Hi! How are you? If requests are open, you can write romantic/platonic with vil, idia, trey, riddle, azul with a reader who is perfect, I mean, and good at studying. Very beautiful. But she became like this because of bullying as a child and she has some kind of trigger.
✦ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ❤︎ ── ✥ ✥ ✥ ── ❤︎ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ✦
✦ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ❤︎ ── ✥ ✥ ✥ ── ❤︎ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ✦
The Weight of Perfection
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧! 𝐢'𝐦 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 "𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞", 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞! 𝐢 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞! 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞! 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐬. 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬! 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬!
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Trey Clover, Riddle Rosehearts, Azul Ashengrotto
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐬: the art of the heart (romantic), paired with female reader
𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞: Twisted Wonderland
𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐲: desk fragments (headcanons + drabbles)
𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧: the mending of wounds (hurt/comfort), a passage from dusk to dawn (angst to fluff)
𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of emotional trauma/abuse (past parental expectations/abuse), anxiety, emotional stress, implied/past bullying
𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐥: this manuscript is the sole property of the Narratrix. it is sealed against mechanical mimicry (ai training) and unauthorized redistribution. do not repost or translate without the Narratrix’s permission.
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
He considers himself the epitome of perfection—and, to be fair, he kind of is. As a top model and actor, he adheres to an extremely disciplined lifestyle: perfect skincare, perfect style, perfect grades... not even a speck of dust dares to settle on this flawlessly perfect man.
This drive to be the “fairest of them all” constantly pushes him to surpass everyone else; his mindset is absolute best—no exceptions. He can be harsh toward the lazy, but this isn't born of cruelty; he genuinely sees potential and quietly hopes others reach it someday.
When you first arrived in Twisted Wonderland, he took note of your appearance and was in awe of your beauty. Your bright colored eyes and soft plush lips. His attention only sharpened when he observed your table manners while you were having tea with Epel and Rook—an invitation extended by Rook for reasons unknown.
“Non, non, non, Epel! You must hold the cup like this—with grace! C'est un art de vivre, mon ami.” You could only observe as Epel struggled with his grip on the handle. “Rook, allow me.” you said as you rose up from your seat. “Oh? Très bien." You moved around the table to retrieve the teapot. As you lifted it, you made sure to adjust your grip on the handle and placed your other hand on top of the lid to avoid spilling the tea. You were careful not to point the spout at anyone, wishing to avoid any hint of rudeness. "Oh! That is an elegant grip, Prefect!" You gave him a small, controlled smile and poured the tea first into Rook’s teacup. “Magnifique! The way you pour is exquisitely precise. Exactly two-thirds to three-quarters full. Truly excellent form!” “Thank you, Rook!” you bowed at him gracefully.
Vil was about to walk away until he noticed you pouring tea for Epel with perfect posture and a focused expression. It impressed him more than he expected. The sheer lack of visible effort was what snagged his attention. This wasn't the showy, calculated elegance of Pomefiore students; it was a deeply ingrained, unconscious grace. Your spine was aristocratically stiff, yet your hands handled the heavy teapot with delicate, almost weightless precision. The spout never wavered, and the tea settled into the cup without a single, chaotic splash.
“Epel, I trust you are taking thorough notes! Miss Y/N has demonstrated the proper execution required for the teapot.” “Y-yes, of course, Rook!” You gave them a polite bow before returning to your seat to pour your own teacup next, then placed the teapot back on the tray. Vil observed you from afar in Pomefiore’s hallways, but you caught his eye. You gave him a polite wave before sitting down and smoothing your skirt. Rook caught your wave and turned to see him. “Ah, Housewarden! Why don’t you join us? Miss Prefect has graced us with her exquisite company.” Vil was tempted, but claimed he was busy and turned to leave. “Not today, Rook. My schedule is fully optimized; I have more pressing matters requiring my attention.” He felt an unfamiliar warmth spread across his chest—sharp and irritating. Denial. He immediately tried to swat the feeling away, lecturing himself internally. "It is just the basic action of pouring tea. It is rote. Trivial. There is nothing 'exquisite' about being adequately mannered." Yet, the unwelcome physical evidence of his interest—that harsh, irregular thump against his ribs—betrayed him. When you caught his eye and offered that polite wave, the flicker of heat on his cheeks, a reaction so juvenile, infuriated him.
The next incident occurred during Professor Crewel’s Potionology class. Despite being enrolled as a first year, your alchemy class would sometimes be joined by second and third years. For today’s activity, you were tasked with making a transformation potion—one that altered physical appearance, voice, and presence. He just happened to be with you in this joint class.
Yes, difficult for most, but not for Vil... and surprisingly, not for you either.
You were too focused on making the potion to notice his gaze on you. Rook hadn’t been exaggerating when he complimented your precision; apparently, it wasn't limited to pouring tea.
The distraction was short-lived, but telling. Vil, who dedicated hours to mastering alchemy, recognized the concentration required to successfully brew the transformation draught—a complicated concoction few could perfect. He glanced down at your workstation and saw the final result: the liquid was a flawless, iridescent sapphire blue, matching the textbook's ideal description perfectly. Not a single particle of sediment marred its surface. It was flawless.
When the grades came out and you matched his score, he was stunned. He had worked hard for his perfection; the thought that someone else could achieve it without the same public fuss felt like a cheat, a disrespect to his sacrifices. Pretty and smart? Perhaps a little too perfect.
“Good job, pup! You may lack the magical aptitude, but your execution is flawless. You managed to produce a potent draught, despite the meager ingredients you possess.” Crewel complimented you. You looked at him in surprise before straightening your posture, pushing down the faint tremor in your hands. Old habits. Old pressure. “I see you rival Schoenheit's level. Maintain this rigorous standard, pup!” Internally, you were momentarily surprised and bolstered by your professor's words—to be matched with someone of his level. But the confidence quickly dissolved into a familiar chill, reminding you of the past. "You think that effort makes you a genius? You're just a teacher’s pet, desperate for attention.” Your shoulders immediately tensed, a physical reaction you couldn't suppress. A polite, controlled smile was forced onto your face—a reflex, an old mechanism to show effortless composure and gratitude. Vil, however, saw the subtle strain around your eyes. That smile was too perfect—polished, practiced, and utterly devoid of genuine ease. For him, this wasn't curiosity anymore; it was now a competition he hadn't agreed to enter.
In Trein’s history class, Grim caused trouble again and dragged you into it. When Trein called on you with one of the hardest questions in the subject, you answered flawlessly. Vil only learned about it after overhearing Epel talking to Ace and Deuce.
“Everyone went completely silent when Y/N answered! She just shut down half the class with her brain!” Epel said while they were walking in the hallways. “I knew the Prefect was clever, but I didn't know she was that smart. Dealing with Grim and still answering Trein's killer question...” Deuce muttered, still in disbelief. “Trein didn't even twitch! He actually complimented her! He said, ‘You should aspire to her level of focus, young man.’ Something lame like that.” Ace sighed as they continued their way to the cafeteria. Vil overheard all of this just as he was about to leave his classroom. He could feel his fist tightening. Now he was just plain annoyed. It seemed everywhere he went, he heard the word “perfect” and you being mentioned alongside it. Your steps faltered as you inhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. Praise always sounded kind, but it stirred the same lingering pressure in your chest—an echo of what you used to hear growing up. He then noticed you standing by a wall, looking downcast. It seemed you had also overheard what the first years were saying. Although you knew they meant well, you couldn’t fight the spiraling thoughts in your head. You desperately wanted to avoid those old memories. But as you walked away, Vil was only more shocked by your state. You were moving with a sluggishness that bordered on clumsy, and when you reached out to steady yourself against a pillar, your hand was white-knuckled and trembling slightly. You were trying to hide it. The effortless façade had cracked.
