Hello Manager seru! Can I get seared scallop and eel stew with sunken treasure chestnut pie? The overblot gang where instead of them their s/o overblots? Maybe it's the fact that they miss their world/family or the stress from the work Crowley has been giving them?
Ah, esteemed patron! Welcome to the Lounge.
You have placed an order for a Seared Scallop & Eel Stew (Angst) with a Sunken Treasure Chest(nut) Pie (Comfort) finish.
And the scenario... my, my. A role reversal of the most heartbreaking kind. The Overblot Gang—who were all saved by the Reader's kindness and endurance—watching that very same Reader succumb to the darkness? Watching the accumulation of homesickness, the crushing weight of Headmaster Crowley's unreasonable demands, and the trauma of "fixing" everyone else finally break the Magic-less Prefect?
This is a dish of profound Guilt and Desperate Devotion. They know exactly what that darkness feels like. Seeing you drown in it is their worst nightmare.
The kitchen has prepared this with a heavy hand on the angst, followed by the sweetest, most protective comfort.
Serving: When the Healer Breaks
You don't have a magic stone to blot, but the negativity has to go somewhere. It accumulates in your soul. One day, after another impossible demand from Crowley or a wave of crushing homesickness, you snap. You don't turn into a giant monster; you simply overflow. Black, ink-like tears stream down your face. You are screaming, or perhaps silent, surrounded by a suffocating aura of despair.
👑 Riddle Rosehearts
The Stew (The Breakdown): He finds you in the Rose Maze, destroying the white roses. You aren't painting them; you are tearing them apart, sobbing about how tired you are, how nothing is ever enough. Riddle freezes. He sees himself in you. The pressure. The perfectionism. The breaking point. "Prefect? Stop! That is... that is against the rules! You are hurting yourself!" He tries to order you to stop, but his voice cracks. He realizes that he contributed to this. He relied on you to be the stable one.
The Pie (The Comfort): He rushes forward, ignoring the thorns, and grabs your wrists. He doesn't use magic. He uses his own strength. "Enough!" he cries, pulling you into a desperate hug. "I... I rescind the order! I rescind all orders! You do not have to be perfect! You do not have to be strong!" He buries his face in your shoulder, his own tears mixing with your inky ones. "I am the Housewarden. It is my duty to maintain order, not yours. You have carried the weight of my crown for too long. Please... let me carry you now. I command you... to rest."
🦁 Leona Kingscholar
The Stew (The Breakdown): You collapse in his room. You're hyperventilating, clawing at your chest, rambling about how you want to go home, how you hate this world, how you're just a tool for everyone else. The shadows in the room seem to lengthen, responding to your distress. Leona wakes up instantly. The smell of acrid distress hits him. He sees the "herbivore"—the one creature who seemed to have endless patience—snarling with grief. "Oi..." He stands up, his tail lashing. "What did that crow do to you?"
The Pie (The Comfort): He crosses the room in a blur. He doesn't try to talk you down with logic. He effectively tackles you onto the bed, pinning you under his weight—not to hurt, but to ground you. "Shut up," he growls, but his hand is cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into his chest. "Stop thinking. Stop working. You're done." He radiates heat and lazy, heavy calm. He forces his own steady heartbeat against yours. "You want to go home? Fine. I'll find a way. But right now, you're in my den. And in my den, nobody works. Nobody suffers. You just sleep. I'll eat anyone who tries to wake you up. Even Crowley."
🐙 Azul Ashengrotto
The Stew (The Breakdown): You are in the VIP room, trying to negotiate a deal for Crowley, and you just... shatter. You start laughing, a hollow, broken sound. You talk about "debts" and "unfair contracts" and how you've given everything and received nothing. Ink starts to drip from your eyes, staining the contracts on the table. Azul drops his pen. He knows this flavor. It is the taste of inferiority and exploitation. He realizes, with horror, that the Reader has been operating on a deficit for months.
The Pie (The Comfort): He vaults over the desk. He grabs your shoulders, his eyes wide and frantic behind his glasses. "The contract is void!" he shouts, shaking you slightly. "I am declaring it null and void! You owe nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!" He pulls you into his arms, casting a barrier spell around the room to shut out the world. "I am the most greedy mage in this school," he whispers fiercely into your ear. "And I am hoarding you. You are no longer available for the Headmaster's use. I will take on your debts. I will manage the burden. Just... please... stop crying. It is... an inefficient use of your precious energy."
