foothill town at a steady yet brisk pace. He wove through crowds with the clock ticking against his schedule. Another three minutes and he would be late to your weekly date-night, and he would not allow himself to spurn you with his tardiness. His carelessness. He would make it on time with blisters in his boots and let them sting for the evening as a way to stay awake. 

Not that he would let himself drift without penance later. 

He had gone to your date straight from training, blade work still burning in his arms, his thoughts still half on the drills, half on the message he had reread three times before leaving. He had told himself he would be present for you. Quietly, fully, the way he wanted to be.

And he was trying.

That was the frustrating part. He made the effort to straighten his posture, to smooth the crease between his brows, to push the weariness from his expression so he could greet you with something gentle. Something easy. Something worthy of you.

But you saw through him almost immediately. Standing outside the agreed meeting point, worry in your eyes that should not be there. Not after he’d promised an evening of peace and a meal at that new pasta restaurant you’d been so excited to visit. 

“You look exhausted,” you said, concern soft in your voice. “Silver, did you even stop to change?”

He should have answered honestly. Surely you could see the grass stains on his cuffs.

He knew it the moment your eyes lingered on him, searching his face with that familiar care that always made his chest feel strangely full. Instead, old habits reached him first.

“It is nothing,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “You do not need to worry about it. Shall we go ahead?”

The words were meant to be reassuring, with his little practiced half-smile. 

In his mind, they were. If he could handle it alone, then he would not be placing another burden at your feet. He could bear the strain of training. He could bear his duties. He could bear the quiet pressure of always feeling as though he needed to return kindness with something equally heavy, equally measurable, as though affection itself had to be repaid.

But your expression crumpled.

At first there was only a flicker of surprise, then something more delicate than hurt. 

Something that looked almost like you were pulling away without moving an inch. Silver felt it before he understood his own words, the air between you shifting into something colder, thinner.

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, voice unsteady. “I am asking because I care about you. You keep acting like I am just… someone you have to manage. Is that what this is?

Silver steadied his breathing. One, two, three. Three, two, one. 

Manage.

The word lodged somewhere sharp inside him between the seventh and eighth rib.

That is not what he wanted you to think. Not at all

Never that. And yet when he searched through his own actions, he could not deny how often he made you feel as though your concern belonged in the same category as his responsibilities. A thing to acknowledge, to account for, to settle later once everything else had been handled.

“I am not trying to do that. Please, please believe me,” he said, but even to his own ears the answer sounded too quiet, too late.

You sighed, and the sound did more damage than anger might have.

“Then why won’t you let me in? You can tell me when you are tired. You can tell me when something is wrong. You do not have to keep saying it is fine just because you think you should be strong all the time. If today was too much, then I would have understood.”

Silver looked down at his boots.

Because that was precisely it, wasn’t it?

Strength has always been tied to silence. To endurance. To be useful without complaint. To repay what had been given to him — his father’s care, Malleus’s trust, the quiet faith of the people who allowed him to remain by their side. The life he was never supposed to live. He grew so used to measuring himself by what he could return that he started to believe love worked the same way.

If he was struggling, he should endure it without troubling you.

If you were kind, he should be even kinder in return.

If you cared, he should not ask for more than you offered. Never be selfish. 

The problem is that love was not meant to feel like a weighted scale.

“I did not mean to upset you,” he spoke tenderly, and there was no hiding the strain in his voice. “I only… did not wish to place my burdens on you.”

You folded your arms, though your eyes were still warm in that way that made this conversation so much worse. Your reservations at that restaurant are about to be nulled. 

 “Being with me is not a burden, Silver.”

The words struck with quiet force. You are not a burden. His problems are meant to be shared. This is a relationship. If he wasn’t ready to exchange the good and the bad, then he never should have taken your hand. 

Because he had not said that aloud, yet the train of thought rode on schedule from his mind to your own. 

Somewhere beneath his manners and restraint and careful refusals of your aid, that was exactly what he had been acting as though he believed. That his exhaustion was his alone to hide. That your worry was something he should deflect. That if he could just remain composed, remain useful, remain gentle, then he would not disappoint you.

Instead, he accomplished the opposite.

He took the tenderness in your voice and answered it like a duty. Took your hand as a knight would their liege, rather than a husband might dote on their beloved.

Silver felt his throat tighten. He was no good at this. 

His first instinct was still to explain, to soothe, to smooth the moment over as he always did. But he saw, for the first time perhaps, how that habit could wound just as easily as any harsh word. Not because he was cruel. Because he was distant in the very places he meant to be closest.

And he hated that he had made you feel unwelcome inside his own exhaustion.

“I am sorry,” he said finally, the apology quiet but no less sincere for it. “You were trying to care for me, and I answered you as though your concern was unnecessary. That was unfair to you.” He swallowed once, then continued, slower this time, as if each word had to be chosen with care.  “I think… I have been treating this as though I must always earn my place beside you. As though every moment with you must be repaid properly, or else I am taking too much. But you are not asking me to repay you.” His gaze lifted to meet yours.  “You are only asking me to stay.”

Silver had never been good at wanting things for himself.

It always felt safer to be needed than to be loved. Safer to be useful than vulnerable. Safer to give than to receive. But you were looking at him now as though all you wanted was honesty, and somehow that felt far more difficult than any sword drill he ever endured.

“I do want you to stay,” he stressed, pleading. “Not because I need you to manage. Not because I am repaying anything. Because I… because I enjoy being with you. Because when I am with you, I do not wish to hide.” A pause. Then, because he knew words meant little without the courage to follow them, he added, “I should have told you I was tired. I should have let you know that I was overwhelmed instead of pretending otherwise. I understand now that I made you feel shut out.”

The apology hung between you both, unguarded.

Silver did not rush to fill the silence.

He learned, over time, that some things needed space to breathe. Still, the quiet made him aware of every small thing –  the way his hands had fallen open at his sides, the way your breathing had slowed, the way your face had not turned away from him despite the hurt. This is not a problem born of just one incident. No, this surely has been brewing since the moment you both looked at each other with yearning hearts. 

 “I cannot promise I will be perfect at this immediately,” he admitted. “But I would like to try. I would like to learn how to stop turning my own heart into a duty.” His mouth curved faintly, though there was sadness in it too. What he was promising would be an uphill battle, pushing a boulder with one arm behind his back.   “And if I begin to do it again, I hope you will tell me. Even if it is uncomfortable. Especially if it is uncomfortable.”

The end of that sentence was quiet enough to be mistaken for a plea.

Silver did not reach for you right away.

 He would not make that choice for you. Not after making you feel as though your worry had no place beside him. Instead, he stood there with all the patience he could gather, hands still, expression open, waiting to see whether you would step closer or hold your ground a moment longer.

In the hush that followed, he could only hope you heard what he had finally managed to say…. that he wanted to stop being someone you had to reach for through silence, and start being someone who met you halfway.

…

 And whether you let him take your hand, or make him wait a little longer, Silver would understand. 

[melodead]

soft is an understatement when it comes to silver, you think.

that’s not to say he’s incapable of the opposite—the training really shows in any crisis—but it’s easy to forget that fact once disaster has dwindled down to the drowsy daze of moonlight. under the night’s watch, wonderland quiets at last, and sleep returns without the threat of eternity. night raven college rests.

as with most things in this world, that doesn’t apply to you.

before, you could call the problem some garden-variety insomnia—a dizzying, perpetual pulsing in your head and eyes that refused to shut—probably a product of getting tossed into a different dimension with different rules. like jet lag, or something. unfortunate, sure, but not something to worry about.

in light of revelations about the effect of long-term magic on inconsistent rem cycles or the entire lack thereof, it’s become yet another thing that keeps you up at night. you suspect the only thing that’s going to put you down now is sedation, magical or otherwise.

silver is heartachingly kind as he tries to lull you to sleep, a lullaby in his throat and a hand combing through your hair. beneath your ear and past cloud-soft cotton, his heartbeat marches on as steadily as a knight. it’s so calm; your ears are beginning to ring in the din. you blindly toy with a stray thread on his sweater and peek, over his shoulder, at the clock hanging like a second moon from the clinic’s shadowed walls. 12:29, it reads.

“you should rest too, silver.” your voice emerges through the dark as quiet as an oath. there’s a drifting, faded quality to it, coating the words as they spill out. “and don’t talk about earlier, that doesn’t count.”

“i am. i promise.” a warm sigh fans across your forehead. “besides,” he pivots, voice low and soothing, “you did all the caretaking during our journey—i’m only returning the favor how i can.”

you hum, pressing further into the warm space between him and the cot’s ridiculously plush mattress, as though the external pressure could relieve the one inside your skull. “you don't need to. i’m used to this by now.”

“but i want to,” he insists.

the laugh that falls from your lips is worn thin, a feeble, flimsy thing that would break in the midnight breeze. “then is there a way for us to share your sleep?”

and silver—sweet, endlessly kind—pulls you in closer, as though his comfort could dispel the restlessness plaguing you. you lean into it anyway. (because even if you can’t rest, at least you know you’ll be safe.) something warm is pressed against your temple. a kiss, you realize. it must be the softest act you’ve experienced recently.

“mm? what’s that for?”

“you, of course,” silver says, so simply it seems like a fact. the word curls around your heart and warms you from the inside out.

“is that some kind of…briar valley superstition i’m not aware of?”

“close.” you’ll have to make note of that. it’s difficult to imagine any of the diasomnia students being so free in their affection, but maybe that was just a night raven trait. “there’s a famous story in the valley, about two lovers who had been separated by a curse. even though it took a century, eventually, the curse was broken by a kiss. there’s some debate as to whether it was the kiss that broke the curse, or if the curse ran out of time, but…” and here, silver pauses. his heartbeat quickens just a slight. “father used to say that it could cure anything.”

“mm, just a regular kiss?” you prod.

gazing through the dark, soft, drooping eyes meet yours. the tips of his ears glow warm in the moon’s shine. “a kiss of true love,” silver answers finally.

beautiful boy, made of dreams and light and enough devotion to defy destiny and then some. you adore him.

that last thought settles in your chest. it’s the clearest one you’ve had all night, healed of any waking ache. and finally, as your eyes begin to grow heavy, you wonder if silver’s story may just hold some truth after all.

“thank you,” you mumble. “i think that finally did the trick.”

gently, the blanket is pulled over your shoulder, and a thumb smooths down your brow. “i wanted to thank you too.”

“hm?” (your hazy eyes are luminous in the moonlight. beautiful, silver thinks. beautiful in a way that invites those to look closer, to reach out for an existence that haunts wonderland phantomwise.)

“i’m grateful,” he clarifies, “that i had you with me throughout that journey, and that you were there every time i faltered. i really…i can’t thank you enough.”

“you don’t have to thank me for that, silver.” and as you surrender to the night, you whisper, “not at all.”

[cursedcola]

Prompt: 'How Protective Are They? Continuation! -- Silver Vanrouge! Requisitioner: SilverCrumbs! Warnings: None! Words: 2714! (Purchase: Custom Fiction.) A/N: Hello everyone! We've got another commission to be shared, requested over on my ko-fi! This one comes to you by the sponsor 'SilverCrumbs!' -- At this point, I might have to put the protective posts under the 'series' masterlist for all the editions it has gotten haha. Since SilverCrumbs put in a req. for just our beloved baby of dawn, he got extra love with his edition delving into the development of his protective habits in addition to how he expresses them. Thank you again for the commission, SilverCrumbs! If you would like to submit a commission of your own, feel free to check me out HERE! If you'd like to learn about my medical journey, view my rates, or learn why I'm accepting commissions. Click: HERE!

8/10 

Part One :: The Why. 

Compared to others, Silver is special. 