Seeing how composed, calm, and disciplined you were—the grace in your steps, your display of intelligence, the consistent elegance you carried—Vil began to take a genuine interest in you. And it wasn’t one-sided.
He admires you deeply and may have started to have a little crush on you. From your etiquette, the way you sip tea, your exquisite handwriting, your sense of style, even how you manage Grim and the ADeuce duo—everything about you impresses him.
But he also envies you. He knows he's perfect, yet somehow you are too. Matching his alchemy score didn’t help; it stung his pride more than he’d admit.
After his Overblot, his perspective shifted. With finals nearing, he overheard Epel worrying about you—how you’d been falling asleep in class, skipping meals, and looking pale.
That alarmed him. This wasn’t the “Prefect” he knew. Determined, he searched for you. Grim told him you were at the library, studying as usual.
He rushed there and found you hunched over a pile of books and papers. Your eye bags, pale lips, and exhausted gaze irritated him—Vil despises self-neglect.
The library air was thick and stagnant. Your head felt heavy, balanced precariously on your hand as the script swam before your tired eyes. You hadn't just been falling asleep; you'd been fighting a physiological war for a week. The paper smelled like stale coffee, and your pen kept slipping. The goal—an impeccable score—felt miles away, yet stopping felt like a moral failure. You were pushing past the limit of discipline and into the territory of self-destruction.
Without hesitation, he walked up to you and took your face in his hands, scolding you for neglecting your health.
“Prefect! Your eye bags are a tragedy, and your complexion is dull. This self-neglect is criminal.” “Vil? I don’t know what you’re talking about… I feel perfectly fine.” “That's what's so infuriating. I see through the thin veneer of your composure, Prefect. It's a low-effort cover-up.” You tried defending yourself, saying you needed to study ahead for higher grades. When you attempted to go back to your work, he grabbed your hand, insisting your health mattered more. "Don't be a fool. You can't expect a flawless performance if your core system is poisoned. Your health isn't a product; it is the canvas itself!" When you tried bargaining to “study a little more,” he snapped. Hands slamming on the table, his voice ringing across the library. “You will rest! Pushing yourself to the point of collapse is not discipline—it’s sloppy self-sabotage! Taking a break is not a luxury; it is a maintenance requirement!" The sharp crack of his hands hitting the table jolted straight through you. His raised voice—firm, disappointed, demanding—echoed the same pressure you grew up with. Even though Vil’s intention was completely different, your exhausted mind couldn’t separate his urgency from the harsh criticism you’d been raised on. The tone, the intensity… it felt too familiar. Too close. Your chest tightened before you even realized why. That set the trigger, and you ended up getting teary-eyed. Your fatigue was overwhelming. Tears began to roll down your cheeks, and you started to hiccup. Vil was shocked, to say the least. “You're falling behind. We cannot afford a single flaw. Failure will not only slow you down; it will make you ugly in their eyes.”
Vil’s expression reminded you of what your parents used to say. You began to sob quietly. He stood still for a while, looking at your exhausted state, then snapped out of it and took you by the wrist.
The walk to Pomefiore was silent, his grip firm but not harsh—a non-negotiable command veiled as care. In his room, the overwhelming scent of high-end toner and clean linen wrapped around you. He served a light, nourishing soup, eating his own meal with the perfect table manners he had once admired in you.
After dinner, while Vil finished his meticulous skincare routine, you drifted into your thoughts. You sat on his incredibly soft bed, the crisp, expensive cotton feeling alien yet overwhelmingly comforting. For the first time in weeks, the internal clock demanding productivity had quieted. You simply existed, watching the movement of light in the elegant room.
“Stop sulking—that expression is not worthy of your face, Prefect. You will remain here tonight where I can personally supervise your recovery routine.
You blinked as you stared at him with wide eyes. He sat next to you on his bed as you both came to a heart-to-heart: your parents’ impossible standards, the criticisms, the whispers from schoolmates who saw you as a “perfectionist.”
Vil understood you—your experiences weren't the same, but the pressure to be perfect was something he recognized. He reassured you that you didn’t need to be the fairest of them all, nor seek validation from others to prove your worth.
"The pressure to be the 'fairest of them all' is a form of self-poisoning. The perfection you chase is unsustainable and cheap—it's borrowed light. Your true value is not in avoiding flaws, but in the irreplaceable uniqueness of your presence. You don't need their applause to validate the brilliance of your performance."
He learned a lot from his Overblot experience. He sat beside you and, with an awkward but gentle motion, pulled you into a quiet hug. His body was initially stiff, unused to such unguarded closeness, but his hand moved tentatively up and down your back in a slow, rhythmic comfort. Hearing the extent of your emotional burden—the years of crushing, hidden pressure—softened his heart completely, dissolving the last vestiges of his competitive envy.
“I admire you, Prefect. To move with such grace and precision despite the constant, hidden pressure is truly admirable. It speaks not to vanity, but to profound, quiet strength. I want to see that strength sustained, not depleted. And I want to be the reason for your genuine ease, not your flawless performance. If you would deem me worthy, I would like to formally request permission to court you.” You only stared back at him, your eyes widened in shock at his sudden confession. A genuine smile, one utterly free of strain, broke through your exhaustion. "Oh? And I thought this intense level of admiration was entirely one-sided. On my part, at least." Vil pulled back from the hug in surprise to see you smiling at him softly. “I would love that, Vil.”
The night ended with the two of you settling into a secure, quiet cuddle. Finally, both the beauty that sought validation and the artist who chased perfection received the true, restful maintenance they both desperately needed.
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐.𝟑𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
Now for Idia, things are a bit different. He won't deny that he was initially surprised to see a girl appear at the entrance ceremony, but he quickly dismissed you as a simple “normie” back then. His admiration only began to take root when you attended one of the Housewarden meetings for the first time.
He isn't one to socialize, but watching you—the intense focus during the meeting, the polite, steady manner in which you raised your hand, and the flawless, professional input you offered—he was utterly captivated. He was completely mesmerized, desperate to initiate a chat, but alas, his social firewall held strong. Poor introvert :)
You didn’t see each other every day, as this notorious introvert mostly stayed cooped up in his dorm. However, after his Overblot, he slowly started to gain confidence in himself, venturing out more, albeit reluctantly. Your willingness to cooperate with him during his Overblot fiasco only made his admiration deepen.
One day, his brother Ortho caught him in his room, admiring your profile picture on Magicam. Idia nearly jumped out of his chair when Ortho materialized beside him and boldly suggested he ask you out.
Idia’s hair has never been more frantically pink. He adamantly denied the suggestion, arguing that you were way out of his league. Seeing you so composed and perfect only fueled his belief that he wasn't worthy of your attention.
Ortho decided to take matters into his own hands and, employing his advanced sensors, essentially stalked you. He meticulously noted how diligent you were in class, the neatness of your notes, and the respectful way you addressed the professor. You were, clearly, incredibly intelligent.