🐍 Jamil Viper
The Stew (The Breakdown): You are helping him cook, and you drop a plate. Instead of picking it up, you stare at the shards and whisper, "I'm trapped." The air grows heavy. You start to spiral about being a servant to everyone's whims, never having a choice, never being free. Jamil goes still. It is like looking in a mirror. He sees the chains of duty choking you, the same chains he tried to burn down the school to escape.
The Pie (The Comfort): He turns off the stove. He walks over to you, kicks the shards aside, and grabs your face in his hands. "Look at me," he commands, his voice utilizing his "Snake Charmer" cadence—not to hypnotize, but to focus you. "You are not a servant. You are not a tool. You are [....]." He pulls you against him, wrapping his arms tight around your waist, resting his chin on your head. "I know the feeling. I know the suffocation. But you are not alone in it anymore. I will handle Kalim. I will handle Crowley. You are done serving. From now on... I serve you. Let me take the lead. Just breathe."
👠 Vil Schoenheit
The Stew (The Breakdown): You are in the Pomefiore ballroom, looking in the mirror, and you start screaming that you're "ugly," that you're "broken," that you're "useless." The stress has twisted your self-perception. You start to scratch at your own skin, trying to tear off the pressure. Vil is horrified. He sees the "Fairest One" crumbling into the ugly despair he knows so well. He sees the poison he once drank now coursing through you.
The Pie (The Comfort): "Stop!" He catches your hands, his grip iron-strong. "Do not mar the masterpiece!" He drags you to the floor, pulling you into his lap, holding your wrists so you can't hurt yourself. He forces you to look at him. "You are not ugly," he says, his voice shaking with intensity. "You are exhausted. You are tarnished by the incompetence of others. But you are mine." He begins to gently stroke your hair, using the soothing techniques he uses on himself. "I will strip away this 'blot.' I will apply the balm. I will make you beautiful again. We will rest. No more rehearsals. No more duties. Just... sleep, my potato. I will watch over you."
💀 Idia Shroud
The Stew (The Breakdown): You are gaming with him, and you suddenly go AFK. You start typing gibberish in the chat. Then, in the room, you curl into a ball, muttering about "Game Over" and "Bad Ends" and how you just want to "log out" (leave the world). The air around you turns cold and static. Idia's hair flares with panic. He recognizes the Doom Spiral. He knows what it's like to want to delete your save file.
The Pie (The Comfort): He rips his headphones off. He scrambles off his chair and crawls under the desk/blanket fort where you are hiding. "N-No! No logging out!" he stammers, grabbing your hands. "It's not a Game Over! It's just... it's just a lag spike! A really bad lag spike!" He pulls you into a desperate, awkward hug, burying his face in your neck. "I'll... I'll carry you! I'll be the tank! You don't have to do any DPS! Just... stay in the party! Please! I can't... I can't solo this server without my Player 2!" He refuses to let go, promising to DDOS Crowley's email if that's what it takes to get you a break.
🐲 Malleus Draconia
The Stew (The Breakdown): You are walking with him at night. You look at the moon and start weeping. You talk about how far away it is. How far away home is. How you are just a "passing human" who doesn't belong anywhere. The despair is so thick it actually summons thunderclouds. Malleus stops. He feels the agony of isolation—his oldest companion—radiating from you. He realizes that while he found a home in you, you are still lost.
The Pie (The Comfort): The rain starts to fall, but it doesn't touch you. He wraps his cape around you, engulfing you in darkness and warmth. He lifts you into his arms effortlessly, holding you against his chest like a dragon guarding its hoard. "You are not lost," he rumbles, his voice vibrating through your chest. "And you are not passing. You are here. With me." He begins to walk back to Diasomnia, ignoring the school rules. "If this world is too harsh... I will burn it down and build you a new one. If you miss your home... I will tear the fabric of reality to find it. But until then... I am your home. Rest in my thorns, Child of Man. Nothing shall harm you while I draw breath."
A dish served with the deepest empathy and the strongest protection. The kitchen is honored to have served you, patron.
We do hope this Seared Scallop & Eel Stew brought the catharsis you needed!