Silver is a little unusual in that his protectiveness does not begin as something personal, yet does not lack dedication or drive. His actions are not instinctive or gradually adopted as he grows attached. From start to finish, meeting to parting,  all is intentional. 

At first, it is simply duty. He is keeping the close friend of his lord safe, while also protecting an innocent caught in the middle of something far bigger than either of them. Only, that feeling does not stay impersonal for long. Bonds can form quickly when they are built through shared trauma and near-death experiences, after all.

For Silver, it all really begins in Book 7, The Lord of Malevolence. That is where the foundation is laid. Before then, you and Silver have not had much one-on-one interaction beyond what he has heard from Malleus, Sebek, and Lilia, and the same can be said in reverse. So when he first finds himself dragged into all of this, Silver immediately feels guilty. In his mind, he has already brought you into danger simply by needing your help.

Even so, he has no better option. Your dream is where he lands first after breaking through Malleus’ spell, and he is fully aware that your help is instrumental in calming Malleus down. Malleus does not have many friends, let alone many people he truly trusts, and Silver needs every bit of assistance he can get. When he encounters you there, you owe him nothing. You have no real reason to help him. He is banking almost entirely on your friendship with Malleus to convince you.

So when you agree so readily, Silver is genuinely surprised. And grateful. More than that, it is a relief to not be doing this alone, even if he already prepared himself to bear the burden if he had to. That is where the promise starts. He swears to keep you safe while stuck in this dreamscape. 

Before Lilia’s going-away party, Silver had very few opportunities to get to know you properly. All he really knew was that both his father and his lord respected you. Sebek, of course, had plenty of things to say about you, though Sebek rarely approves of anyone to begin with (Silver included). Meeting you for himself, and seeing your wit firsthand, only strengthens Silver’s impression that you are someone worth trusting.

The further he and the others go into people’s dreams, the more grateful Silver becomes to have you at his side. He is not always the most naturally observant of other people’s emotions, and he knows that your help, along with everyone else’s, is a huge part of what makes waking people possible. It is what makes saving Malleus possible.

That trust deepens even more once Silver is forced to confront his own history and emotions. Learning his father’s truth—Lilia’s past as Briar Valley’s most dangerous general—is a lot to process. It is a shock in every sense of the word. And yet you remain there. You do not press him for answers he does not have. You simply stay.

That matters to him more than he can easily say.

Because by then, Silver is already aware that he asked you to help break everyone out of their dreams, but that does not mean he is willing to let you come to harm during the fighting, especially in the skirmishes where they help Briar Valley’s forces against the Silver Owls. He would not allow anyone to be hurt if he could prevent it, but when it comes to you, that instinct sharpens even further.

After his father breaks free and stays behind to stall Malleus while the group moves on to help the others, Silver tries, in all sincerity, to tell you to remain behind and hide. He is forced to admit, however, that waking the others will not be an easy feat. He knows that your help might tip the scales yet can’t ask this of you. He cannot promise your safety with perfect certainty.

You refuse.

So Silver does what he always does when something matters to him – he tries to shoulder the danger himself. He promises, again, that he will do everything he can to keep you safe. It is not empty reassurance, either. Even if it might sound a little awkward coming out of him, he means every word of it. You are a friend of his liege, yes, but by now you are his friend too.

At the same time, Silver is still processing everything about his own lineage. Learning that he is the child of his family’s sworn enemy is not exactly easy to absorb. You do not ask him to explain it, which is fortunate, because he does not have answers to give. Instead, you stay beside him anyway. Silver does not realize right away just how much that means. It is a gift, really. Not even Sebek has shown that kind of faith in him and you’ve barely become properly acquainted.

By the time everything is said and done—the students are freed, his father is alive, Malleus is recovering, and the school is slowly settling back into normalcy—Silver still finds himself thinking of you. There are plenty of more pressing matters, of course, not least of which are Malleus and Lilia being scolded by Lady Malefica over the entire overblot disaster. But even with all of that going on, Silver keeps circling back to you.

He does not think of himself as special. He has heard of your involvement in other overblots, and even smaller incidents around campus. He remembers the brief time he spent walking through Fleur City with you during the Glorious Masquerade, before everything went up in flames because of Rollo. To Silver, you read as a fairly normal student—someone comfortable to be around, someone who does not force conversation, someone with a calm and easy presence.

And perhaps that is part of why he feels so settled when he is with you. It is much easier to stay calm when there is someone to protect.

So that is the shape of it, really. Silver’s protectiveness does not begin as obsession or possessiveness. It starts as duty. Then it becomes repayment. Then guilt. Then affection. Then love. The feeling remains the same across the entire process—only the reason for it changes.

Part Two :: The Method 

Silver is the sort of protective that people only notice after the danger has already been avoided. Preventative. Intentional. He has the kind of vigilance that looks almost effortless from the outside, which is precisely why people underestimate how much thought goes into it. 

Just because he is laid-back does not mean he is careless. It means he is calm enough to look at a situation and think three steps ahead instead of panicking in the middle of it. He was raised not to take love lightly, and that does something to a person. Silver does not guard his partner like they are fragile glass he is afraid to breathe on. 

He guards them like something precious that deserves to be kept safe.

Physically, Silver is extremely tactile once he is comfortable with someone. His goal is to be a grounding presence so that you can enjoy life to the fullest. 

His hand always seems to find yours. In crowds, his fingers hook into your belt loop or rest at the small of your back, not to cage you in, but to keep you within easy reach. His other hand rests on the pommel of his sword. He is just as aware of his surroundings as if he was guarding Malleus, but more touchy due to your more intimate relationship. 

Side note. He is adamant that you learn swordsmanship. Nothing akin to the training he’s received, but enough that you can defend yourself should the need arise. If anything else, your body will gain stamina to run. 

He is the sort of person who positions himself between you and whatever might become trouble without making a show of it. If the path is crowded, he is already guiding you around the thickest cluster of people before you even realize the space is narrowing. If someone is walking too fast behind you, Silver will subtly angle you to the side so you are not in their way. If the weather turns too cold, he wordlessly offers you his jacket, cloak, or scarf. Sometimes all three. 

The type of man who will offer you his shoes if your feet are blistering without hesitation. That, or he’ll carry you without a second thought. Social cues mean nothing to him. Why are you embarrassed? There are no laws forbidding him from carrying you around like a shoujo protagonist.

While a bit dense, he’s not that bad. Silver is just a tease when comfortable enough. Oddly enough, he’s never felt sleepy with you on his back. It’s only a matter of time before he does crush you though. No matter how careful he is. 

And because Silver is Silver, this protectiveness is rarely suffocating. He is not the type to clamp down on your freedom just because he is worried. In fact, he wants you to enjoy yourself. That is a huge part of how he shows affection. He likes seeing you happy. He likes watching you laugh, likes seeing you relaxed, likes the way your face softens when something delights you. It reminds him of a chipmunk stuffing their cheeks with chestnuts in the winter. He is happiest when you are happy, so his instinct is not to pull you away from life, but to make sure you can experience it safely. 

“Go on,” he will tell you, gently nudging you toward whatever it is you are hesitant about. “I’ll be right here.” 

And he means it. Silver is always exactly where you left him, watching, be it while you grab lemonades for the both of you on a festival date or if you need to rush ahead to greet another student. 

That does not mean he is oblivious to danger, though. Silver may not be especially confrontational, but he is not blind to the world around him. He is just not particularly interested in gossip, and most of the time he would rather let nonsense die on its own than give it the energy it wants. People can whisper, speculate, and stir up drama all they like; Silver has better things to do than chase every ugly little rumor. He does not care enough to take offense at every stray remark.

Which is exactly why people are always surprised when he does have a response should they comment on you. 

Silver does not snap or posture or turn into a spectacle. He simply mutters something under his breath with enough dryness to cut through steel, and somehow that ends up being worse. One is not raised by Lilia Vanrouge and come out without a sassy bone. Silver’s just good at taming it. 

“Oh? Was that meant to sound clever?”

“That’s an interesting choice of words…Mm. What were we talking about? I already forgot. ”

“If you are trying to be rude, you may want to work on the delivery.”

The worst part is that he says these things so evenly that the person on the receiving end often does not realize they have been verbally disarmed until two seconds too late. Silver is not interested in winning arguments for the sake of it. He is interested in making the problem go away.

And if the problem is a person being disrespectful to you, then Silver’s patience becomes very, very limited.

He does not like people making you uncomfortable, and he does not like people treating you as though your presence is something they are entitled to appraise. If someone starts talking too familiarly, getting too close, or trying to prod at you for a reaction, Silver will quietly step in. He’s quite curt and to the point with it too. Misunderstandings are rare with him.

“Please do not speak to them like that. It’s a matter of respect. If you’d like a response, there are better ways of addressing others.” 

Silver does not need to raise his voice to make people feel as though they have crossed a line. Those aurora eyes take a darkness to them that makes the offender’s position clear. 

Emotionally, Silver’s protectiveness is probably the sweetest part of him, because it is where his care shows the most. He’s not the most astute with making how he feels clear on his face, so he tries to make up for it with his actions. He tries to keep a communication line open and constantly checks in with you, and trusts that you’ll tell him the truth each time. 

As stated prior, he wants to preserve your happiness. That’s the priority of a partner, after all. 

So he watches for the things other people miss. Whether you have eaten. Whether you have slept. Whether you have been pushing yourself too hard and pretending not to notice. Whether you’re missing home or growing uncomfortable under the professor’s attention. He is the kind of partner who notices when your voice sounds just a smidgen more tired than usual. You may not be able to read him, and he might not be able to read people in general – but he can read you like a book. 

“Come here. Rest for a while. Let me be the one to watch over you for a change.”

He says these things as though it is simply what he is supposed to do. As though taking care of you is as natural to him as breathing. And maybe, for Silver, it is. He is a knight at heart. He is someone who understands devotion as action, not just feeling. So when he loves you, he does not only say it. He guards your peace. 

And if someone ever asks why he is always so close, so attentive, so quietly ready to intervene, Silver will probably just look at them as though the answer should be obvious.

“Because I love them,” he would say simply. “Why else would I not?”

Last but not least, we have the jealousy factor. 

The first thing to understand is that Silver genuinely trusts you. He is not someone who spends his days worrying that you'll leave him for the first attractive person who smiles in your direction. His self-esteem isn't perfect, but this relationship is built on loyalty, and loyalty means something to him.

So casual flirting doesn't bother him nearly as much as people assume. A student compliments your appearance? Silver thanks them before you can. Someone asks if you're single?

"Their partner is standing right here."

He’ll brandish your interlaced hands with no malice. Just a mere statement of fact and clear intent. Again. He is the type to clear up any misunderstanding before it festers into something uncontrollable. Nip off rot before it reaches the root. 

His jealousy is rooted in something much more straightforward: he dislikes anyone who treats you like you are available for their amusement. He dislikes being forced to watch someone attempt to claim attention you never offered them. Only the animals in the forest get to do that, and sometimes even they don’t get a pass.

Catcall you, and Silver’s committing a face to memory. He isn’t the type to start a confrontation unless it is the absolute last resort. So he’ll pull you away from the offender as quickly as possible and instantly go into ensuring you don’t feel uncomfortable. A soft kiss to your temple if he thinks it will discourage an audience. 

Taken. Loved. Not your business. 

They don’t get the time of day. 

Yet. 

Silver has incredible memory. And unlike some people, he is not the kind to forget someone being disrespectful just because they backed off the first time.Where there is a first offense, a second is surely to follow if the transgressor is not remorseful. It just so happens that his family cares for his happiness and by extension yours. He is not below warning them that there is someone causing you undue distress. 

[twstassets]

High-res Base card for Deuce Spade - La Bonbonnière

[syoldei]

❝ HEADMAGE, I DON'T WANT THIS ROMANCE MANHWA SLOP ! ︵﹒02.