Next, while you were in the canteen with Grim, Ace, and Deuce, Ortho observed you from afar. You always kept a napkin neatly folded on your lap, maintained straight posture, and were meticulous about cleaning up after yourself and returning your tray.
Then Ortho spotted you in the courtyard, reading quietly. Even the elegant way you sat captivated him—he couldn't help but admire you! Ortho finally understood why Idia was so intensely drawn to you. But as for you, you weren’t naturally calm—your posture, your manners, even the way you breathed were things you’d trained into yourself long ago, taught by harsh voices that never tolerated a single misstep.
Ortho returned and immediately hatched a plan to force Idia into a confession.
"Big Brother! My real-time predictive modeling indicates a 98.7% chance the Prefect will be at the courtyard fountain for the next 120 seconds. This is a Level 4 Security Breach Risk—a Time-Critical Mission! Deploy now!" Ortho gently nudged his brother’s shoulder, attempting to encourage him. "A-A legendary tier reward that requires me to leave my safety zone? N-No way. This is a high-risk, low-reward venture. She'll just reject me and crash my system. I'll wait for the Free-to-Play option." Idia pulled his hood down further and slumped deep into his gaming chair. Idia swore he felt his heart rate spike at the thought of you. He frantically muttered into his collar, detailing how you would just reject him anyway and how he would only waste your time. Okay, still not budging, Ortho realized. He had to escalate the persuasion tactics. "This isn't a repeatable Daily Quest, Big Brother—it's a Limited-Time Event with Legendary-Tier Drops! If you skip this window, the Confession Cooldown timer resets for potentially weeks! The ROI is too high to ignore!" Idia peeked out from under his hood, his expression purely miserable. "N-no way. Don't be like that... I mean, she deserves an SSR player, Ortho. She wouldn't want to link up with a low-tier skeleton like me..." "I think you are operating on false parameters there, Big Brother!"
After much persistent encouragement from his brother Ortho, Idia finally emerged from his room and headed to the courtyard.
Much to his surprise, he spotted you under one of the trees. He was about to approach when he saw you hunched over your book, crying. He initially thought you were just getting emotional over the plot, but he realized he was wrong when you angrily threw your book toward a nearby tree. You must have been having a terribly bad day. Talk about bad timing.
You tried to quiet your breathing, terrified someone might see you lose composure. Years of conditioning still made you panic over even the smallest ‘mistake.
Just as he was about to retreat, he clumsily bumped his face into a tree nearby, startling you completely.
“Idia..?” “P-prefect!” This cute nerd... His hair, of course, only got even pinker. What an embarrassment for the Ignihyde Housewarden… “A-are you okay? You hit the tree incredibly hard, Idia.” you asked, your voice laced with genuine concern. "A-A-Alert! System critical failure! Overload! Can't process visual data! Latency is too high! I-I'm initiating an emergency log-out sequence! Disconnecting!" The man clearly got a glitch in his system. Poor guy was too flustered to talk straight. You were confused at first, but then grew alarmed as you realized he'd seen you lash out. “H-hey… You didn't see any of that, right?” you muttered to him quietly. “S-see what..?” He turned to you slowly. “Nothing.” you brushed off.
You quickly turned to leave the courtyard, but you seemed to have forgotten your book. Before Idia could fully process the moment and return it, you were gone. Curiosity got the best of him, and he picked the book up from the ground. A small note slipped out, catching his attention.
“You seriously think you earn those grades? It's a pity. Every student here has magic—you're just Crowley's pet project, a magicless girl playing Prefect. All that effort is a joke. Stop pretending you belong here.”
You had kept every insult like this tucked away for years—silent reminders of why you worked yourself to the bone.
Idia honestly didn’t know how to process this information. You were being bullied? How dare they?! His crush, whom he admired from afar, was being judged like this? But why? Your performance metrics were consistently high: you never failed a class and always displayed a high kindness quotient toward others. Why was your alignment being set to 'villain'?
He wanted to confront you the next day about it, but his social anxiety made him want to chicken out just as much.
“Ugh... I can't do this. She obviously needs a hotfix, but I'm just a bug... what can I do?" He was just on his way to the courtyard when he saw you talking to someone. Well, more accurately, you were quiet while the other person was openly harassing you. You froze the moment the tone sharpened—your body reacting long before your mind could. Old memories had conditioned you to stay silent when someone raised their voice, but then were interrupted by someone calling to you. “P-prefect!” “Idia?” He felt completely flustered. He didn’t know what impulse made him call out to you, but his hair flared pink regardless. The boy who was berating you seemed truly surprised. It wasn’t every day you saw the Housewarden of Ignihyde out of his dorm. Although Idia had been going out more recently, he was still taking his time and adjusting after his Overblot incident. “I... you dropped this. It was unclaimed loot.” Idia returned your book, then quickly turned to the bully. He took a deep breath, making eye contact with the tormentor. He was internally debating whether he should use his Housewarden status to intervene, but before he could finalize a plan, words came flying out of his mouth. "Your conduct is unacceptable and non-compliant with NRC regulations. I have full telemetry on your conversation history right now. Unless you want me to escalate this data packet to the Headmage—and involve a formal S.T.Y.X. disciplinary review—I suggest you cease and desist immediately. The Prefect's utility and dedication to the college are quantifiable and high; your current behavior is merely noise pollution." The bully was utterly stunned by the Housewarden's authoritative, technical speech. “This is not the last time, L/N..” “L-leave her alone!” The bully quickly scurried away from you two, giving you one last glare before running off. You could only stand in shock at what just happened. Maybe being a Housewarden is a good thing if he could use it to protect you like this. “Wow…” “Oh no, what did I do?! I think he’s going to report me to the Headmage for unauthorized Housewarden activity! Prefect, I’m sorry…” “Idia, it’s really alright. He was bothering me, and honestly, thank you so much for that.” You stared at him, still reeling from the encounter, but the feeling of being defended was a warmth you hadn't realized you were missing. Even when your body was frozen by old panic, Idia, the anxious introvert, had used his power to shield you. It wasn't the perfection you sought, but the protection you desperately needed. Ortho was on his way to check on Idia, wondering if he really did confess to you. “Big brother? Where is he… Oh!” Ortho spotted the two of you and hurried over to the courtyard. “Big brother!” “O-ortho?”
You sat on the bench from yesterday and had a long talk. You explained that it was okay; you were used to being treated like this when you were younger—bullied for being too smart or too neat. It was something you had grown accustomed to, even here at NRC. It was the kind of familiarity that hurt more because it made you believe you deserved it.
Idia wasn't familiar with socializing, so comforting someone was definitely outside his skill set. Ortho had to help relay his thoughts to you, though he did exaggerate them a bit.
“Prefect, Big Brother's internal analysis shows that 'getting used' to bullying is a critical vulnerability that must be patched. He has logged numerous data entries regarding your grace, academic superiority, despite zero magic affinity, and high kindness metric. He calculates your physical appearance parameters as—” “O-Ortho! Stop data-dumping my internal monologue!” The words came out of Ortho before Idia could stop the flow. He turned to look at you, only to see a soft blush painting your face! “I didn’t know you thought of me that way…” “P-Prefect! That's... that's not the full context! I-I mean, it is the context, but the delivery—! No! Wait! I didn't mean 'friendly'! I... I meant 'crush'!”