Good evening! New patron here, I hope I’m ordering correctly; I’m interested in the golden calamari rings, featuring Jade and Floyd Leech (separately, if you please). I’m sure you’re aware working here, but they have some peculiarities about them from their time spent in the sea. As eels apparently initiate a courtship by gaping their mouths at each other, how about a reader who accidentally flirts with them by yawning in their presence?
Ah, a new patron! Good evening, and welcome to the Mostro Lounge.
We are so delighted to have you. Please, do not worry for a moment; you have placed your "order" perfectly. It is a true pleasure to serve a new, discerning guest.
And my, my... what a "dish" you have ordered! A plate of Golden Calamari Rings, featuring our very own Monsieurs Leech.
Patron. You... you have come to our establishment with research. You have brought your own "secret ingredient" to the kitchen! The concept of... accidental flirting... based on the deep-sea customs of their kind? Shishishi... That is a gourmet "flavor profile." It is... fascinating.
The kitchen is delighted to prepare this for you. We have, as requested, prepared their "dishes" separately.
Serving: An Accidental Courtship (Yawning S/O)
🍄 Jade Leech
Jade is a creature of subtlety, observation, and patience. He is, above all, an analyst. When he interacts with you, he is always watching, always cataloging your "human" behaviors.
The Scene: You are in the Lounge, late. The shift is over, and the last of the patrons have left. You are helping him wipe down the counters, and you are exhausted. He is telling a long, serene story about a new type of moss he found. "...and the most fascinating part," he's saying, his voice a low, smooth monotone, "is that it only spores under a full..."
It happens. You are so tired, and his voice is so lulling, that you can't stop it. You turn to him, your mouth stretching wide in a massive, jaw-popping, full-faced yawn.
His Reaction: Jade Leech freezes. He does not stop smiling. But the smile... locks. His hand, which was wiping a glass, stops mid-motion. His brain, which is half-mer, half-analyst, has just blue-screened. His mer-instincts scream: COURTSHIP. SIGNAL. INVITATION. His analyst-brain counters: Human. Tired. Not an eel. This is a... 'coincidence.'
The Realization: He will just... stare... at your mouth for a second too long. His eyes will be wide, his heterochromatic one seeming to glow with a sudden, intense curiosity. "...My," he will finally say, his voice a fraction tighter than usual. "How... fascinating. Are you... quite alright, [....]?" He is not flustered. He is... intrigued. He will file this away. "Human custom: Yawning... a sign of 'fatigue.' Mer custom: Gaping... a sign of 'interest.' ...How delightfully confusing."
The Aftermath: He will not be able to get this out of his head. He will now become obsessed with your yawns. He will find new, subtle ways to make you tired in his presence. He will offer you warm milk. He will "happen" to bring you on a very long, very serene "mountain walk." He will intentionally speak in his most "calming" monotone. He is testing it. He wants to see you "yawn" at him again. It's an experiment. And when you do... his smile will become genuine. He finds this "accidental," intimate, animalistic gesture... absolutely delightful. He will never tell you what it means. But he will, one day, when you yawn at him... slowly... yawn back. Just to watch your adorable, human confusion.
🐟 Floyd Leech
Floyd is a creature of instinct, impulse, and whim. He does not analyze. He reacts. He lives entirely in his "mer-brain," and he sees the world as a series of things to squeeze, play with, or ignore.
The Scene: You are in the cafeteria. It is loud. You're sitting across from Floyd, who is rapid-fire telling you a story about a basketball game, his hands flying everywhere. "...and then Ace was all, 'No way, Floyd!' and I was like, 'YES WAY!' and I just... swooped it, right? And I..."
He is so loud. You are so sleepy from your lunch. You don't even try to hide it. You lean back, stretch, and let out a massive, unabashed... yawn.
His Reaction: Floyd slams his hands on the table. He stops talking. Mid-word. His playful, manic grin vanishes. He just... stares. His pupils... dilate. He leans way over the table, his face now inches from yours. "...Oh?" he'll say, and his voice is not playful. It's a low, interested... rumble.
The Realization: His brain has zero conflict. His brain went: YAWN = GAPING = FLIRTING = GAME ON. He does not care about "human customs." He does not think it's a "coincidence." He 100% believes you have just, in the clearest possible terms, propositioned him. ...And he is so into it.