💭: what's worse than being transmigrated into another world? being transmigrated into another world for a second time. you unceremoniously trip into crowley's painting that leads you to play the role of a "holy saint" and—what the hell is that silver as the "knight commander"? you try to get out of this world by focusing your romance on the knight commander instead of the crown prince. now at this point, some might argue that you’re doing it for the love of the game, and not just treating it as a plan to get out, and—well, they're right.

pairing. silver vanrogue x gn! reader

wc. 12.9k

warnings. heavy slow burn, mutual pining, a substantial amount of profanity, mostly comedy, inaccurate or fictional depiction of religion, hopefully not ooc silver (havent reached b7), not proofread, reader is prefect

a/n. yes i speedrun this so i could post it by me and silver's birthday...

parts. 01. | 02. (here)

Ever since that morning, your daily routine has gone through a rather predictable route. 

Wake up at an hour that hollows your soul, argue with yourself about it for approximately five minutes, lose the argument, and get up anyway.

Then, you’ll have to face whatever the system has in store for you once you’ve collected your bearing, and brace yourself for whatever daily quests and/or upcoming major quests are ahead.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “We should discuss new plans for your quests with the Prince~♡ The management isn’t too happy with the deviation.~♡”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” you mutter to the ceiling, shoving the notification panel aside with a flick of your wrist, as if you could physically swat it away. 

You roll out of bed, your feet hitting the cold stone floor, and begin the ritual of donning the layers of white and gold silk that go along with your title, all the while ignoring the irritating ding! of the system talking about some daily quests of praying and talking to the Prince, or something.

Ding!

A panel materializes itself in front of you.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — NEW QUEST UPDATED ! With the Harvest Festival around the corner, regional instability along the Southern Border has increased due to residual Miasma activity. The Saint is required to assist in containment and purification.  OBJECTIVE: Clear the appointed dungeon, and strengthen diplomatic rapport with the Crown Prince through “informal engagement activities”. EXPECTED TIME BEFORE QUEST COMMENCEMENT: 42:00:00

You stare at the last line for a full second. 

“Informal engagement activities?”

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “informal engagement activities translate to social outing / character bonding event / leisure interaction.”

You groan into your hands.

After that whole fiasco, your routine takes you to the barracks with Silver in tow. Most mornings are spent tending to knights returning from their morning patrol—and at times, those who have returned from dungeon dispatches—your mana easing away lingering traces of residual Miasma and the deep exhaustion left behind in its wake. The work becomes almost rhythmic after a while, with the golden light, tired soldiers, and the gradual thinning of whatever wears them down.

Somewhere along the way, the atmosphere has shifted into something more cordial and familiar. The knights no longer stiffen quite as much in your presence, conversations flowing more easily between treatments while briefings and patrol reports blur into casual exchanges. 

You come to learn that Theo has a habit of making conversation mid-treatment until another knight pops in to physically shut him up. The captain, a woman whose stern expression could sharpen a dull blade, likes to maintain a stoic front—usually by burying her face in a set of patrol logs while her shoulders shake with the silent effort of not laughing at her subordinates’ antics.

Such changes also extend to Silver himself—despite insisting he is merely there to supervise, he has become such a constant fixture at your side that his presence has started to mold a place of his own that slots naturally in your routine.

Somewhere between reviewing patrol logs beside you, small talks that end with conversations that stretch longer than necessary, and the grounding familiarity of him appearing beside you before you even realize you were looking for him, the distance between you two begins to erode into something far closer than you anticipated.

Following the barracks is the morning assembly.

The Saint’s duties are, lamentably, much harder to escape.

White and gold silk drapes over your form, hands folded just right, expression softened into a textbook definition of something serene and untouchable—the image of holiness polished to perfection beneath the hall’s stained-glass light. It’s nothing short of prayers, blessings, and ceremonial appearances. The High Priest, as usual, watches through it all the while with the measured patience of a man who grasps divinity less as a faith and more as a chalice of control. 

You’ve long since learned that the easiest way to deal with him is to give him exactly what he wants to see—a compliant, useful saint, and nothing more.

Thus, you smile when expected, speak when required, and never linger by his side too long enough for his probing observations to turn into something surgically sharper. It placates him, for the most part, keeping his attention from narrowing too deeply onto all the way you’ve already begun slipping outside the shape of your character.

Then, the Crown Prince—as pushed by the system—who you usually bump into sometimes, oftentimes after morning assembly. The system has taken advantage of the fact that the Prince will be staying quite some time within the walls of the Sanctuary for a complete rehabilitation. 

Now, the system enthusiastically labels your visits as “relationship-building activities”, which is really just a deeply embarrassing way of saying the Prince keeps inviting you out—tea in the garden, engaging in strategy board games that he procured from somewhere, helping you taste-test sweets during the harvest festival preparation (that made you nearly want to walk directly into a fountain after the system practically screamed itself hoarse in your peripheral vision).

The worst part is that he is actually someone easy to get along with. It would be so much easier for you if he were insufferable and rottenly spoiled, but unfortunately, he is instead painfully decent, which makes the guilt sit differently than you would like. 

You don’t forget to pepper every conversation with a very pointed “my friend” at every possible opportunity. You wield that word like a shield, relishing the way the system’s notification vibrates with indignation every time you friend-zone the literal heir to the throne. 

It’s petty, perhaps, but it’s the only way to get some modicum of payback for the constant meddling. 

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

The Saint’s deviation from the designated narrative track has created situations the character was not written to encounter. In response to unscripted stimuli, love interest [CROWN PRINCE] has begun operating outside his original characterization.

Love interest [CROWN PRINCE] has expressed feelings inconsistent with designated Male Lead parameters.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 68%

Oh, this is so fun.

“He’s a great friend, isn’t he?” you mutter to the system, amusingly watching the box flicker into a frustrated, static-filled red. It’s even more rewarding seeing the narrative integrity continuously drop as you establish the great wall of friend-zone.

It all then inevitably leads back to Silver.

Sometimes you find him overseeing training in the courtyard below and end up lingering far longer than necessary under the excuse of “observing the knights’ progress”, only to spend most of the time watching how the slightly tussled hair of their Commander’s is quite an adorable addition on him as he spars. Other times it’s brief crossings in the Sanctuary halls, shared walk between duties, or you appearing beside him uninvited while he sharpens his blade because you were bored and decided that his patience looks particularly testable that day.

At some point, spending time around him stops feeling deliberate and starts becoming almost instinctive. You start seeking him without entirely meaning to, and Silver—despite the occasional look suggesting you are responsible for every trial the gods have inflicted upon his being—always makes room for your presence beside him. 

Without either of you acknowledging it aloud, Silver steadily becomes the person you spend the most time with throughout the day.

Your days settle into that strange groove before you realize it has happened—at least, it does until the long-awaited Harvest Festival quest finally commences.

ʚ﹕CURRENT OBJECTIVE — MAIN QUEST UPDATED !

[MAIN QUEST: MAY CERCES BE WITH YOU !]

With the Harvest Festival around the corner, regional instability along the Southern Border has increased due to residual Miasma activity. The Saint is required to assist in containment and purification. 

OBJECTIVE: Clear the appointed dungeon, and strengthen diplomatic rapport with the Crown Prince through “informal engagement activities”. ~♡

You blink at the notification panel. “Well, that’s kind of anti-climactic, system. I thought there’s gonna be some additional notes or something, but it’s the same exact notification you sent me.”

What the hell is even the point of setting that countdown for?

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Your critique is much appreciated, Holy Saint. ~♡ This system merely wants to build up excitement. Well, think of it as a preparation period before the official start of the event arc! Anticipation is an important component of user engagement, after all. ~♡”

“How… thoughtful.” You suppose, you guess. There’s nothing much to say to the system at this point—you’ve rapped out all your barreling, creative insults enough as they are at it.

The notification panel flickers in a somewhat smugly note at the edge of your vision, as though it is deeply and thoroughly pleased with itself for inventing the concept of suspense.

You rub at your temple—an action that you discover you’ve been doing increasingly more often these past few weeks. “You know, every time you talk like that, I understand a little more why people are afraid of Artificial Intelligence.”

The system hums blithely in response, entirely immune to shame and its friends. 

“What?! What about my annual candy apple ritual?!” The voice, distinctly Theo’s and loud enough to startle the nearby pigeons off, echoes across the courtyard. You drop your hand from your temple, looking up just in time to see the young knight dramatically flailing his arms with a tragic intensity near the center of the training grounds.

Someone immediately shoves a report into his chest in response, which he accepts only long enough to continue arguing over it.

“We’re leaving during the festival opening?!” Theo screeches, his voice cracking with the sheer injustice of it all.

“If it helps you feel better, the festival is a week long!” One of the nearby knights calls back without looking from their paperwork.

“You don’t get it… the opening is the prime candy apple’s time! That’s the only time the stall near the East Gate uses the extra cinnamon!”

The Captain, who is standing nearby reviewing a tactical map spread across a stone bench, doesn’t even look up, merely adjusting her grip on a charcoal pencil. “If you put half as much effort into your footwork as you do in your sugar intake, Theo, you might actually survive the first floor of an S-rank dungeon without losing your boots.”

“But Captain! This is for luck!”

Silver, who had been standing a few paces away discussing supply logistics with a quartermaster, instantly detaches himself from the conversation. He doesn’t even have to think about it; he simply pivots and stands beside you.

“Theo has certainly been looking forward to the festival.” Silver mutters, his voice low and for your ears only. “Though I suppose he isn’t entirely wrong, the timing of the dispatch is… inconvenient.”

You glance at him, a teasing tilt to your head. “Inconvenient for the candy apples, or inconvenient because we are to clear a dungeon while everyone else is celebrating?”

“Both,” he admits after a brief pause. “Logistically speaking, festival periods complicate movement, supply routes, and crowd control. Not to mention, civilian presence increases risk during containment operations.”

“And…” his eyes flick back to you for a fraction of a second before looking away again just as quickly. “...the knights are less focused as usual.”

He lightly clears his throat, his hand moving to adjust his leather gloves. “Some of the knights are fairly young, too. For many, the Harvest Festival is the only time they can properly unwind.”

You nod at his words, that makes sense—knights need to destress too. Imagine having to look at dead monster carcasses when you can have the time of your life eating seventeen variations of sweet bread.

The Slumbering Depth of Solemnity—a B-rank dungeon nestled deep down a gorge within the Southern Border. According to the reports you read over Silver’s shoulder, it houses a Hollow Heart—though it lies dormant, it is still effectively a ticking bomb.

Theo whistles low, the candy apple grief finally replaced by grim focus. “A Hollow Heart? Even when they’re sleeping, those things are still nasty. Give it two weeks, and it might corrupt that entire gorge and the forest nearby.”

“Exactly,” the Captain nods. “It’s a B-rank for now, but if it wakes up, it’s not going to be a pretty sight—it will likely jump to an A-rank localized disaster.”

How wonderful this world’s mother nature is.

“The gorge is approximately three days’ ride south. If we leave by tomorrow dawn, we’ll reach the dungeon by nightfall of the second day.” Silver adds in, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leans slightly to point at a location on the map.

He casts a sidelong glance at you, a ghost of a challenge in his eyes. “Don’t wake up late, Your Holiness.”

“Ha!” you huff, crossing your arms and meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your narrowed eyes. “What am I, if not an early bird?”

Not to mention, you have a cheat code in the form of the (helpful, kind of) system! If you squint, it’s adequate enough to be utilized as an alarm clock. 

Theo snorts somewhere near you two. “Your Holiness, with all due respect, you nearly fell asleep during the morning strategy briefing.”

“I was doing my daily meditation.”

“You were snoring.”

You whirl on him. “Don’t you have candy apples to mourn?”