Poor Idia was a complete stuttering mess. The scene itself was quite hilarious: the Housewarden of Ignihyde and his little brother sitting next to the Ramshackle Prefect. Anyone passing by would have been surprised to witness such an unlikely interaction.
It took Idia by surprise when he heard you laughing. Aww no, he thought, are you making fun of him...? “Idia, haha, slow down. It’s a bit funny to see you this flustered. I think it’s actually adorable,” you said, still chuckling. “You really like me?” He hesitated at first, but started to mumble to himself. “Y-yes.” You stopped laughing and turned to him in shock before looking down at your lap in shame. “You wouldn’t like me much. I may be academically decent, but I don’t have magic. I truly don’t think I’m worth the effort, Idia.” you said softly. “Nonsense! Big brother loves you regardless. He is the sweetest, most caring person I know! He doesn’t care about perfection—he cares about your data integrity.” Finally finding his voice, Idia slowly took your hand. The touch startled you—not because it was sudden, but because kindness still felt foreign after years of earning affection through perfection. "W-We have extremely low interaction history, yes. But... I want to start a new file with you. If you would give me the chance, I-I'll put in the work. I'll make sure you know that your self-worth variable is incalculably high." Taken aback by his sincere, technical confession, you couldn’t help your heart beating faster. “Then, yes. Let’s get to know each other. One step at a time.” Ortho was happy to have witnessed this momentous event. “You have completed the Legendary-Tier Relationship Quest, Big Brother! Achievement unlocked!” “ORTHO!"
All to say, you both ended up talking more often, establishing a reliable communication link where you could open up to him more, and he could do the same. While you may not be "perfect" in the eyes of everyone, you are the incalculable, perfectly rendered variable in Idia's eyes.
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
Trey is a laid-back person whose sole desire is a peaceful campus life, free from worry and stress. He would rather not have attention drawn to himself. He does this not only to keep a low profile but also to avoid getting involved in any school issues or drama. Conscious of what others think, he puts forth an effort to remain unnoticed.
That said, when he saw you for the first time at the entrance ceremony, he was in complete shock. You’re way too beautiful to be labelled as “ordinary” or “mediocre”. After the incident with Grim, he tried to downplay his attraction to you, yet he couldn't help glancing your way before returning to the dormitories.
He initially thought beauty was all you possessed, but quickly realized you also had brains—and brawn! When you helped the duo bake the chestnut tart for the Heartslabyul Unbirthday party, he noted that you were the most hardworking member of the group..
He appreciated how precise and careful you were when handling the ingredients.
When Trey told them about his “secret ingredient”, he couldn’t help but find your reactions cute. The idea of adding oyster sauce to the mix was incredulous to you, but you all had your fun anyways! Just a silly prank.
“O-oyster sauce? Trey, won’t that be way too salty? Maybe we should skip adding it.” “Prefect has a point… That seems ill-advised,” Deuce muttered awkwardly. “Hold up. Some chefs put chocolate in curry, right? Maybe it’s like a secret flavor trick or something.” Ace piped up, trying to sound smart. Trey couldn't hold his amusement any longer. The look on their faces was priceless. These froshies… “Pfft… Ah ha ha ha!” He laughed as the four of you only looked at him in shock. “T-trey?? What’s so funny?” You questioned. Hah! I’m totally just messing with you. Who in their right mind would put oyster sauce in a tart?” Trey said, still chuckling to himself. “W-what?!” “So you were just totally yanking our chain, Trey?!” Ace said in irritation. Trey’s laughter only doubled as the four of you only stood awkwardly. “Honestly, if you’d thought about it for half a second, you’d have realized how ridiculous that sounds! Let that be a good lesson for you all: don't just blindly believe what you hear.” Trey said, smiling widely in amusement. You smiled back, feeling light for a bit, simply enjoying the moment with them, before tightening your skirt in an attempt to compose yourself.
Trey let his laughter subside, still smiling at the surprised group. When he caught that smile on your face, he felt a sharp, internal jolt as his cheeks slightly reddened. He subtly adjusted his glasses and quickly turned his focus back to the countertop, hoping no one noticed the sudden change in his demeanor.
Once the chestnut tart was done, you all gathered around the table, joined by Cater who had just arrived in the kitchen. Taking a bite of the tart, you were amazed by the flavors; it was easily one of the best you had ever tasted.
Everyone readily agreed: the tart you all created with Trey’s expert guidance was a massive success.
You took your first bite, and your eyes widened in sheer amazement. Deuce hadn’t been joking; the quality and depth of flavor made it taste like it came straight from a famous patisserie. “Trey, this tart is honestly one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. You’re an incredible baker!” you complimented, giving him a genuinely charming smile. “Thank you, Y/N. That means a lot,” Trey replied, managing a small, sincere smile. If you had looked closely, however, you would have seen a certain depth enter his eyes—a look he quickly masked by turning back to his tea.
Trey’s default is to downplay his skills and stay humble to avoid attention. But your genuine, beautiful smile cracked that restraint—he suddenly felt a dizzying urge to actively seek out your praise again, making him want to push past his usual caution.
Trey had grown accustomed to the predictable theatrics of Heartslabyul’s tea parties, yet seeing the way you naturally carried yourself during the proceedings genuinely intrigued him.
After the whole incident with Riddle's Overblot, you finally got a do-over. You were seated together at the Housewarden's table, sharing the tart Trey had baked as an apology to Ace.
He snuck a glance, and the sight left him breathless: even just demonstrating basic table manners, you looked exquisitely graceful. As you chatted with Riddle, he watched you carefully lift your teacup. The slow, delicate way your fingers moved, followed by the soft touch of your lips to the porcelain rim—it sent a sharp heat to his cheeks. They’re so pink, he thought, before forcing himself to look away.
He had been smiling absentmindedly until Chenya appeared, instantly shattering the moment. Then came the chaotic goose chase after the students mistook a stray for an RSA student—and Trey was forced to get involved, pulling him firmly back into reality.
He didn’t see you often after that—not until you visited him at the clinic when he injured his ankle. You gradually grew closer to Trey, despite the difference in your grade levels. This closeness was helped by your frequent visits to Heartslabyul. You often stopped by to tutor Ace and Deuce, volunteering your time, though mostly because Deuce relentlessly begged for help with Alchemy and History.
Trey knew you were smart, but he hadn't realized the true extent of your capabilities.
You and Deuce were settled in the common room, a small battlefield of papers and textbooks spread across the table. You had been at it for hours, tackling every difficult subject on Deuce’s list. “Deuce, wait, this detail is incorrect. Professor Trein didn’t cover this topic in class—you’ve branched onto the wrong historical period.” “E-eh? I was sure that was the topic he talked about a while ago…” “It’s fine, though! The context is easy enough to grasp, given the clear timelines. Nothing to worry about.” Trey stopped by to give you two biscuits freshly baked. “T-thank you Trey.” Deuce thanked him timidly. “You’re both welcome. I hope you managed to absorb some of that. What topics did you manage to cover?” “We covered most of the material in Mathematics, Alchemy, and History. Deuce is a surprisingly fast learner, if you’re patient with him,” you teased, lightly ruffling his hair. “H-hey! I only got them right because you explained it better than our professors…” Trey glanced down at your scattered notes, and his easy smile vanished. The curriculum covered wasn't for first years—those were advanced second-year topics. You were tutoring Deuce far above your grade level. “Those look distinctly like advanced subjects, Y/N,” Trey observed, tilting his head slightly. “Color me impressed.” Trey’s genuine awe, however, caused something inside you to stiffen. It was that exact tone, that same impressed-yet-suspicious look, that haunted you from your past. "That material is far too advanced for you. Are you deliberately trying to make everyone else look incompetent? What are you, some kind of know-it-all?"