The Aftermath: He will immediately "yawn" back. But a Floyd "yawn" is terrifying. He will lean in, open his mouth impossibly wide, and bare all of his sharp, pointy teeth. He'll just... stare at you... his mouth wide open, for a solid five seconds. You will, understandably, be... confused. "...Floyd? Are... are you okay? Did you... dislocate your jaw?" This will only encourage him. "Ah! Shrimpy! You did the thing again!" He will now find your yawning the most fun game ever. He will constantly try to make you do it. He'll poke you, or get real close and just... stare at you... waiting. He will boast about it to Jade. "Hey, Jade~ Shrimpy yawned at me again today. They really like me~." Jade will just smile and say, "My, my, Floyd. How... lucky... for you."
A "dish" prepared with accidental and fascinating "flavors"!
The kitchen is so delighted to have served your very first "order," patron. We do hope this Golden Calamari Rings dish was to your satisfaction, and we eagerly await your next visit to our Lounge!
The golden calamari rings featuring accidental flirtation looked fantastic! If I may, I’d like to order the same accidental flirting with Leona and Ruggie—to my understanding, lion courtship involves nuzzling and grooming, and a lioness may initiate play-fighting if she believes a male has not noticed or been receptive to her signals. Hyena courtships are marked by decreased aggression from a female, and she may share meals or perform grooming behaviors upon a male in order to invite him to court.
Ah, esteemed patron! Welcome back to the Lounge.
My goodness, you have returned with research again! A truly discerning guest appreciates the deepest flavors of their ingredients. The concept of accidental resource-sharing and nuzzling based on actual beastman lore? That is a gourmet, five-star addition to our menu.
We are delighted to serve you a second plate of Golden Calamari Rings, focusing on our most... primal... ingredients. We will observe the clash between human affection and beastman instinct.
Serving: Accidental Beastman Courtship
🦁 Leona Kingscholar
Leona’s reaction is deeply instinctual and possessive. He is a lion, and his life revolves around territory, dominance, and the clear communication of the pride. Nuzzling and challenging play-fights are essential courtship markers.
The Scenario: You approach him while he’s studying (or napping—it doesn’t matter). You’re frustrated with a concept, or perhaps just craving comfort, and you sigh, approaching him from the side. You gently nuzzle your head into his shoulder, leaning your weight against him for support (the human equivalent of grooming/cuddling). Or, you might slap his chest playfully, annoyed he’s ignoring you (the "play-fight" initiation).
The Reaction: He snaps awake, instantly alert. His emerald eyes open wide, focused with raw intensity. His tail, which was still, begins a slow, deliberate wag—the silent, primal acknowledgment of a signal received. He doesn't need to ask what you’re doing. His mind just processes: Signal Received. Courtship Initiated. He won't be flustered; he will be satisfied. He respects the directness of the action.
The Aftermath: He will drop whatever he was holding, hook a heavy arm around your waist, and gently but firmly pull you across his lap. He will then bury his face in your hair/neck and begin to nuzzle you back, rubbing his cheek against yours (the official "grooming" reply). "Took you long enough, herbivore," he'll mutter, his voice thick with possessive satisfaction. "Didn't think you'd be so forward." He is delighted by the clear communication. He’s going to initiate this constantly now, assuming you are just a wonderfully direct partner.
🍩 Ruggie Bucchi
Ruggie’s reaction is one of absolute suspicion followed by deep confusion. His entire world is transactional; nothing is free. Hyena courtship, marked by resource sharing and decreased aggression, is a massive signal that, if given by a non-hyena, sends his street-smart brain into overdrive.
The Scenario: Ruggie has just bought a limited-edition doughnut (or pie, or snack). You walk up and, without asking, gently hand-feed him a piece of it yourself (the "sharing meal" ritual). Or, you notice a speck of flour on his ear and gently brush it away with your thumb (the "grooming" behavior).
The Reaction: He freezes mid-chew. His ears pin back, and his tail stops flicking. His eyes narrow, suspicious. "Shishishi... okay, what's the angle? You just gave me the good part. You trying to distract me?" His hyena brain processes: Voluntary Resource Sharing. Zero Aggression. Grooming Behavior. This is not a scam; this is a signal. He's immediately confused and slightly embarrassed. He won't know how to react.