Okay, so your personal alarm clock is giving you the silent treatment.

It is almost humiliating that you arrive five minutes before the designated departure, but barely early is early! You don’t dwell too much on it, however, given how your system has yet to answer at your beck and call—it’s weird enough that it doesn’t spam the living daylights of your sight the first thing you wake up.

System? You’ve tried calling it for what seems to be the nth time—hell, even calling it physically doesn’t elicit any response. 

You feel like a desperate ex recounting the days before—combing through your memories, and scrutinizing every single word and behavioural pattern like there had to be some hidden sign that your floating parasite was planning to ghost you.

“You seem out of it, Your Holiness.”

The voice snaps you right out of your thoughts, nearly making you lose your grip on the reins. You blink, the world coming back into focus—the clop-clop of your horse’s hooves on the dirt road, the smell of pine and damp earth, and the cool morning air rush back into your senses.

You turn your head to see Theo riding alongside you, his expression housing a lingering of confusion and concern. 

“Just thinking, don’t worry about it.” You reply, adjusting your seat.

Theo doesn’t look convinced—but to his credit, he doesn’t press further. For a moment, the only sounds are the steadfast rhythm of hooves against dirt and the distant call of birds somewhere in the treeline. 

“...You know,” he says slowly. “I thought you and the Commander would be sharing one horse, with what the rumors are saying.”

Your eyes narrow. “What rumors?”

Theo chokes on air.

“...Uh,” Theo says weakly. “Nothing? Forget I said anything? Haha, there are no rumors.”

His face is pale, his eyes darting everywhere but your face—toward the road ahead, toward the pine trees lining the trail, toward Silver riding several lengths like he’s contemplating whether out of sight, out of mind is applicable in this type of scenario and save him from this conversation.

Still feeling your eyes on him, he abruptly straightens in his seat and points at a random spot ahead with startling urgency. “Oh shoot! Would you look at that, looks like Captain is calling to me! See ya later, Your Holiness!

“The Captain is on the opposite end—”

“See ya!” 

He flees before you can finish your sentence, spurring his horse into a frantic gallop forward, leaving you with absolutely no answers. You’re left sitting there, reins slack in your hands, watching him disappear into a cloud of dust like a cartoon skit.

Man, what the hell, you can’t even ask these days.

The journey continues with normalcy (thank god) after that. For the next two days, the trail winds deeper into the southern stretch, carving through dense, ancient pine forests that progressively thin out as the elevation drops into the jagged rocky throat of the gorge. Without the system’s constant chime in your ear, the passage of time feels strangely elastic—it is right at this moment you realize that time has never flowed so slowly before.

Aside from the occasional stops, you spend most of the trip in a comfortable silence. Sometimes, you rein in your horse and catch up to Silver, brewing up small talks in hushed whispers; other times, you bask in the distant snippets of conversation between the knights, hearing Theo loudly munching on his snack, followed by another fellow knight telling him to close his mouth because they can hear him from three horses back.

The knights are spent in well-organized camps where the knights speak in low tones, the atmosphere easy in that quiet, road-worn way shared exhaustion tends to create. At night, the stars are brighter here, unfiltered by the city lights, and you find yourself staring up at them longer than necessary—it makes you miss home a little more desperately.

You wonder if you’ll ever feel that again—the feel of home.

The days blur together in fragments of hoofbeats, crackling campfires, and the cold morning air that bites at your cheeks before sunrise. It is only when the air grows dense, and the horse in front of you halts in its tracks, that you realize you’ve arrived at the site.

The gorge stretches before you like a massive scar etched directly into the earth, uneven cliffs plunging deep into layers of drifting mist below. Sparse trees cling desperately to the rocky terrain surrounding it, their bark darkened by residual corruption creeping through the land in vein-like fractures, and there, suspended above the ravine floor, is the dungeon gate.

“We’ll make camp here tonight,” Silver says calmly, his pale eyes remaining fixated on the spatial tear ahead. “Let’s rest first, we’ll go in tomorrow morning.”

The knights move quickly after that, years of routine settling over the camp with practiced ease. They divide the work among one another—tents are erected, perimeter wards established, supplies unmounted and unloaded, and watch rotations are assigned before the last traces of sunlight fully disappear behind the cliffs.

You help where you can—mostly by healing minor strain and residual fatigue from the long ride—though most of the knights insist you conserve strength for tomorrow. Theo still manages to somehow burn his hand trying to cook something over the campfire despite being explicitly told not to touch the pan.

Lord, this boy would fit in with the rest of the NRC students.

“Should I just ban you entirely from being near a campfire?” the Captain, in her unadulterated exasperation, asks him flatly while shoving a healing salve to his face.

“It’s just one accident!” He tries to defend himself.

“It’s been three, you brat.”

Night settles heavily over the gorge after that, the last ribbons of sunset bleeding deep into deep indigo before the sky is plunged into true darkness. The rift pulses brighter now in contrast, a beacon of violet light that casts eerie shadows across the terrain—it’s almost beautiful and enticing, in the same way poisonous things are.

The knights retreat to their tents one by one, drowsiness pulling them under despite the tension humming in the air. 

Soon, it’s just you and Silver left by the fire.

“Not going to sleep, Commander?” You break the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Silver’s gaze remains fixed on the distant rift for a moment longer before shifting toward the fire between you both. The flames paint shifting amber across the sharp planes of his face, softening otherwise the strained lines of his expression.

“And you’re not, Your Holiness?” Damn, he’s really turning the question around.

“Hm, I don’t feel that tired, yet.” You pull your knees a little closer to your chest, staring into the crackling firewood. Beyond the camp, the gorge is eerily still—even the birds and insects seem reluctant to make a noise.

For a few beats of a second, neither of you spoke. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, per se, it’s the kind of silence that veils over people who have spent enough time together that words aren’t always necessary. 

The temperature in the gorge had plummeted the moment the sun vanished over yonder, replaced by a biting chill that seeps into your very sinews. You suppress a small shiver—a small and quick involuntary reaction that is barely a tremor, but Silver notices it, regardless.

“You’re cold.” It isn’t even phrased as a question.

He moves before you realize he has stood up.

Before you can deny it out of sheer principle, he reaches for the dark cloak folded beside him and drapes it over your shoulders with careful ease. The weight of it settles over you like an embrace—it’s warm (his warmth), you realize (the cloak smells like him, the familiar scent of pine and leather, something that you’ve come to associate with his presence).

Silver, bless whoever raised you to be a gentleman—this one feels like they could cry from this action alone (a bit dramatic, but there’s the sentiment).

Your fingers curl into the fabric, pulling it tighter around yourself. “Thank you.” 

Silver seems to realize what he’s done approximately one second afterward, his hand pausing briefly near your shoulder before he withdraws.

“...My apologies,” he says, quiet against the night. “I should have asked first.”

A gentleman, again, you stress.

You blink at him, genuinely baffled, before that trademark mischief ebbs in your countenance. “Mn, what if I don’t forgive you?”

“Say, what if I keep this cloak for compensation? For your transgression. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

Silver merely blinks back at you, the firelight flickering across his face, throwing shifting shadows beneath pale lashes as he looks at you.

“...Then I suppose it would already belong to you.” He murmurs, a faint, dusty rose colour creeping up the back of his neck, visible even in the dim light.

Oh!

That—

Honestly, you had expected flustered denial, maybe a resigned sigh, or perhaps another long-suffering “Your Holiness”.

You certainly did not expect him to actually let you keep it. “Oh… wow. Commander, if you keep saying things like that, I would think you have a cr—”

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — [MAINTENANCE UPDATE !]

The system is currently unavailable due to scheduled maintenance to optimize performance. During this period, certain features—including quest notifications, narrative integrity monitoring, and user assistance—will be temporarily inaccessible. 

We apologize for any inconvenience. ~♡

ESTIMATED MAINTENANCE DURATION: 48 hours.

Well, turns out, it wasn’t sulking, after all!

“...Wait, so it won’t be supervising me for the next 48 hours?” Your eyes slowly widen; a horrifying number of possibilities instantly surge within your brain. 

Holy fuck, holy fuck.

No incessant notifications? No aggressive matchmaking agenda? No corrective corrections? No system breathing down your neck every five seconds like a Victorian ghost cursed to you? 

You smooth out your experience, but the bubbling feeling within you is a molten mix between disbelief and dangerously delighted hysteria.

Silver is still watching you, his expression shifting to genuine concern as your face undergoes a rapid-fire series of twitches. To him, you probably look like you’re contemplating a truly terrible decision.

“Your Holiness?” he asks, leaning in slightly. “Are you alright?—”

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I just… I just realized that the stars are particularly aligned tonight, an excellent, very good omen.”

Silver looks up to the sky, his brows furrowed in confusion to what exactly do you see in it. He clearly doesn’t see the “omen”, but he doesn’t push it—he’s used to your eccentricities by now, even if he doesn’t always understand them.

“...I see,” he says at last, though his tone suggests he absolutely does not see.

You cough once, decisively, and shift your expression into something much controlled—carefully neutral, or at least what passes for it in your case.

“Actually,” you say. “I noticed something about, um, your shoulder.”

“You were tensing it earlier while we were riding. I didn’t get to come to you before, and it would be better if we could get it over with before heading to the dungeon tomorrow.”

Silver stiffens. “No need, you’ve already done enough for the knights. It’s better to conserve your strength for tomorrow—”

“Nonsense,” you cut him off, your hand already reaching out. “Now let me help you, please.”

He lets out a slow breath and turns his back to you slightly, allowing you to access. You place your hands on the cold metal of his spaulder, pressing your palm against the base of his neck, and channel a tiny, controlled pulse of mana.

Now, where’s that pesky little crack you found last time?

“Silver,” you murmur, your thumbs tracing the line of his tendons. “Tell me if anything feels strange, I’m going to check things out deeper than usual.”

“Deeper?”

“To make sure nothing’s lodged where it shouldn’t be.” The lies come out smoothly—to be fair, it is partly true. “The journey was long, and you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks.”

Silver doesn’t respond—or maybe he did, but it doesn’t really matter when you’re too focused on finding that sharp, elusive thing again—the faint “something” below the surface.

You let your mana sink deeper and push into the psychic weight, a frostlike resistance that pricks at the tip of your fingertips. Finding that no notifications pop up after a few seconds, you exhale slowly through your nose and graze at it more firmly.

The crack is fainter now—or maybe you’re just getting better at finding it. A thin, almost imperceptible structure, like invisible glass laid over reality itself. You have enough fundamental understanding of your power that this… something is neither a part of his body nor his mana system. If you have to illustrate it, it’s something more of a patchwork layered on top.

You push gently against the crack, and to your fascination, it subtly shifts the moment you touch it. Though hearing Silver inhale sharply in return makes you halt in your tracks.

“Sorry—”

“No, it’s fine.” He sighs through his nose, the sound controlled, but tighter than usual. “Just… unexpected.”

Strange, perhaps, is the word he wishes to convey.

His shoulders are still, but not relaxed—like he’s holding himself in place rather than naturally resting. You can feel it through your hands too, the faint resistance in the framework beneath your mana, as though your presence there is being acknowledged in real time.

Silver’s voice lowers slightly. “Continue, if it helps determine the issue.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, and press your palms more firmly against his neck and shoulder. The metal of his armour is chilling beneath your fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin where your thumbs brush against the juncture between his shoulder blade and his neck.

The crack resists at first—that gnawing prickle of prodding against something that does not want to be seen, like pushing against the edge of a thought that isn’t fully formed yet. 

Your mana flows against the fault line like water finding its way through stone, wearing down the edges without breaking them. It is only until you are satisfied, that you send a concentrated spike of mana directly into what you believe to be the center of the crack.