Trey noticed the subtle shift in your demeanor whenever the topic of academics came up after that day. He couldn't pinpoint the cause, but respecting your privacy, he quickly decided not to press you, figuring it was something too personal or private. He only pieced together the reason one day when he overheard a loud confrontation echoing through the hall.
He had just finished his activities at the Science Club and was heading back to the kitchen to bake you a fresh batch of thanks—some treats for helping him carry ingredient supplies the other day. As he passed, he heard your name called, and the tone was thick with annoyance.
“Seriously, Prefect, we know you’re smart, but do you have to flaunt it every single day?” “What?” Trey stopped dead in his steps, peering discreetly around the corner of the hallway. “She’s just doing her duty as a student! You're just jealous of the Prefect’s grades!” Deuce instantly placed himself protectively between you and the other students. “Please. The Prefect is just trying to earn favor from the teachers. It’s bad enough she’s the only girl here, but she’s totally hogging their attention so they’ll give her special treatment.” “Oi! Y/N is way better than that. She’s a hard worker and you guys know it!” Ace glared at them. “Whatever. She’s just a know-it-all.” The familiar sting of that nickname—that stupid nickname—made your chest tight. Even now, you couldn't believe how sharply it affected you. “You’re all just being completely unfair! You’re only jealous because her grades are better than yours combined.” The leader of the group smirked, turning to face you directly. “Being a teacher’s pet will only get you so far, sweet cheeks. A pretty face isn’t enough to survive here at NRC, get that through your head.” All you wanted was to bolt—to run and hide in Ramshackle for the rest of the day. You felt your chest constrict; you couldn’t deal with this. You quickly left the scene, shutting your eyes in a desperate attempt to keep your tears from falling, but Trey saw the devastation. “Y/N! Wait!” Deuce shouted, instantly starting to chase after you. “You jerks! You’ll pay for that!” Grim growled, taking a fierce stance as Ace pulled out his magic pen, ready to cast a spell. “I’ll handle this, you two.” Trey stepped up. Seeing how deeply your feelings were hurt made his anger boil, but he masked it completely, refusing to escalate the confrontation further. “I don’t appreciate how you treated the Prefect. You will apologize for your behavior towards her, or I will report this directly to the Housewarden.” Trey narrowed his eyes at the group, who stared back in shock. They grumbled before scuttling away. “Where did she go?”
You were hiding in a far, quiet corner of the library, desperate not to disturb anyone with your sobs. Logically, you knew you should be able to handle simple bullying, but you realized you hadn't fully recovered from your past memories at all. Curled up on the floor, you let your tears flow down your face.
“Stupid Y/N… Stop crying. You gotta control your emotions. Deep breaths. Deep breaths… Just make it stop…”
It was only a matter of time before you felt someone quietly sit next to you. Startled, you looked up and saw that it was just Trey.
“I’m sorry for what happened earlier. I am planning to tell Riddle about this later, but… how are you doing, truly?” He knows the obvious answer, but he still wants to hear what you have to say. “I’m trying to be okay. I can’t believe you have to see me like this.” “Want to tell me about it?”
And so you did. You explained everything about your upbringing back in your world: how your parents pressured you to be the best of the best, how your peers bullied you just for being yourself, and how you were constantly walking on eggshells around everyone. You explained how you always put up a smile, but that façade had finally crumbled.
Trey clenched his fists tight as he listened. Your story immediately reminded him of Riddle's restrictive childhood. He was internally furious to know you had suffered under similar emotional duress.
“Others only judge you because they are jealous of how capable you are. You are smart and beautiful... As the only girl in this college, I’m glad that you are striving to be the best.” He slowly wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close gently. “I see how hard you work... I may be someone who coasts by, but seeing you put in effort inspires me to do the same. I like you for that.” You felt your heart beating rapidly at his words as you struggled to hide your blush. You quickly turned and kissed him on the cheek, catching him completely by surprise. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have done that—” “I-it’s okay! I actually liked that…”
The two of you stayed a bit longer in the library, happy in each other’s quiet, comforting presence.
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
Riddle admired only one thing above all else: absolute obedience. To him, rules weren’t suggestions—they were sacred laws to maintain order in Heartslabyul and the academy. His life was built around perfection, discipline, and unyielding control. Any lapse sparked intense disapproval. However, he is prone to moments of severe emotional escalation, lashing out against any individual who expresses dissent...
His first impression of you at the entrance ceremony was one of disorder and insubordination. He saw you as the primary instigator, concluding you were responsible for Grim's rampage in the Mirror Chamber. Following that chaotic fiasco, his disapproval of you solidified; he regarded you solely as a detrimental influence, especially considering your frequent proximity to his fellow freshmen, Ace and Deuce.
When he heard that you were the new Prefect of Ramshackle only hardened his mistrust. Your presence with the mischievous Ace and Deuce, and the fact that you and Grim were still enrolled after the Mirror Chamber incident, made him highly reluctant to acknowledge you.
Your group found a vacant table, settling down after dealing with schoolyard thugs. Ace was particularly sulky; painting roses and chasing Grim had not improved his mood, and the reminder of his “collared” infraction stung sharply. A few students passed by and greeted you by name, offering small smiles and compliments. You returned each one politely, though their attention only made that quiet pressure in your chest rise again. “I can't believe this. School bullies at an academy known for producing powerful mages…” Deuce said, shaking his head with a frown over the earlier incident. “Enough complaining! It's time to chow like the wind!” Grim chirped, happily attacking his plate. “So, I saw your guys' dorm, but what are the other ones like?” “I’m sure you’re familiar with the statues of the Great Seven? Night Raven College has a dorm themed after each one.” A voice from behind the group spoke. Ace’s jaw dropped in recognition. “Bwah! You’re the guy this morning!” “And you lied about painting those awful roses!” Grim yelled. The two introduced themselves as Cater and Trey from Ace’s own dorm, but Ace remained irritable. “I didn’t ask you to sit with us…” “Come on, we’re all in the same dorm, right? Let’s try to be friendly. Hand over your contact info.” As the talk shifted to the various campus dorms, Ace launched into a full tirade against his Housewarden. “Seriously! He slapped this thing on me for one slice of tart! His rule obsession is completely out of whack!” he griped, fiercely pulling at the collar. He was oblivious to the sudden terror on his friends’ faces. “My 'rule obsession' is 'out of whack,' is that your assessment?” said a cold voice from inches away. "It is," Ace confirmed without turning. “Riddle is nothing but a spoiled dictator who uses the whole 'rule' thing just to keep everyone under his tiny little heel!” Riddle struggled to contain his anger as Ace delivered the final, reckless insult. “A-Ace! Turn around!” Deuce gasped, terrified. Ace spun in his chair, finding his Housewarden standing there, utterly enraged. “H-Housewarden!” Cater made a failed, nervous attempt to calm the situation. Riddle only disregarded him, fixing his focus on you and Grim, whom he recognized from the Entrance Ceremony's disastrous beginning. “You are the new students who barely avoided expulsion yesterday. I ask that you cease referring to my signature spell as a 'stupid collar.'” He narrowed his eyes, studying you closely.