The Aftermath: He will get very quiet. He won't refuse the food, but he'll stammer. "H-Hey! Okay, thanks! But... uh... we're not... we're not courting, are we? This is... a bit much for resource management." He will assume you just made a major, serious move that indicates total dedication. He’ll treat you with deep, protective respect, afraid to accidentally "reject" the courtship signal. He will start to secretly leave "gifts" (scavenged or "found" items of value) on your desk, fulfilling his own side of the perceived resource-sharing contract. He is totally flustered, but convinced he has been chosen.
A "dish" served with exquisite research and delightful animal instinct! The kitchen is so pleased to have served this second portion.
We do hope this Golden Calamari Rings dish was to your liking, and we eagerly await your next visit to our Lounge!
Reader runs super warm, like warm enough to melt snow on their own in surprising quickness, so like living furnace warm. And because eels are cold blooded, when they hold hands in the snow they cause a bit of steam because of the snow clinging to their hands.
Ah, esteemed patron! Welcome!
You have placed a Fluffcember reservation for Day 28: Snow Melt, featuring Monsieur Floyd Leech.
The "flavor profile" here is exquisite. The biological contrast between a cold-blooded eel (who becomes lethargic and cold in winter) and a "living furnace" Reader? And the visual of steam rising from joined hands? That is top-tier sensory writing.
The kitchen has prepared this Manager's Specialty Pasta with a side of thermodynamics. We do hope this meal is to your satisfaction!
Serving: Snow Melt
"Ngh... it's freezing~."
Floyd Leech was miserable. He was draped over a park bench like a discarded wet towel, despite being bundled in a massive, puffy coat. His mood was as grey as the sky.
"I can't move," he whined, his voice dragging. "My fins are frozen. I'm gonna turn into an ice sculpture, Shrimpy. Then you'll be sorry. You'll have to carry me back to the Mirror."
"You're being dramatic, Floyd," you said, standing in front of him. You, in contrast, had your coat unzipped. You were radiating heat like a walking stove.
"Am not," he grumbled, burying his nose in his scarf. "Merfolk aren't built for this. It's a design flaw. I need a heater. Or a squeeze."
He reached out a gloved hand, wiggling his fingers demandingly. "Hand."
You smiled and pulled off your own glove. You didn't mind the cold; your circulation was aggressive. You reached out and took his gloved hand.
"Ew, no," Floyd complained, using his other hand to rip his glove off with his teeth. "Skin to skin. I need the good heat."
He grabbed your bare hand with his large, freezing cold one.
The reaction was immediate.
"Whoa," Floyd breathed, his eyes widening.
It wasn't just warm. It was hot. Your skin against his icy palm felt like he had touched a mug of coffee fresh from the microwave. The shock of it zinged up his arm, waking up his sluggish nerves.
"Shrimpy..." he murmured, staring at your joined hands. "You're burning up. Are you sick?"
"No," you laughed. "Just warm-blooded. Extremely warm-blooded."
A few snowflakes drifted down, landing on your joined hands.
Usually, snow would sit on Floyd’s skin for a long time before melting. But the moment the flakes touched the back of your hand—and the places where his cold fingers pressed into your hot skin—they didn't just melt.
They evaporated.
A tiny, faint wisp of white steam curled up from the space between your palms.
Floyd leaned in, fascinated. He watched another snowflake land, turn to water instantly, and then seem to sizzle into mist.
"Haaa~?" A wide, delighted grin split his face, his lethargy forgotten. "Look at that! You're steaming! You're actually steaming!"
He squeezed your hand tighter, interlacing his long, cold fingers with your hot ones, trying to absorb every joule of energy you were emitting.
"It feels... tingly," he purred, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Like holding a hot rock from the vent. Or a kettle."
He tugged you closer, wrapping his other arm around your waist and burying his freezing face into the crook of your neck (which made you yelp).
"Ahhh~," he sighed contentedly, practically melting against you. "That's the stuff. You're melting me, Shrimpy. Literally."
He looked up at you, his heterochromatic eyes half-lidded and happy.
"I'm not letting go until I stop seeing steam," he declared. "You're my personal heater now. Don't turn off."
A "dish" served with scientific wonder and leech-style clinginess! The kitchen is delighted to confirm this reservation.
Hmmm.. I think I'll get the Manager's Specialty Pasta.. with the Coral Sugar Parfait please!