By the moment this “something” gives out, warmth floods through the opening like a dam breaking—an amorphous sensation that is a ubiquitous and almost overwhelming sense of everything—a wholeness that rests beneath your fingertips.

You are pulled right out of that feeling when, for a split second, a high-pitched, silent ring echoes in your mind—like a glass vase breaking in another room. Silver’s entire body jolts beneath your hands, a violent tremor racking his frame from his neck down to his boots.

“What the—” 

Then, he simply stops.

It happens so fast, you don’t have time to catch him. One moment he’s sitting beside you, shoulders tense but upright; the next, his body slackens all at once, like something inside him has been switched off. His weight drags forward, and he starts to collapse out of your hands.

“Silver?” 

Panic, cold and sharp, slams against your ribcage as you scramble around to his side. Your arms hook around his shoulders on instinct, trying to keep him upright, but his head merely lolls helplessly against your chest.

For one terrifying second, your mind goes completely blank.

“Holy—Silver? Hey! Silver, wake up! Shit!” You’re practically shrieking in a whisper, your mind racing through every worst-case scenario. Holy shit, oh my god, Did I—God forbid—just kill the Commander?

What the fuck, what the fuck. Shit, if you had known this was what’s going to happen, you wouldn’t have even bothered to think about it. Your grip tightens around his shoulders like sheer force alone can undo whatever you just did.

It’s honestly a miracle no one has come out of the tent to check.

“Oh my god, what did I do? What did I do?” You fumble for his neck, your fingers frantically searching for the carotid artery through the gaps of his armour.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a drum, sweat beads forming on your brow despite the chill of the gorge. You’re ready for the headlines, ready for the firing squad—

You find it.

His pulse—it’s a steady and infuriatingly normal beat beneath your fingertips, as though he has only fallen into a sudden slumber out of sheer exhaustion. You freeze so hard it feels like your soul briefly leaves your body and ascends to greet the heavenly officials.

“Oh, thank fuck,” you breath, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. The cool surface of the metal presses against your skin, grounding you, reminding you that this is all real, that he’s real and alive.

You look down at his face—he looks so peaceful (looks just like the Silver who would sleep in every conspicuous space, whether it be out in the courtyard, the stairs, or Crowley’s beloved library). His expression has softened in that familiar way, brows no longer held in that careful line of discipline, lips slightly parted—he looks like a very annoying, very handsome painting.

“...You’re going to give me an actual heart attack one day.” You mutter, half-laughing, half still recovering from spiritual damage. 

You shift, adjusting his weight against you, and his head lolls further into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, slow and even, and you can feel his heartbeat against your palm.

As much as you want to stay in this position until tomorrow morning, you know it’s better to move him than let him rest on you like a sack of vegetables.

With a grunt of effort, you manage to sling one of his arms over your shoulders, your other arm wrapped around his waist, and you’re pretty sure you’re doing more dragging than carrying. 

As long as no one is watching, you grimace.

By some miracle (or perhaps sheer stubbornness), you make it to his tent, lowering him gently on his simple bedroll, which is to say you more or less drop him the last few inches.

Hell, he doesn’t even wake up, not even a stir.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” You inform his unconscious form, to which he does not respond. Rude.

After gingerly removing his armour and setting it aside, you make your way back by the fireplace and watch as the fiery crackles warm your body up, clutching the cloak around your form tighter.

You’re not sure you could sleep even if you wanted to, so you opt to just lie back on a stone and play I spy with my little eyes with no one but yourself and the gorge—well, you much prefer calling such an activity “keeping watch over the camp”.

You wonder what the system will say when it comes back.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you’re not where you fell asleep.

You blink groggily at the canvas before you, not the open sky you’d been staring at when drowsiness finally pulled you under. The second thing you notice is that someone has covered you with a blanket, tucked it around your shoulders with careful hands.

You sit up slowly, your body protesting every movement. The tent is dim, lit only by the pale light of early dawn filtering through the gaps in the tent. Your cloak—his cloak—is folded neatly beside your bedroll, and someone has placed a waterskin just within your reach.

How did I get here?

You push aside the blanket and crawl toward the tent flap, your heart pounding. The camp is quiet, and the sky is streaked with pale pink and gold as the sun begins to rise over the gorge.

Knights stand in loose formation near the edge of the camp, checking equipment in silence rather than chatter. Turning your head to the right, you can see Theo failing to sharpen a dagger correctly, and the smell of stew is beginning to waft through the air, kindling your hunger.

You stop in your tracks, however, when your eyes land on Silver’s back.

You step out of the tent, your boots crunching softly on the rocky ground, and his head snaps toward you. His eyes widen slightly before softening into something warmer.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice softer and more grounded than you remember. You stare a bit warily at him—hell, even Theo curiously flicked his eyes up to where you both stand (nosy kid, just focus on your weapon.)

Uh, did you accidentally set off some kind of hidden trigger to his character or something?

“Yeah… how’s your shoulder?” you ask carefully, testing the waters as you watch for any signs that might indicate something had somehow gone wrong after what happened last night.

To your bewilderment, Silver unexpectedly lets out the faintest huff of laughter underneath his breath. 

“I feel considerably better now,” he replies, lifting a hand to roll his shoulder once as if testing the movement himself. “I suspect the treatment may have been… more effective than anticipated.”

Oh, thank god there are no repercussions.

“That’s a relief.” Relief is an understatement, honestly. The knot lodged somewhere between your lungs and stomach finally loosens for the first time since last night, tension draining out of your body so abruptly you nearly sway where you stand.

You had half expected Silver to wake up with brain damage, memory loss, or worse, some horrifying personality rewrite that would be entirely your fault.

Instead, he’s standing here perfectly fine, looking mildly amused, which frankly feels like divine mercy.

Your shoulders sag lightly as you admit, “You collapsed on me out of nowhere. I thought I accidentally killed the Commander of the Order and was about to get publicly executed before breakfast.” 

From somewhere near you, Theo makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like someone trying to not choke on air.

You ignore him, barely.

“There is…” He pauses, like he’s weighing the words before speaking them out loud. “Something I would like to tell you when we have privacy, possibly after this dispatch.”

The moment the sentence leaves his mouth, the atmosphere around the camp shifts in the most infinitesimal yet obvious way possible. It’s as if every single knight in earshot suddenly developed superhuman hearing—one knight suddenly becomes deeply invested in fastening a strap that has already been secured three times, another nearly fumbles an entire pot of stew while pretending not to listen, and Theo looks like he’s about to fall off his seat from how far he’s blatantly leaning in your direction, not even bothered to appear inconspicuous. 

Your eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds… ominous.”

“It is not meant to be,” Silver replies immediately. “It’s better if we speak when there are no distractions.”

Uh. Talk about being even more ominous than before.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that Theo has practically folded himself in half, torso craned at an angle that can’t possibly be comfortable, his dagger forgotten in his lap. He looks like a meerkat who has spotted a predator on the horizon—except the predator is gossip, and he has absolutely no survival instincts.

Unfortunately for your rapidly deteriorating sanity, Silver refuses to elaborate further after that. You stare back at Silver and think, Oh wow, I definitely sure like being edged like this!

So, with your curiosity left to slowly rot in real time, the expedition finally descends into the dungeon—and it surely lives up to its name in the worst possible way.

The moment your group crosses through the spatial tear, the air changes into something stale and heavy with a pressure that settles against your skin like a damp cloth. The cavern stretches endlessly downward in layers of jagged stone and black crystalline growths, veins of Miasma pulsing faintly through the walls like a heartbeat beneath flesh. Here, every sound reverberates strangely—footsteps bounce back delayed, distant drips sound almost like crazed whispers, and the deeper you venture, the more the dungeon itself feels aware of your presence.

You shiver, it’s not as though it’s your first time going inside a dungeon, but it never fails to make your skin crawl in unease.

Thankfully, the operation itself proceeds smoothly. 

Silver cuts through corrupted beasts with terrifying efficiency and accuracy, his blade flashing silver-white in the darkness. The knights maintain formation behind him, while your divine power keeps the Miasma from encroaching too closely, and heal when it’s needed—it’s a nice work division that makes the whole thing work.

Still, throughout the entire descent, your attention keeps drifting to Silver.

Something is different about him—it’s subtle enough that no one else seems to notice, but impossible for you to ignore now that you’re looking for it.

You notice how his gaze lingers on you a second longer than before, more thoughtful than it is attentive. You notice how he occasionally looks like he’s about to say something, only to stop himself at the last second whenever another knight approaches. You notice how his composure now feels less like rigid duty and more like someone actively holding too many words behind his teeth, torn in between the seams of his own thoughts.

You notice, and notice, and notice, because for the first time since you’ve met him, this Commander doesn’t feel like a fixed point you can neatly categorize in your head—he feels… layered.

Even as you purify another patch of Miasma, as you watch Silver’s sword curve through the darkness like it personally offended him, you can’t quite stop your thoughts from circling back to him.

By the time your group reaches the lower level of the dungeon, your brain has already constructed twelve increasingly catastrophic theories.

Is it a confession? Some sort of selective memory loss? An existential crisis (you can’t really blame him, since he lives inside a literal painting)? A secret terminal illness that he has kept a secret for the course of his life, and now he wishes to tell you about it? Tax fraud?

At one point, you become so distracted trying to psychoanalyze Silver’s entire existence that you nearly walk directly into a wall full of booby traps.

A hand catches your wrist instantly before you can stupidly do so. “Careful.”

You glance up, only to find Silver’s face inches from yours, his silver eyes sharp with concern. 

“You’ve been distracted since we came here,” He says quietly, his voice low and close—too close, you realize.

Oh, you think, I wonder why.

“I’m not distracted,” you lie, you know, like a liar. It’s not like you can just plain out say, I’m thinking about you, Commander. “I’m just thinking about… this whole dungeon.”

He eyes your slightly grumbled expression, noting the furrow of your eyebrows. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his eyes crinkles. A soft, airy sound escapes him—a faint, genuine laugh that sounds entirely too light for a man currently standing in the literal heart of a dark abyss.

You blink, momentarily stunned.

“...What?” you ask immediately, because nothing about someone laughing in a dungeon is remotely normal. “What’s so funny, Commander?”

Silver’s gaze softens into something impossibly nostalgic. He doesn’t let go of your wrist—instead, he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely skims the shell of your ear. 

“No,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with a clarity that makes your breath hitch. “It’s just… I’m relieved I found you here, Prefect.”

…What.

“What.”

What the fuck. You swear your heart dropped right to your ass when you heard it.

The word echoes in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your suddenly very empty brain. The air in the dungeon, previously thick with the stench of rot and ancient stone, suddenly feels like it’s been vacuumed out of the room. You freeze, your jaw going slack as the realization slowly seeps in your brain cells.

What the hell did he just say?

“Wait—Silver, what did you just—”

You open your mouth to demand answers when a guttural snarl rips through the corridor ahead. The sound echoes off the stone walls, and every thought in your head scatters like disturbed birds.

Theo swears from somewhere behind you. “Yeah, okay, that’s new.”

Cracks split open along the stone like veins being torn apart, black light peeking through in uneven pulses. Something scrapes on the other side—too many limbs, too hungry—and then the first wave of Voidborne pushes through, shrieking in overlapping distortions that make your teeth ache.

You drag your hands down your face. Apparently, the universe has decided you don’t get to have a single moment of clarity before everything goes to hell. “Oh, for fucks’ sake.” 

The wave lasts for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s probably much less than an hour—the Captain says something about “standard void surge” and “dormant Heart response”—but time has lost all meaning in the depths of this place.

When the last creature falls, dissolving into a pool of shadow that slowly fades, the cavern falls silent. The only sounds pounding against your eardrums are the heavy breathing of exhausted knights and the distant, pulsing heartbeat of a Hollow Heart.