His close inspection was immediately complicated by one undeniable observation: your beauty. Your eyes were striking, and your lips looked soft—an aesthetic detail he quickly and internally recused himself for noticing.
“The Headmage's tolerance of blatant rulebreakers will result in this institution descending into chaos. Violators must have their heads instantly removed.” Riddle declared, struggling to hide the blush rising on his neck. “The Headmage has extended his leniency, but I promise you that if you commit any further rule violation, I will not be so forgiving.” Riddle held your gaze intensely before Ace interrupted their exchange.
Following that encounter, Riddle was unsettled. He searched for a logical explanation, quickly dismissing the possibility of magic since he knew you were “magicless.”
He had noticed, too, how your work was always precise, your explanations clear and composed. It was no wonder the professors often used your assignments as benchmarks. The intensity only grew when you both formally crossed paths later at the Unbirthday Party held in Heartslabyul.
“All hail our leader, the Red Sovereign himself... Housewarden Riddle!” A synchronous roar erupted as everyone welcomed him towards his dignified throne. “We salute you, Housewarden Riddle!” Riddle’s gaze swept over the meticulously prepared grounds, culminating in a hum of satisfaction. Ace, Deuce, and Grim were captivated by the display: the sweets, elegant décor, and strictly painted roses. Cater, now in his full dorm uniform, appeared, proclaiming: “And here! These are Heartslabyul uniforms. Are they not fierce? We are at the forefront of fashion, and they are excellent for Magicam.” “Myah! Those are some fancy duds!” Grim complimented. Cater waved his magical pen and in a snap, the boys' clothes had been switched to their respective dorm clothes. Grim’s bow has been switched to a Heartslabyul themed one. “And of course, I have not overlooked you, Dear Prefect!” With another wave, you were instantly clad in a beautiful, eye-catching dress, matching perfectly with the dorm’s aesthetic theme. The fabric was surprisingly light and flowy, and you gave a small, pleased smile; it was easily the most elegant outfit you had ever worn. When you entered the garden, Riddle’s attention was fixed exclusively on you. He could not prevent his awe; your form was undeniably regal and gracefully composed. He felt the sheer radiance of your presence from across the garden. He quickly shook his head to restore his focus before addressing the assembly. “On this most significantly unauspicious of days, I bid all in attendance... A very merry Unbirthday!” Riddle raised his teacup with everyone following suit. “To a very merry Unbirthday!” Everyone shouted as the party had begun.
Riddle struggled to maintain concentration on protocol, but found himself captivated by your actions. You were not only elegantly presented, but possessed impeccable manners. Even amidst the casual conversation, your flawless conduct drew his attention. Simple table etiquette, executed perfectly, served only to increase his rule-driven admiration.
Riddle’s inner thoughts were interrupted when Ace held out a piece of the chestnut tart. The affront was unbearable, and his immediate, furious reaction was to expel the entire offending group. He paused his anger for you, silently pleading you would stay. When you walked away to find your friends, the solitude was a heavy disappointment.
“Where do you think you are going? I strongly advise you not to sully your reputation by associating with those who have so brazenly disgraced the rules.” Riddle’s voice was sharp, halting your steps. “But they are my friends, Housewarden. I need to know they are safe and well.” You tried to resume your path to the entrance, but Riddle's hand shot out, grasping your arm and sharply pulling you back. His grip was tight and non-negotiable, immediately filling you with discomfort. “I forbid it. You are a designated guest of Heartslabyul, and your impulsive detour would compromise the schedule we have planned for the remainder of the day.” “I—I understand, but I truly must—” “Are you truly so dim-witted as to openly defy my direct order?!” The sheer, cold intensity of his gaze was a violent shock. It was the tightness of his grip—so similar to the iron clamp your own mother used when delivering her verdict—that delivered the true blow. But it was that expression, that familiar, terrifying look of judgement that made your heart ache. Your breathing seized and became shallow, your mind violently thrown backward through memory. "You broke the rules, and therefore, must be punished. Following them is simpler than breathing, yet you chose defiance? Just how fundamentally stupid are you?" The raw memory twisted your face into a grimace, the pain quickly swallowed, forcing your focus back to the present. You gave a small, desperate shake of your head, your vision blurring with unshed tears. With a panicked surge of strength, you yanked your wrist free from his hold. You bolted toward the entrance, leaving a stunned Riddle drowning in a corrosive mix of fury, regret and sharp disappointment.
The situation escalated as the duo dared to challenge Riddle for the seat of Housewarden. A sick, predictive dread coiled in you, fearing for what was coming next. Riddle was already suffocating under the humiliation of the duel, but it was your act of public defense for those disrespectful freshmen that pushed him past the edge.
“Housewarden Riddle, stop this! I respect the rules, truly, but this—this single, minor lapse—does not warrant that collar! You are using an iron fist to crush a fly. This is not discipline, it’s a terrifying abuse of power. It’s tyranny!” Riddle’s shock was profound; you, who had always remained quiet, were openly challenging him. The surprise curdled into blistering rage. “Don't you dare interfere! You have no standing here, no understanding! Why are you so desperately invested in the fate of these low-grade rulebreakers? They are nothing to you, yet you side with them against their own Housewarden!” His glare was a lethal promise, a tangible threat that made you instinctively shrink as Deuce stepped forward, his arm rigid in a protective shield across your chest. You fought to keep your voice steady and your chin lifted, but Riddle, focused entirely on your defiance, saw the crucial instant your shield of control cracked, revealing the fear beneath.
You stood alongside the students of Heartslabyul and brought his Overblot to an end. After the garden’s wreckage was cleared, you quickly went to visit Riddle in the infirmary, compelled by an urge to confirm his condition.
The aftermath of the incident necessitated a slow recovery for Riddle, but the change in him began to bloom, one step at a time. He started showing leniency with the rules and demonstrated a clear, concentrated effort to control his temper. Every student saw and appreciated his efforts, offering support as he shed his image. The dorm was genuinely relieved to witness their Housewarden striving for better governance.
Hosting the next Unbirthday Party, Riddle made a contribution and personally prepared the large strawberry tart that Ace had demanded as an apology.
Naturally, you were present, but this time, the invitation had come directly from Riddle himself. When a minor chaos erupted from an unauthorized RSA student—distracting the majority of the students—Riddle seized the window of opportunity. He smoothly whisked you away, leading you deep into the rose maze.
“Prefect, I must request your forgiveness for abruptly seizing you from the party. I owe you a sincere apology for my appalling conduct during the previous Unbirthday celebration.” Riddle managed, clearing his throat with visible awkwardness. Your hands remained subtly linked as you continued deeper into the secluded garden paths. “It’s already forgiven, Housewarden. I understand the pressure you were under. It just… it truly hurts when you use that tone and that look.” You let the sentence trail off, the memory of his cold fury from the previous party too sharp for full articulation. Riddle paused in his steps, turning around so he could look directly into your eyes.
Having heard the details of Riddle’s strict upbringing, a deep empathy compelled you to be equally vulnerable. You quietly recounted your own past: the suffocating rules imposed by your parents; the relentless pressure to excel academically; the harsh punishments and daily ridicule you faced for every perceived misstep.
The realization hit Riddle with a punch of clarity: his tirade had inadvertently triggered a deep-seated traumatic memory in you. The truth amplified his existing guilt into a heavy, specific remorse.