(did i do this right? i tried hehe)
Could I get one with Ruggie and play fighting and/or cuddling? From my knowledge, hyenas love to cuddle up and use each other as pillows, so in my mind he'd want to lay on top of the reader, or vice versa.. And younger hyenas like to tumble around with one another and have cute little play fights.
Ah, esteemed patron! Welcome to the Lounge!
You did it perfectly! Do not worry for a second. You ordered a Manager's Specialty Pasta (a fanfic) served with Coral Sugar Parfait (pure fluff). That is a classic, delicious combination.
And your choice of "ingredients"... Ruggie Bucchi, paired with his natural hyena instincts? Magnifique.
You are absolutely correct. Hyenas are social, tactile creatures. They sleep in piles; they play rough to bond. For Ruggie, who grew up scrapping for everything, play-fighting is a love language, and using you as a pillow is the ultimate sign of trust.
The kitchen has prepared this "dish" with extra warmth and a lot of playful energy. I do hope it is to your satisfaction!
Serving: The Savannah Tumble
"Oi! I saw that!"
"Saw what?" Ruggie’s grin was wide, innocent, and entirely unconvincing. He held his hands up in mock surrender, though one hand was suspiciously clenched behind his back. "I'm just sittin' here, mindin' my own business, and you're accusin' me of crimes? Hurtful, really."
You narrowed your eyes, stepping closer to where he sat cross-legged on his bed in the Savanaclaw dorm. "Ruggie. The jerky. Give it back."
"Finders keepers, loser!"
With a cackle that sounded like a zipper being pulled up too fast (Shishishi!), Ruggie scrambled backward, vaulting over the headboard with agile grace.
"Oh, you are asking for it!" you yelled, lunging after him.
The chase lasted all of ten seconds before it devolved into a tackle. You caught him by the waist just as he tried to side-step, sending both of you tumbling onto the pile of mismatched, stolen cushions he kept in the corner of his room.
It wasn't a fight; it was a tumble. A mess of limbs, laughter, and playful shoves.
Ruggie was surprisingly strong—wiry strength that came from years of survival—but he wasn't using it to escape. He was using it to play. He rolled you over, pinning your wrists loosely above your head, his face inches from yours, his ears twitching wildly.
"Gotcha!" he crowed, his eyes bright with adrenaline. "What are you gonna do now, huh? I got the high ground and the jerky!"
"I'm going to bite you," you threatened, breathless from laughing.
Ruggie’s grin softened into something more feral and fond. "Hah? You think your dull human teeth can scare me? I'll show you a bite."
He lowered his head and chomped—gently, playfully—on the side of your neck. It was a mock-bite, a "play-nip" that young hyenas used to test boundaries and bond. It tickled more than anything, sending a shiver down your spine.
You squirmed, freeing one hand to shove his face away, which only made him laugh harder. He released your wrists, collapsing on top of you, his weight heavy and solid.
The wrestling match slowed down. The adrenaline faded, replaced by the warm, dusty heat of the Savanaclaw dorm and the sound of your shared breathing.
Ruggie didn't move.
Usually, this would be the part where someone pulled away. But Ruggie... melted.
All the tension left his frame. He went from a scrappy fighter to a heavy, boneless weight pressing you into the cushions. He rested his chin on your chest, looking up at you with half-lidded, content eyes.
"You're comfy," he mumbled, the playfulness dropping into a low, rumbly purr in his chest.
"You're heavy," you countered, though your hand was already coming up to scratch behind his large, round ears.
"Deal with it," he yawned, shifting slightly so he was even more sprawled on top of you. It was the hyena instinct kicking in—the "puppy pile." To Ruggie, warmth was a resource, and you were a very efficient heater.
"I'm keepin' you here," he stated, closing his eyes as your fingers worked through his messy hair. "Leona-san's been workin' me to the bone all week. My muscles are toast. You're my mattress now."
"I have homework, Ruggie."
"Nope. The jerky is payment for your services as a pillow. We have a contract."
He nuzzled his face into your shirt, inhaling your scent. It was a gesture of profound trust. Ruggie Bucchi, who slept with one eye open, who guarded his pockets and his food, was completely defenseless in your arms.
"Just... five minutes," he murmured, his voice slurring into sleep. "Don't move. Or I'll bite you for real."
You smiled, wrapping your arms around his back, holding him close. "Okay. Five minutes."