Theo slumps against the wall, clutching a gash on his arms. “I hate dungeons.”

A fellow knight nearby raises one of her eyebrows as she cleans her blade. “You love dungeons.”

“I love easy dungeons. There’s a difference.”

The Hollow Heart sits deeper than the rest of the dungeon, as if the entire structure has been built around the refusal to let it be reached. The closer you get, the more the air itself feels compressed, pressing against your lungs like an invisible hand.

When you surge Divine Aegis through it, the Heart resists at first, pulsing harder as if trying to anchor itself into the world through sheer refusal to die. The pressure in the chamber spikes so violently that your vision blurs at the edge, and it feels like it’s trying to reject your touch.

You push deeper, tightening the divine light before the organ fractures without sound, cracks of pale brilliance spiderwebbing across its impossible surface before it collapses in on itself entirely. There’s no explosion following it; rather, it leaves a quiet, final absence that has been erased from the world and forgotten mid-thought.

The walk back to the surface is a blur of exhaustion and relief. The dungeon, now cleansed of its corruption, feels different—lighter, somehow, considering how the walls no longer pulse with that sickly violet glow, and the air tastes clean instead of stagnant.

You stand at the entrance, taking in the boundless sky that is dyed in a pale, peaceful blue, before dragging Silver by his hand away to a more secluded corner near the gorge, away from the “ohh” and “ahh” of the knights.

The moment you’re far enough from the knights that their voices dissolve into background noise, you release Silver’s hand—but only just enough to point at him like you’re about to cross-examine a criminal.

“Okay,” you say. “Explain, uh, preferably as quick as you can. I’ve got less than an hour before the Divine Fever kicks me in the ass and I start hallucinating again, so I need the short version.”

Silver nods, “I was accompanying Fa—Lilia in the library at that time. He was researching some cookbooks, I believe, and I… must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way.”

“When I woke up, I was already here.”

So, Crowley, in fact, put that painting for anyone to fall in.

Upon waking in the painting, he was immediately bombarded by the system’s internal logic, which forcibly grafted the Commander’s identity into his own. He describes how the more he performed these “objectives”—leading the knights, reciting the oaths of the Order, upholding his virtues—the more his actual consciousness began to ebb away. He remembers resisting at first, holding onto the awareness that he was not originally meant for this world, but each moment spent fulfilling the Commander’s duties made that resistance harder to access, like trying to recall a dream while still being inside it. 

It was a slow, terrifying erosion of self; he found himself slipping into a deep slumber where his true personality was being buried under the layers of the system’s influence.

The moment he finishes explaining, you feel a sudden, sharp spike in your body temperature—the first warning shot of the Divine Fever. Your vision slightly swims, the edge of the gorge blurring into a watercolour smear.

“Silver,” you croak with urgency. “Listen here, my fever is acting up already, but I have a plan that might get us the hell out of here.”

He steps closer without hesitation, and you’re grateful for the support he has on your arms. You barely manage to keep your thoughts straight as the Divine Fever creeps in—heat blooming under your skin in uneven waves, your vision threatening to smear at the edges again.

You force yourself to continue, anyway. The plan flows out of your mouth in messy but urgent words.

“Thing is, the system assigning us with these roles is also a matter of holding the entire world together with it through narrative consistency.”

You point vaguely at the air between you both, like the concept itself is floating there. “Commander Silver, Holy Saint, dungeon runs, all of it—they all count as story logic, aside from being some kind of structure. If things—if this story logic stays predictable, the system stays stable, in return.”

Silver seems to be following your logic. “And if they do not?”

“Then the story loses its integrity,” you continue. “And when the narrative integrity drops low enough, the painting can’t maintain cohesion. It starts rejecting these inconsistencies, all while it tries to maintain the script.”

Your finger curls slightly. “So we become an inconsistency—we’ll create a narrative correction.”

You gesture between you two. “Whatever this is—this dynamic, these interactions, we can create a new narrative thread that is strong enough to overwrite the existing structure’s expectations.” “I’m suggesting we become such a problem that the story can’t continue without rewriting itself around us.”

“...And yeah,” you add, rubbing your temples as the fever spikes again. “In most systems like this, that usually means escalating intimacy bonds, emotional deviations, shared arcs—whatever you want to call it.”

Silver exhales slowly, like he’s absorbing something far too large to respond to immediately. “...That is not a guaranteed method, is it?”

You snort. “No shit, but it’s the only one I can think of.”

Silver is quiet for a moment longer, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to map the logic of your plan. “Then, how do we do it?”

A grin tugs at your mouth. “Oh, listen closely.”

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — [MAINTENANCE COMPLETE !]

All core system functions have been fully restored. All previously suspended notifications and guidance protocols are now active—you may resume normal saintly duties, dungeon coordinations, and designated social interaction scheduling. 

We apologize for any inconvenience. ~♡

The harvest is in full swing.

Lanterns hang overhead in warm strands of gold and paper-red, swaying gently as crowds move through the decorated stalls. The air smells of roasted sweets, spiced cider, and something faintly floral that clings to everything like an etched memory, as lively music drifts between stalls.

Knights from the Order are scattered through the crowd, clearly trying very hard to look like this is all normal duty assignment and not a thinly veiled excuse for indulgement.

Somewhere nearby, you can hear Theo loudly insisting he is “absolutely not here for leisure, that is below me as a knight!” while buying three skewers of candied meat.

“...So this is happening,” you murmur. 

Ding!

Another notification pops in your line of sight.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Congratulations for completing the first half of [MAY CERCES BE WITH YOU], Holy Saint! Please continue to be diligent from here on out! ~♡”

The second notification lingers longer than the first, as if it’s waiting for you to respond with enthusiasm you absolutely do not possess.

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “...Holy Saint, did something happen while I was away?”

“Mm? Nothing happened,” you reply smoothly, offering the empty air a smile so saccharine it could cause cavities. You’re currently standing in the heart of the festival square, the smell of woodsmoke and sugar thick in the air, but your eyes are already scanning the crowd for a flash of silver hair.

“What happened?” The voice comes right beside you, and you nearly forgot that the Crown Prince has been accompanying you. Per the system’s original mission requirements, you’re supposed to be “hanging out” with him today to strengthen the Royal-Religion alliance or something.

“You seem distracted, Your Holiness.” He continues, brow arching. 

“Oh—no, I’m not, I just… my lover is joining us.” you reply, though you’re already mid-scan of the crowd, still looking for that familiar form of the Commander.

“Oh?” The Crown Prince’s tone lifts slightly, interest sharpening just enough to be noticeable. “A lover?”

You nod immediately, committing before your brain can intervene. “Yeah, someone from the Order.”

The Crown Prince’s smile lingers just a fraction longer, like he’s already decided this is going to be an entertaining evening.

“I see,” he says. “The more, the merrier, I suppose. I look forward to meeting them.”

You’re about to respond when you finally spot him.

Silver is standing near a stall of painted masks, his snowy hair unmistakable even in the golden glow of the lanterns. He’s not in his full armor—just a simple blouse, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his sword still at his hips. A smile graces his lips at the sight of you, until his gaze shifts to the man beside you.

Something flickers across his expression—too fast to name—before it fades just as quickly, and he begins walking toward you.

“Ah,” the Crown Prince says, following your gaze. “Is that him? The Commander, isn’t he?”

“That’s him.” You confirm.

Silver reaches you in a few long strides, his posture formal as he inclines his head slightly in polite acknowledgement, expression calm and practiced.

“Your Highness,” he greets. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” The Crown Prince’s smile widens. “The Saint was just telling me about you.”

“I was?” you ask—I mean, sure, yeah, but also not really? You just mentioned him. To your confusion, The Crown Prince merely hums, entirely at ease. 

“Oh?” He tilts his head slightly. “I assumed you were being modest.”

…?

What is he playing at? You immediately decide you hate diplomacy.

“...I see,” Silver’s gaze returns to the Prince, but there’s a subtle tightening at the edge of his expression now—something near-adjacent to restrain carefully kept under control. “I hope it is… accurate.”

You laugh nervously.

“Hm,” The Crown Prince turns to you, his smile dancing in barely concealed delight. “He’s very protective of you, Your Holiness. How admirable.”

“Anyway!” You cut in, stepping slightly between them like that will physically stop narrative escalation. “We should get some food first before doing anything—”

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Your Holiness! Would you like to use [SCENE PROMPTER] to accelerate the mission?~♡”

The what?

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “[SCENE PROMPTER] used ~♡”

You stupid system, I never said anything about using it! You hissed under your breath, muttering out curse words to that useless system. Why go through with the maintenance in the first place?!

Before you can start spitting another verse of curses, a sudden burst of music erupts nearby as a festival announcer’s voice booms across the square.

“And now… beginning our traditional couples game!”

You feel like ten years of your life has been shaved off in this very second.

“...I’m sorry,” you say out loud to no one in particular. 

Contrary to your misery-ridden face, the Crown Prince looks delighted.

“Oh?” he says lightly, turning toward the center of the square where festival staff are already dragging bewildered civilians toward a decorated platform. “What fortunate timing.”

The announcer’s voice booms through the square with enthusiasm. “Couples participating in this year’s game may proceed to the stage! Winners will receive the Blessed Garland and premium festival prizes!”

Your ears instantly perk up at that—premium festival prizes? Boy, oh boy, why didn’t you mention that first?

A dangerously amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches your expression morph from existential despair into sudden, laser-focused interest.

“I believe,” The Prince starts smoothly, “this year’s rewards also include imported wines, festival vouchers, a buffet in Golden Apple Inn, enchanted artifacts, and—”

You don’t even let him finish, your hands already shooting out to grab Silver by the sleeve, eyes suddenly sparkling with a kind of unholy motivation.

“Silver,” you say with deadly seriousness, already tugging him toward the platform. “We’re winning this. We’ll show the rest what a real couple looks like.”

You mentally cringe at that, but at least Silver doesn’t offer any commentary. The Crown Prince, however, outright laughs.

Oh, the Prince thinks in delight, it seems the rumors are true!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 63%

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Guh…”

That is how you both end up on stage, fingers entwined, and awkwardly feigning ignorance to the indignant squawks of “the Commander and the Holy Saint?!” below (it’s all the more awkward when all the hooting and hollering belongs mostly to the Order’s knights).

“...Well, at least this aligns pretty well with our intentions.” Silver whispers from beside you, trying very hard to avoid eye contact with the knights present amidst the crowd.

“...Can’t say it’s not ideal.” You reply, though your voice comes out slightly strained as the sheer volume of cheering from below crashes against your ears.

Silver lets out a faint laugh—the lanternlight paints warm gold along the edges of his profile, softening the sharpness of his usual composure. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that subtle pink beginning to crawl at the tips of his ears.

You can’t exactly tell if it’s embarrassment or something else, but it certainly prompts a warmth of your own that stirs within your chest.

It’s ridiculous—you’ve faced down Hollow Hearts, Voidborne creatures, and even the system’s nonsensical yaps. You shouldn’t be flustered by something as simple as holding Silver’s hand in public, by the soft curve of his smile, by the way his fingers clench against yours.

“We’re going to win this.” He says.

“Obviously.” You whisper back.

“Welcome lovely couples!” the announcer beams at the line of participants assembled on stage. “The first event shall test the trust and harmony between partners!”

You immediately don’t like where this is going.

The Crown Prince, seated far too comfortably among the judges, catches your eyes from across the square with his smile that is nothing short of complicit.

You really don’t like where this is going.

“Now then!” the announcer declares, gesturing grandly toward a lacquered box filled with folded slips of paper that is wheeled out by a festival staff, before dipping his hand in. “Let’s see which challenge our honourable couples are fortunate enough to get!”