“I sincerely apologize that you were subjected to such cruelty, Prefect. My own lack of control—which culminated in the Overblot—made me utterly blind to the pain I was inflicting. I should have been far more considerate of your own struggle.” He looked down at your still-linked hands, his thumb moving a small, comforting circle over your skin. You surprised him by lifting your hand and lightly grazing your fingers beneath his chin, gently tilting his face upward until your eyes met his. “Rules are necessary to maintain order, yes, but not every single one must be rigidly adhered to. As Trey said, we must learn to ask if something is ‘better this way’ rather than insisting it ‘must be this way.’ Rules should guide and shape us, Riddle, but they must never become chains that prevent us from finding what we truly love.” Riddle was arrested by the moment, his gaze fixed on yours with an emotion that was undeniably warm and unguarded. He had admired your composure and precision from afar; now, seeing your gentle heart, he realized that true perfection lay not in rules, but in this connection. He carefully lifted your linked hand, turning it slightly to press a soft, deliberate kiss to your knuckles, making your face warm. The slight blush that bloomed earned a faint, pleased chuckle from him.
You spent the rest of the afternoon together, strolling through the hedges of the maze, chatting easily. Your hands remained clasped, and with every shared story, you learned and appreciated a new facet of the person walking beside you.
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐.𝟐𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
Azul Ashengrotto was infamous for his elegant yet predatory contracts, hiding ruthlessly profitable intentions behind polite smiles and practiced charm. Brilliant, persuasive, and calculated, he understood the worth of everyone and everything around him—except you. Your unescorted arrival from the Dark Mirror had surprised him, but he quickly dismissed you as irrelevant. After the Grim fiasco, you lingered annoyingly in his thoughts—not favorably, of course.
As a bizarre anomaly with zero intrinsic magical value, his initial estimation was pure nuisance. The Headmage allowing your matriculation and your uncanny ability to persuade him to let you stay was, to Azul, utterly stunning. My word…
“Azul, I believe I have overheard some rather interesting developments among the new student body.” Jade entered with his customary measured pace, placing a cup of precisely brewed tea on the edge of the work desk. “Oh? Do elaborate.” Azul replied, his eyes locked onto the intake scrolls spread across the mahogany desk, diligently reviewing the personal data of Octavinelle’s new recruits. “It concerns the magicless student: the girl who emerged from the coffin unescorted.” Jade positioned himself just behind Azul’s shoulder. “Why bring up this irrelevance? I fail to see the commercial utility in discussing zero magical value.” He dismissed the subject with a hum. “Well, the rumor mill suggests that she has recently acquired a substantial promotion directly from the Headmage.” Jade offered a cool, composed smile as Azul finally paused his work and looked up, intrigued. “Specify the nature of this 'promotion,' Jade.” He demanded, his voice crisp. “It is rather amusing: an unsorted student, then a janitor, and now—Dorm Prefect.” Azul’s eyes widened, his professional mask momentarily cracking. A custodian to a Prefect? It defied all logic and regulation. “You don’t say…” The information was a jarring aberration in his calculated reality. What was the Headmage thinking? The financial rationale was non-existent; the logic and reasoning, even more so. What is it that made her so valuable that the Headmage was allowing her to enroll? If the reports were accurate, this student possessed an uncanny ability to manipulate the Headmage—a rare and valuable skill. He let a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “We can find a highly profitable application for this… talent. We shall certainly be crossing paths very soon.”
Initially, he assumed you would be naive and exploitable. That perspective shattered once he saw your interactions during the Spelldrive meeting.
The Headmage convened the Housewardens (or nearly all of them) for a mandatory summit concerning the forthcoming Spelldrive tournament. All assumed their designated seats as the proceedings began.
“I am pleased to report that we have secured full bookings for the grounds surrounding the coliseum. Every kiosk space—allocated to internal organizations and external businesses alike—is completely reserved.” He adjusted his glasses with a precise movement. Azul proceeded smoothly. The discussion began to drift, lost in tangents, before Azul’s sharp interjection cut directly across their thoughts, pulling the conversation back on course. Before further debate could commence, a precise knock sounded on the door, which then opened to reveal the Ramshackle Prefect. “Pardon me. I was instructed to attend this meeting, correct?” You quickly scanned the room, subtly straightening your uniform. “Ah yes, do enter, Miss Prefect.” The Headmage ushered you in and indicated a seat beside the Heartslabyul Housewarden. “A pleasure, Housewarden Rosehearts.” You offered a respectful bow. Riddle, momentarily flustered by the gesture, quickly moved to pull your chair. You smiled and settled into the seat. Azul’s meticulous gaze tracked your every movement during the interaction with Rosehearts. A magicless prefect at an exclusive Housewardens’ meeting? The anomaly was jarring, but he suppressed the distraction, refocusing on his report. “As I was saying…”
He fought to maintain his stride and focus, yet his attention kept snagging on her presence in the room. Unintentionally, he began surveying her demeanor and appearance. Why had this data set been overlooked until now?
She carried an unexpected beauty and elegance, and the clarity of her input proved a persistent, distracting anomaly. Every trace of this unforeseen internal turmoil was carefully concealed behind his flawless, composed facade.
You straighten your posture, a reflex born from years of strict correction, the kind that made your shoulders ache whenever you felt eyes on you.
Amidst a heated debate on Malleus Draconia’s controversial participation, you cut in smoothly.
“I must concur with the Housewarden Kingscholar’s position.” Your firm, clear tone drew the immediate, surprised attention of every Housewarden. Even as you finished speaking, you felt that familiar prickle at the back of your neck—the phantom sting of past voices warning you never to stand out too much. “To exclude someone based purely on the extent of their power and skill, simply to engineer an easier win for others, is inherently biased. Removing the strongest opponent suggests an avoidance of legitimate challenge. This tournament should be an opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of the title of champion.” Though some of their expressions remained guarded, a visible flicker of awe and respect passed over the assembled Housewardens in response to your unexpected speech. Azul subtly straightened his posture as you finished articulating your position. Leona regarded you with a lazy smirk before addressing the room. “Even the herbivore agrees with us. Doesn't the thought of seeing that self-important, stuck-up snob’s crestfallen face broadcast to the whole world make you want to roar?” As the collective dissent became clear, Leona turned to the Headmage. “I believe it’s clear. The Hall of Fame concept is officially shelved.” The Headmage sighed, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Very well. But let it be known: if this year results in a repeat of the last two crushing victories, Malleus is retired to the Hall of Fame next year, without exception.”
The moment the meeting was formally adjourned, Azul smoothly detached himself from the group and approached you. He told himself it was purely business, yet an undeniable magnetic pull drew him to your presence.
“Prefect, a moment, if you please.” You halted, turning to face him with a flicker of confusion. Housewarden Rosehearts, escorting you, instinctively positioned himself closer—a silent guard against the inevitable Octavinelle schemer. “I must commend your surprisingly insightful contribution. In the interest of inter-dorm synergy, perhaps we could convene at a later date? I would be most interested in getting to know you better.” He executed a slight bow, then, with disarming formality, took your hand. “Y/N, you don’t have to—” Riddle began, cautious, but you cut him off. “It’s fine, Riddle. I will handle this.” You turned to Azul. “I appreciate your offer, Housewarden Ashengrotto, but my schedule and dorm duties are presently non-negotiable. If you’ll excuse me.” You made a swift, decisive turn, walking away with Riddle in tow. Azul remained standing, arm extended. The predatory smile vanished, replaced by pensive concentration. Perhaps, he mused, you are far more valuable—and certainly more challenging—than his initial estimates allowed.