(It was an hour. And he definitely ate the jerky afterwards, but he split the last piece with you, which was practically a marriage proposal in his book.)
A "dish" served with playful energy and a very cozy finish! The kitchen is delighted to have served you, patron.
We hope this Manager's Specialty Pasta was to your satisfaction!
Hello, this is my first time ordering, so apologies if my order is not very specific. But I'd like to order some golden calamari rings with some velvet mousse berry coulis for dessert.
With overbolt boys paired with a gn yuu reader who was a trained violinist, and keeps thier violin with them at all times.
This reader also loves music of all kinds and can pick up a tune like its second nature.
Ah, a first-time patron! Welcome, welcome!
Please, do not apologize for your order. The kitchen loves a request that brings music into the Lounge.
You have asked for Golden Calamari Rings with a side of Velvet Mousse. A classic, refined combination.
You requested the our dear Overblot candidates paired with a Violinist Reader. A reader who carries their instrument like a knight carries a sword—always ready, always prepared. The violin is a demanding mistress; it requires perfect posture, calloused fingers, and an ear for the slightest deviation in pitch.
For these gentlemen, your ability to pick up any tune is not just a parlor trick; it is a language.
Here is your order. I hope it strikes the right chord!
Serving: The Overblot Gang & The Virtuoso
🌹 Riddle Rosehearts
The Reaction:
Riddle has immense respect for classical training. He knows that the violin is one of the most difficult instruments to master because there are no frets—you must know exactly where to place your fingers by muscle memory and ear alone.
He finds your habit of carrying the violin everywhere... acceptable. At first, he might check the rulebook ("Rule 345: One must not play string instruments in the hallway during passing periods"), but since you just carry it, he views it as a sign of your dedication.
The Scenario:
You are the only person who can calm him down when he is on the verge of turning red. If he is stressed about grades or rule-breaking, you don't use words. You simply lift your bow and play a calm, structured sonata.
He loves that you can pick up a tune instantly. If he hums a melody from his childhood, you can harmonize with it seconds later. It feels like you understand his thoughts without him having to explain them.
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"Your posture is impeccable, [....]. The angle of your bow... it is perfect."
Riddle will often ask you to play for him in the privacy of his room while he studies. He finds the order and precision of your music grounded him. It is the only time he allows himself to close his eyes and just be, trusting you to keep the rhythm for him.
🦁 Leona Kingscholar
The Reaction:
Initially, he calls it "noisy." "Great," he’d grumble, seeing the case on your back. "You brought the screech-box." But don't let him fool you; Leona has incredibly sensitive hearing. He hates bad music, but he is hypnotized by good music.
He notices that you carry it everywhere. To him, it smells like rosin and wood—a scent that he now associates entirely with you.
The Scenario:
Since you can pick up any tune, you often mimic the sounds of the Savanna or the lazy jazz he likes. You’ll be sitting in the Botanical Garden while he naps, improvising a low, slow melody that matches the rhythm of his breathing.
If you stop playing, his ear will twitch, and one green eye will crack open. "I didn't say stop."
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"You're better than the royal orchestras back home. They play like robots. You play like you're alive."
Leona uses you as a living lullaby. He will pull you down to sit next to him, resting his head on your lap while you pluck the strings (pizzicato) so it’s not too loud. He finds the vibration of the instrument against your body—and by extension, his—incredibly soothing.
🐙 Azul Ashengrotto
The Reaction:
Azul sees value. High value. A trained violinist who can play anything by ear? You are a walking jukebox and a virtuoso rolled into one. He immediately starts calculating how much he can charge for a "Request Night" at the Lounge.
He is fascinated by the "Perfect Pitch" aspect. He will try to test you. He’ll play a complex chord on the piano and smirk. "Identify this?" And when you play it back instantly on the violin, his smirk turns into a genuine, impressed smile.
The Scenario:
The Duet. Azul is a pianist. It is inevitable. After the Lounge closes, when the lights are dim and the staff is gone, the two of you jam.
He starts a melody—something jazzy or melancholic—and you jump in effortlessly. You weave around his notes, the violin singing over the piano. It’s a conversation without words, a dance of intellect and emotion.
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"To think such talent was hiding in a magicless student... you continue to surprise me. Your instrument is an extension of your soul, is it not?"