#01. RIBBON BINDING RELAY

Partners must navigate through the course while connected by a single red ribbon tied around their dominant wrist. The ribbon may not be removed or broken. 

Festival attendants waste absolutely no time. A long scarlet ribbon is promptly produced and tied around your wrist before you can even flee the country. The other end is secured around Silver’s wrist with ceremonial enthusiasm that feels deeply malicious.

“Participants must complete three cooperative tasks!” the announcer beams. “Lighting the painted lantern, carrying the ceremonial cups, and traversing the obstacle course without separating from your partner!”

This is going to be a disaster.

The first task is, predictably, the easiest on paper and the most humiliating in practice.

A pair of unlit lanterns hang at opposite ends of a narrow archway, suspended just high enough that neither of you can comfortably reach them without coordination. A single ember charm sits on a pedestal between you, clearly meant to be shared.

Silver glances up at the same time. “So, we need to light both of them at the same time?” “With the same source, too,” you confirm, already regretting everything.

The ribbon between your wrists tightens slightly as you move in opposite directions, forcing an awkward correction as you instinctively resync your steps. 

“...Left hand or right?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“It will if you burn yourself.” 

Between the two of you, the ember charm ignites under shared divine energy, flaring briefly before splitting into twin streams of light that leap into both lanterns at once. As the archway flickers alive in warm gold, a cheer rises somewhere in the crowd.

The second task is worse. 

A long table has been set with identical ceremonial cups, each filled with a shimmering liquid that smells faintly floral and suspiciously magical, probably. The rules are simple—both partners must carry their cups across a moving platform course without spilling a single drop—and without letting the ribbon slacken enough to lose synchronicity. 

The moment you and Silver each take a cup, the platform beneath you shifts.

“Of course it moves,” you mutter—Coach Vargas would be so happy to see you exercise this much.

Silver steps slightly closer without hesitation, aligning his pace with yours before the ribbon can pull taut. 

It isn’t dramatic in a romantic sense—at least, you tell yourself that—but there’s something disarmingly steady about the way he adjusts every step to match yours without needing to be told.

By the time you reach the end, neither cup has spilled.

The final course is—well, someshit you’d see straight from the UA festival or something.

A shifting obstacle field stretches ahead—moving platforms, narrowing bridges, and illusory walls that flicker in and out of existence. 

When the first platform drops away, and you instinctively stumble, it’s his arms that steady you through the ribbon’s pull, and when he steps forward, you move with him before thinking, because anything else would send both of you tumbling off the course entirely.

By the time you both reach the end, you are placed in third out of the nine couples.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 58%

“Well, third place is third place,” you sigh as the festival staff directs you and Silver off the platform. The ribbon has been removed—finally—and your wrist feels strangely bare without it. “At least we’re not last.”

“Mm.” Silver agrees from beside you, his voice is measured, but you can hear the faintest hint of disappointment beneath.

The festival continues around you in warm waves of lantern lights and cheery noise. Couples wander between stalls hand-in-hand, children run through the crowd with bobbing wreath crowns atop their heads, and the scent of spiced cider accompanied by roasted chestnuts drift through the air like a sweet promise.

For a little while, you and Silver simply walk, basking in the festive atmosphere as you visit from stall to stall—sampling honey-glazed pastries from elderly vendors who insist on giving the “lovely couple” extra portions (after you blatantly coo at a very flustered Silver about your made-up meet-cute story), getting ambushed by enthusiastic merchants trying to sell matching charms “for relationship prosperity” (you proceed to vent onto the merchant how your “forbidden” love prevails, despite how there are those in the Sanctuary who disapproves of your relationship to get an extra discount), and narrowly escaping a flower girl determined to weave both of you in the same ceremonial wreath (Silver drags you away in a flushed hurry when you offer the kid to be a flowergirl in their wedding instead).

“Wow, you’re so sweet toward children, Commander. How fortunate this Holy Saint is to claim you as mine.” You tease slightly as Silver kneels to return a dropped wreath crown to a little girl who immediately runs away in fits of giggles when she sees him. 

Silver’s ears go pink—just faintly, barely noticeable beneath the lantern glow, but noticeable enough that you immediately feel spiritually vindicated. “Please stop, prefect.”

“Stop?” you repeat, your voice dropping into a playful register. “But I’m just being honest, Silver. Isn’t honesty a Saintly virtue?”

Silver lets out another one of those half-strangled sounds.

At some point, Silver wins you a tiny carved fox from a throwing game with terrifying accuracy on his very first try. In return, you drag him toward a painted mask stall and hold increasingly ridiculous masks up until the poor vendor nearly cries laughing.

The tension so far is strangely easy… which is probably why you don’t notice the next disaster until it’s already too late.

“Oh!” A festival worker lights up the moment they spot you both appreciating a decorated stall lined with ribbons and silk blindfolds. “Another couple! Perfect timing!”

Behind the attendant hangs a painted sign:

#02. TRUST BLINDFOLD GAME

One person must navigate the obstacle path while blindfolded, the other may only guide them verbally.

“Aha, actually, we were just leaving—”

“You’ll get double reward tokens if you clear it flawlessly!” The attendant chirps.

Five minutes later, you’re blindfolded. 

“You’re quite predictable, aren’t you, prefect?” Silver asks, more amused than anything else.

This is the worst day of your life.

The silk tied over your eyes blocks out your sight completely, leaving you suspended in darkness while distant crowd noise blurs somewhere around you. You can vaguely hear the attendant explaining obstacle rules, but most of your focus is currently occupied by the fact that Silver is standing directly behind you.

Very directly behind you.

One of his hands lightly steadies your shoulder as the attendant positions you at the start of the course.

“Just a heads up, there are low obstacles ahead,” Silver says quietly near your ears.

His voice sounds different when you can’t see him—lower somehow, closer, every word brushing warm against the shell of your ear in a way that immediately short-circuits several critical functions in your brain.

“Take two small steps forward,” he continues calmly.

“There’s a narrow beam ahead, slightly to the left.” You nearly walk directly off the course anyway—not because of the obstacle, but because his breath brushes the side of your neck for half a second.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

“You’re distracted again.” he murmurs. 

??? you wonder why.

You take a careful step forward, guided by his voice as the obstacle course shifts beneath you—wooden platforms adjusting, ropes swaying overhead, distant bells chiming to signal progress. Every instruction he gives is precise and incredibly calm, like he’s done this a hundred times.

Left, stop, half-step forward, wait.

“You’re doing well,” he says, and the words brush against your ear like a secret. His voice is low, almost intimate, as if the crowd around you has faded into nothingness and there’s only the two of you in this small pocket of darkness.

You swallow hard, your fingers clenching at the edge of the blindfold. “How much longer?”

“Almost there, there are three more steps straight ahead.”

You take them—one, two, three.

“Stop.” You stop in command. “There’s a rope at about chest height, duck under it.”

You duck—or you try to—considering how the rope catches on your shoulder instead, and you stumble backward straight into Silver.

His arms come around you instantly, catching you before you can fall. The blindfold slips, just enough for you to see the flash of his concerned face, his hands wrapped around your arms like he’s afraid you’d disappear.

Is this another one of those shitty scene prompter? You think distantly.

“Careful,” Silver says, his hand briefly catching your wrist before you can misstep off the final platform.

“You said chest height,” You argue.

“I said about chest height.”

“You and your abouts.” 

You reach the final stretch without realizing it, the crowd noise swelling faintly as the exit bell chimes somewhere ahead. The blindfold comes off the moment you step past the final marker, the sudden return of color and noise almost disorienting after being guided through darkness and voice alone.

Applause rises from the crowd, but you can’t focus much on it when you can feel how Silver is still so close. 

Fuck, you try to believe that the warmth that rushes to your cheekbones is only from pure adrenaline, and nothing more

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 50%

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Holy Saint, the Commander is not the designated as a romantic interest, please return to the intended narrative parameters.”

The notification suddenly flickers, as though the system itself is stuttering.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Crown Prince has been flagged as OOC, and romantic protocols for I Became the Crown Prince’s Saviour have failed to engage. No romantic data found in the Prince’s current neural path—he is officially removed from the ‘Romantic Interest’ registry.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 47%

The blindfold game rewards are generous—a small pouch of silver coins, a pair of matching enamel pins shaped like crescent moons, and a voucher for a free desert at any festival stall. 

You and Silver retreat to a quiet stone bench, slightly away from the main crowd, where the lantern lights spill more across the cobblestones. The noise of the festival becomes something distant and gentle here—laughter, music, the occasional burst of applause—it is as if the world has finally decided to stop demanding you anything for a moment.

After trading your voucher for a skewer of honey-roast apples, you settle back onto the bench with a quiet exhale, the warmth of the food grounding you in a way that the day hasn’t managed to. Silver sits beside you, seemingly content to simply watch the way your eyes light up with every bite of the honeyed fruit, a look of quiet, genuine peace settling over his features.

“It’s funny seeing the system losing its mind,” you mutter, gesturing with an apple slice at the empty air. “It literally just kicked the Crown Prince out of the story. I’ve never seen a narrative engine give up that fast.”

Silver lets out a faint, genuine huff of laughter. “I believe the Prince did help us, he looks far too amused every time he looks at us.”

You snort softly at that, tilting your head back against the stone bench as the warmth of the food lingers on your tongue. “Oh, he’s absolutely enjoying this too much; that man is not normal.”

Silver hums in agreement, though there’s a faint softness in his expression as he watches the festival lights. He reaches into the small pouch of rewards, pulling out one of the crescent moon pins and turns it over his palm. Without any warning, he leans in, carefully pinning the small moon to the lapel of your silks, leaving you to be startled by the sudden proximity.

“It suits you,” he says, “it would be a shame if we can’t bring it out of this painting.”

You look down at the little moon, then at the matching one still in the pouch. You take it out, and pin it to the dark fabric of his clothes. “For real, it would be nice if we could bring them out—you know, as a souvenir for this entire shitshow.”

Silver huffs another laugh. “A souvenir from a shitshow is certainly one way to commemorate a festival.”

“You’re welcome.” you say, entirely too pleased with yourself, before leaning back again as the last of the apple skewer disappears between you and your rapidly diminishing sense of emotional restraint.

For a couple of minutes, neither of you speak again.

The festival around you slowly shifts tone as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in deep amber and violet. Lantern sellers begin moving through the crowd, offering folded paper lights and ink brushes for wishes. The noise of the celebration softens into something much quieter and wistful.

“The lantern ceremony is starting soon,” he says after a while.

“I know.”

“Do you want to participate?”

You glance toward the riverbank, where the first lanterns are already beginning to lift into the sky. “Yeah, we might as well. It feels like the kind of thing the system would mark as a mandatory closure event.”

A lantern seller passes by and presses two folded paper lanterns into your hands again without waiting for consent, offering a brush dipped in ink that smells faintly of soot and flowers. Silver takes one without hesitation, turning it slightly in his hands as if inspecting it.

You sit down on the edge of the riverbank together. 

“What are you going to wish for?” you ask, fiddling the folded paper in your hands.

“If I tell you my wish, wouldn't it mean it won’t come true?” He replies, eyes still on the lantern.

“...Not wrong.”

He laughs, a soft and genuine sound that makes your chest ache in something dangerously close to fondness. Around you, lanterns continue rising in slow waves, turning the river into a mirror of drifting luminescence. 

“Fine,” you reply, turning your attention back to your own lantern. “I’ll keep my wish a secret too.”

The silence between you is comfortable and mundane, filled only by the rhythmic lapping of the river and the choral hum of the festival’s closing hymn in the distance. You dip your brush in ink, the tip trembling just slightly against the paper.

Beside you, Silver’s brush moves more elegantly, the ink flowing in smooth strokes as if he’s not writing a wish so much as committing something already decided to permanence. When you finally finish your own, you both stand up to light the wick. 