His sharp curiosity led him to keep meticulous tabs on your daily movements and routines, a necessity, he told himself, flatly denying the embarrassing, illogical flutter of a crush that had begun to surface.
The performance data was irrefutable. Jade’s detailed reports confirmed your exceptional ability, noting your dominance of nuanced academic questions and diverse, unforeseen extracurricular talents. This level of commitment, proven by hours spent in solitary study, revealed a relentless diligence far more potent—and thus, more financially viable—than simple magical power.
What genuinely surprised him was that two Housewardens seemed to have had a soft spot for you. After the two recent Overblots, you were suddenly in their favor? The fastidious Rose Tyrant and the proud, imposing Second Prince of Sunset Savana? How unbelievable was that?!
The midterms concluded, and the posting of results provided the expected opportunity for business. It was at that precise moment, however, that his entire strategy was overturned by a single, public observation. He saw an unexpected crack in your otherwise impenetrable composure, revealing a depth of vulnerability he never predicted.
The bustling crowd surrounding the results board momentarily parted, allowing Azul to see the freshly posted list. You were right there, waiting with the rest of the student body. When Azul's eyes scanned the board, his breath hitched, causing his glasses to visibly tip on his nose. There, under the top 5, was your name: Rank #2 in the entire student body. Impossible. How could someone who refused his 'essential' aid achieve such a result without any prior knowledge of this world's advanced curriculum?! Pulling his gaze away from the damning evidence on the board, he looked directly at you, fully expecting to see a triumphant, if humble, display of pride. After all, achieving second place was a monumental, career-making accomplishment for a transfer student. Instead, your face was a mask of stark, crushing disappointment. Peering past the celebratory crowd, he could catch the distinct shimmer of unshed tears welling in your eyes. Why, in Twisted Wonderland, would anyone be on the verge of tears over the second-highest academic rank? This extreme contradiction was a far greater, more compelling hook than the success itself. “Tch.” You let out a short, sharp sound of dismissal and disappeared briskly into the dissolving crowd. Azul didn't think; he simply moved. A raw, unfamiliar compulsion had overridden his practiced logic, forcing him to follow. He shoved past a group of students without apology, a single-mindedness that would have horrified his meticulous self ten minutes ago. The sight of your genuine, crushing upset sent a strange, painful ache through his carefully guarded self. You turned sharply into a quiet hallway. He followed, halting instantly to press himself back against the corner's shadow to maintain surveillance. From his distance, he saw tears wet your test paper. He glimpsed the grade in red ink: a 96 out of 100. That score was incredibly high! Before he could process the score or take a closer look at the marked questions, you abruptly crumpled the paper into a tight ball and forcefully stuffed it into your pocket, turning your back to the wall. “Only a perfect score is acceptable. Did you truly believe a single mistake would be overlooked? Shameful.” The words echoed with the precise, high-pitched derision of her mother, the same tone used on her whenever they would berate her. Your breath stuttered; cold pressure wrapped around your ribs, squeezing tighter—a suffocating reminder that anything less than perfection was failure. The simultaneous sting of expectation and rejection from every judgmental figure you’d ever known flooded your memory. There was no time for this. The next hour was reserved for sorting the new delivery of sea anemones acquired through the recent, extremely profitable contract.
Following the recent events and his recent Overblot, Azul carried lingering insecurities regarding his past self, but he had managed to accept his history without shame. This internal shift genuinely changed his business approach; he ceased outright scams and strove for demonstrably fairer deals. While the air was cleared after he returned Ramshackle, contact between the two of you had been minimal, but he couldn’t stop thinking about you, wanting to know more about you. It wasn’t until the school's final exam period that he got that chance.
He happened to pass your table in the library. You were completely engrossed, surrounded by a fortress of sprawled textbooks, your pen flying rapidly across the page. His fascination with such relentless, focused diligence grew in real-time.
You sensed the surveillance and looked up instantly. Azul was not just looking; he was staring—a blatant, uncontrolled appraisal—with a flicker of undeniable awe breaking through his composure.
“Here on business, Ashengrotto? I thought you usually had your lackeys handle the inventory.” You asked inquisitively. “N-not at all. I was simply researching some complex historical topics,” Azul lied smoothly, though the initial stutter betrayed the sudden fabrication. The uncharacteristic stutter was loud enough to be noticed, a small, yet significant, crack in his polished facade. “I see.” You mumbled, immediately returning to your book. Azul pretended to browse, his thoughts snagging. This is not logical. The sheer, consistent diligence was irritating and utterly fascinating. He returned, placing a precise finger on the corner of your textbook. “An astounding display of aptitude, Prefect. To achieve Rank 2 is statistically unprecedented for an unsorted student. Congratulations.” You flinched, the words turning to ash. A low, ragged noise escaped your throat, closer to a choke than a thank you. You swallowed hard. Compliments always felt like traps—expectations disguised as kindness. "Failure," you thought, the word echoing the relentless self-criticism. As you quickly tried to gather your materials, concealing your face, the tremor of your hand was arrested by another's. You looked up through blurring tears to see Azul, who had unexpectedly slid into the chair beside you. You tried to breathe evenly, the way you taught yourself to do whenever panic threatened to surface. “I happened to notice your profound disappointment the day the rankings were posted.” He looked at you with sincerity in his eyes, which caught you off guard. I respect your privacy, and I won’t force you to elaborate on the circumstances. However, if you feel there is a logistical or structural problem affecting your performance, I would extend an invitation to the Mostro Lounge for a private, complimentary consultation.”
You hadn't meant to surrender your composure, not to him, the master manipulator, but the relentless weight of maintenance finally gave way. The words were quiet but sharp, revealing the true cost of your 'perfection': the unforgiving, proprietary expectations of your family, and the isolating cruelty you endured from peers who mistook your excellence for arrogance.
Azul adjusted his glasses, a slow, deliberate movement to conceal his own shift in demeanor. His voice was uncharacteristically low. “I am certain you are aware of my... past challenges with overwhelming expectations. I recognize the specific pressures you are under.” He clears his throat before continuing, his formality slipping slightly. “I greatly admire your fortitude in maintaining such a flawless external profile. You are, quite simply, perfect, Miss Prefect.” He hated that a genuine, uncontrolled blush betrayed his shock and respect. You offered him a gentle, sincere smile. “Azul, if you're going to speak to me with such sincerity, then at least call me by my name.”
Later that evening, in your favored, quiet library nook, the conversation flowed easily, focusing on shared academic interests and moments of genuine, rare laughter. Beneath the table, his hand found yours. This new non-verbal contract—a promise of connection outside of business—was now his most treasured asset.
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐.𝟒𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
❦ ❧ ❧ ═══════════ ❧ ❧ ❦
✦ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ❤︎ ── ✥ ✥ ✥ ── ❤︎ ⋅ ♜ ⋅ ✦
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅
𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐨𝐨. 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐱 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬. 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬! 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧. 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫! 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭! 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬!
⋅•●⋅ ✶ ─── {⋅. ❧ .⋅} ─── ✶ ⋅●•⋅