The warmth of the lantern expands, and you watch in awe as the paper blooms with a lick of golden that illuminates Silver’s face. 

“Ready?” He asks.

“Ready.”

As you hold the bottom of your lantern and prepare to lift it into the darkened sky, Silver’s hand shifts from his lantern and slides his fingers down until they cover yours, his palm warm and calloused against your skin.

“...Silver?” 

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Narrative integrity is currently below the safe operational threshold. Current romantic/branching variables are exceeding assigned route limits, and emotional coherence markers are no longer aligned with predesignated script structure. Please disengage unapproved relational escalation and return to approved interaction parameters immediately.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 39%

“...I changed my mind,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the faint crackles of flame. “I don’t care much if the wish doesn’t come true because I said it. I want you to know it anyway.”

He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours. The lantern between your hands stutters once, casting golden light and shadow across both of your faces. His breath is close enough that you can feel it more than you can hear it, close enough that you can count each individual lash, close enough that the world outside this small bubble has ceased to exist.

“I wish,” he breathes out, “that I can stay by your side, just like this, for as long as I can—for as long as you let me.”

“Please forgive my boldness,” with a slow, almost reverent grace laced in his touch, he lifts your joined hands to his lips. His lips brush against your knuckles—a gesture so delicate and tender that the kiss feels like an unspoken oath.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Narrative integrity is currently below the safe operational threshold. Current romantic/branching variables are exceeding assigned route limits, and emotional coherence markers are no longer aligned with predesignated script structure. Please disengage unapproved relational escalation and return to approved interaction parameters immediately.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 28%

The air between you is thick (in tension? In warmth? In everything you’ve both been too afraid to name? You’re not sure anymore, not when his lips are damningly soft against the skin of your knuckles), charged with a gravity that makes you conscious of every movement within the space that you both called your own. 

Silver doesn’t pull away after that—he keeps his lips brushed against your skin for a heartbeat too long, his eyes searching yours with raw intensity. 

“You…” Your voice hitches, the single word barely more than a breath that gets lost in the narrow space between you. You try to find the rest of the sentence, but your brain is currently a frantic mess of static and heat. 

There’s too much to say—too many threads pulling in different directions at once, too many meanings colliding behind the grit of your teeth before they can become languages without branding themselves onto your lexicon as something that would change the shape of everything after it.

You can’t just say that, you think, it’s not good for my heart!

Perhaps he’ll never know, or maybe he will—maybe one day, he will come to know the devastating impact he leaves in his wake, one that effortlessly leaves you tracing the cords of the stars and likening them to the lines of his palms that have gently cradled the heart of yours.

Though that is a thought for another time, a confession in another lifetime, maybe.

Your free hand comes to cup his jaw—tentative at first, then firmer when he doesn’t withdraw from your touch. If anything, he leans into it, like he’s been waiting for this exact kind of certainty from you, even if neither of you said it out loud. 

You lean in, your breath ghosting over his lips, the mingling scent of leftover honey apples with a note of something earthy making your head spin.

Silver’s eyes flutter shut, his hands shifting from your knuckles to the small of your back, pulling you closer until the gap between you isn’t quite distance anymore; rather a brief space of warmth that leaves just the frantic rhythm of two hearts thrumming in tandem.

Your lips are a hair’s breadth apart, so close and fragile—

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Due to unsanctioned convergence exceeding predefined script parameters, narrative stability can no longer be maintained within current scene constraints. Initiating emergency world clean-up protocol.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 10%

Your grip tightens for a second—did you just get cockblocked by this hack-ass system?

You stare at the shimmering blue warning box hovering right where Silver’s lips were supposed to be—the sheer petty audacity of the timing hitting you like a bucket of cold water.

“Are you fucking kidding m—”

You don’t even get the chance to finish your words when you’re promptly swallowed by waves of white noise.

The smell of lilies and sweet incense is gone, replaced instantly by the nostalgic air of old parchment.

You gasp, your lungs burning as you pull in a breath of stale, library air. Your cheek is pressed against the cold, hard mahogany of a study table—yikes, you hope you don’t grant yourself a concussion. 

“Ugh…”

A soft, pained groan echoes from the seat beside you.

You bolt upright, blinking back the dark spots in your vision. The library is silent and dark, bathed only by the several small, golden lamps. Beside you, Silver is slowly pushing himself up, his silver hair a tangled mess and his eyes wide with lingering alarm.

He freezes when his gaze meets yours, and for a long, breathless beat of silence, neither of you speaks—stil clearly in a daze from… what could have happened.

“...I’m going to burn that fucking painting in front of Crowley.”

Silver lets out a soft laugh, the sound shaky but amused, nonetheless. “I’ll help you light the torch, I suppose.”

His fingers graze yours, and slides his hand over yours, pinning it gently against the mahogany. The fresh memory by the riverbank, the amber light, and the breath fanning against your lips rushes back with such force it makes your head swim.

Violet eyes drop to your lips, and you find yourself unconsciously leaning forward with your heart doing that frenetic dance against the contours of your ribcage. You shut your eyes when the distance closes to a hair’s breadth for the second time tonight, finally ready to see if the real thing tastes as much like honey and promise as the painting did—

The library doors slam against the wall with a deafening crack. “Henchuman! Sniffs, I knew you’d be back!—”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, I’m going to fucking burn this fucking school down—”

[nekonaps0]

hello! If you can, can you write something about deuce helping the reader draw his spade/makeup before a happy unbirthday event at Heartslabyul? Him guiding them or reassuring them while the reader is drawing it! Maybe it could end with both of them realizing their feelings for each other and Ace interrupting them? I love the trope of two dense people not realizing their feelings for each other.

Also a sidenote, reading your pinned post, I wanted to say that your writing is one of my favorites to read! hope you know that your writing is very good. ❤️

Spade on the heart

✦Deuce Spade x Gn!Reader

✦FLUFF, mutual crush, mutual pining, friends to lovers

It was Deuce birthday, and all of heartslabyul was buzzing like a mouse who just fell in the coffee mug. Cater was snapping photos left and right while putting little snacks on the tables. Riddle stood on a stepladder directing the placement of every single ribbon with military precision. Trey was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, baking not just one but two different cakes. And Ace? Ace had sprinted out the door twenty minutes ago, because of course he completely forgot to buy anything for his best friend.

You, meanwhile were exactly where you wanted to be, in Deuce room, sprawled comfortably on his bed while he stood in front of the mirror looking like he was preparing for war instead of his own birthday party.

“You’re overthinking it.” you said with a soft laugh, watching him hold up two nearly identical shirts. “Everything looks good on you, Deuce. Just pick one.”

He groaned, running a hand through his messy blue hair. “But it’s my birthday. I don’t wanna look like… y’know… a delinquent who got dragged into formal wear.”

You sat up, grinning. “It’s part of your charm. And anything is fine… just don’t dye your hair blonde again.”

Deuce’s ears turned bright red at the memory. “You don’t have to remind… my hair was fried…”

You laughed harder. The sound seemed to relax him a little. He finally sighed and held up his birthday jacket that always made him look surprisingly cooler. “This one?” he asked hopeful.

You nodded, giving him a thumbs up. “Perfect. That’s the one.”

While he changed you turned around scrolled through your phone, sending a quick message to Trey that you’d be down soon to help with decorations. When Deuce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, your breath caught for just a second. He looked… really good. The jacket fit his shoulders perfectly, and the red brought out the warmth in his eyes. He fidgeted under your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Does it look dumb?” he mumbled.

“It looks great!” you said honestly, smiling. “You look really handsome Deuce.”

His cheeks flushed again, but he smiled, that shy, genuine smile that always made your stomach do a little flip lately. You’d been feeling those flips more and more often, but you kept telling yourself it was just because he was your best friend. A really cute best friend. Who happened to be incredibly sweet and earnest and…

Nope. Not going there today.

“Alright, last thing.” Deuce said, sitting down at his desk. He picked up the black eyeliner pen and leaned toward the small mirror. “The spade. Easy. I do this every morning.”

Except today it wasn’t easy.

His hand shook. The first line came out wobbly. The second made the spade look lopsided and tiny. On the third attempt he nearly poked himself in the eye and let out a frustrated whine, dropping his head onto the desk with a thud. His little mirror clattered over onto his textbooks.

You couldn’t help giggling. “What’s wrong, birthday boy?”

Deuce turned his head just enough to peek at you, cheek squished against the wood. “I’m too nervous about the party… My hands won’t stop shaking. It keeps coming out all messed up.”

You stood up and walked over, tilting your head. “Want me to do it? My hands are steady.”

His eyes widened. “You’d do that?”

“Of course. Come on.”

Deuce straightened up immediately, scooting his chair back a little so you could step between his legs. You picked up the eyeliner, then gently cupped his jaw with your free hand to steady his face. The second your fingers touched his skin Deuce startled. His cheeks flared bright pink, and you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned.

“Sorry!” you said quickly, face heating up too. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…”

“No!” Deuce blurted, shaking his head so fast his hair flopped. “You didn’t! I’m comfortable! Super comfortable! It just… surprised me….That’s all. You can… you can touch me. I mean! My face! For the spade! ….Please….”

You nodded, cheeks still warm, and warned him softly, “Okay… I’m gonna touch you again.”

This time when you cupped his jaw, he stayed still. You tilted his face up toward you. His eyes sparkled as he looked up, wide, honest, a little awestruck, and something in your chest tightened. He was so close. You could see the faint scars on his nose, the way his lashes cast tiny shadows on his cheeks. Your own heartbeat felt way too loud. “Close your eyes,” you whispered.

Deuce obeyed instantly, lashes fluttering shut. His breathing was shallow. You leaned in, focusing hard as you drew the spade with careful, steady strokes. The room felt smaller. The only sounds were distant laughter from the garden and the soft scratch of eyeliner on skin. You were so concentrated on making it perfect that you didn’t notice how still Deuce had gone, or how his hands had gripped his own knees like he was trying not to reach for you.

When you finally pulled back slightly to check the shape, you smiled proudly. “There. Looks really good, if I do say so myself…” You trailed off.

Deuce had opened his eyes. He wasn’t looking at the mirror. He was looking at you, pupils wide, cheeks flushed dark red, expression completely unguarded. The way he stared made heat rush to your own face. Your hand was still gently cupping his cheek. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The air felt thick, electric.

Deuce’s lips parted. “Hey… I…”

The door slammed open.

“Yo! Deuce! I found the coolest present ever! You’re gonna lose your mind when you open this!” Ace barged in waving a brightly wrapped box, grinning like an idiot.

You both jumped. Deuce nearly tipped backward in his chair. You stumbled back a step, heart hammering.

Ace stopped mid sentence, blinking at the two of you. “Uh… what’s with the tomato faces?”

Deuce recovered first, scrambling to his feet and pointing accusingly. “Ace! You’re supposed to knock! This is my room too!”

“It’s our room, genius! I don’t gotta knock in my own room!” Ace shot back. Then he looked at you, completely missing the tension. “Anyway, Trey’s looking for you downstairs. Something about needing help carrying the extra trays.”

You nodded quickly, trying to will the blush off your face. “Right. I’ll head down now.” You gave Deuce one last glance. He was still staring at you, something unreadable but intense flickering in his eyes. You offered him a small, shy smile before slipping out with Ace.

The door clicked shut behind you.Deuce stood frozen in the middle of the room for a long moment, hand pressed over his racing heart. The spade on his cheek felt warmer than usual, like your touch had left a permanent mark. All those months of weird feelings, the way his chest got tight whenever you laughed at his dumb jokes, how he always saved the best parts of his meals for you, how he stayed up late replaying conversations you’d had, suddenly crashed over him.

“Oh man…” he whispered, staring at the closed door. “I’m so screwed.”

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