He loves buying you accessories. High-quality rosin, silk cloths for cleaning, a case that is temperature-controlled. He claims it’s an "investment in the Lounge’s assets," but really, he just wants to see you cherish the things he gives you.
🐍 Jamil Viper
The Reaction:
Jamil is a man of rhythm (he’s a dancer, after all). He respects the flow. He notices that you carrying your violin everywhere means you are always ready to express yourself, something he envies.
He is the most critical of your technique, but in a helpful way. He notices if your shoulder is tense or if your wrist is stiff.
The Scenario:
He’s cooking or breakdancing, and you start playing to match his pace. If he’s chopping vegetables quickly, you play a fast, staccato beat. If he’s stretching, you play a legato adagio.
It becomes a game. He’ll change his rhythm abruptly just to see if you can keep up. When you do, he gives you that rare, genuine smirk that reaches his eyes. "Not bad. You’re quick."
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"You have a good ear. Better than most. You hear the things people don't say."
Jamil finds peace in your music because it drowns out the constant paranoia in his head. When you play, he doesn't have to think about Kalim or his duties. He just listens to the melody. He might even lay his head on your shoulder while you tune the strings, a rare moment of vulnerability.
👑 Vil Schoenheit
The Reaction:
Vil understands the pain of beauty. He knows what the violin does to the body—the neck cramps, the calloused fingertips, the constant demand for perfection. He respects you immensely for it.
"A violin is the closest instrument to the human voice," he will say. "Do not let it go out of tune. It reflects poorly on you."
The Scenario:
He recruits you for Pomefiore practice. He wants his students to learn how to move with grace, and he uses your music as the metronome.
But in private, he wants you to play for him. He will sit at his vanity, removing his makeup, while you play something haunting and beautiful. It helps him strip away the "Villain" persona and just be Vil.
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"You look beautiful when you play. The focus in your eyes... it is captivating. Never stop."
He is obsessed with your hands. He will massage your fingers with his high-end lotions (non-greasy, of course, so you don't ruin the wood) after a long session. He treats your hands like precious artifacts because they create the art he loves.
💀 Idia Shroud
The Reaction:
"Whoa. IRL Bard class? That’s OP."
Idia is usually all about digital synths and chiptune, but he secretly thinks the violin is "high-tier aesthetic." It’s gothic, it’s emotional, it’s very anime protagonist.
He is amazed that you carry it everywhere. "Inventory management must be a pain. Does that thing have an encumbrance penalty?"
The Scenario:
He’s gaming, and you start playing the soundtrack of the game he’s playing—but on violin. He freaks out. "NO WAY! You know the boss theme from Star Rogue 4?! That’s a deep cut!"
He starts requesting meme songs. You play them with perfect classical technique. He laughs so hard he wheezes. It’s the most comfortable he feels with anyone.
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"Analog audio... actually sounds way better than the compressed files. Can you... play that one again? The sad one?"
Idia isn't good with feelings, but he will record you playing (with permission) and listen to it when his anxiety is high and you aren't around. He calls it his "sanity potion."
🐉 Malleus Draconia
The Reaction:
Malleus is an old soul. He loves string instruments. To him, the violin is a bridge to the past. He recognizes songs you play that are centuries old—songs humans have forgotten, but dragons remember.
He sees the violin case on your back as your weapon. "A knight carries a sword; you carry a song. It is a noble choice, Child of Man."
The Scenario:
You play in the ruins of the dorm at night. Malleus appears from the green fire, drawn by the sound.
"I know this tune," he will say, his eyes glowing softly. "It was popular in the courts of the Briar Valley one hundred years ago."
He will start humming along. His voice is deep, resonant, and blends perfectly with your strings. It is a duet across species and lifespans.
The Sweetness (Velvet Mousse):
"Your life is short, like a single note in a symphony. But this music... this will echo long after you are gone. Thank you for sharing your fleeting time with me."
He loves to watch you tune the instrument. He finds the intimacy between musician and instrument fascinating. Sometimes, he will ask to hold the violin (handling it as if it were made of glass) just to feel the vibration of the wood where your chin rested.
A symphony of reactions for a talented musician! Thank you for placing your first order. I hope it was music to your ears.
Riddle and the reader had prepared to have a tea party but out of nowhere it starts hailing. The reader thinks this is hilarious and tries to calm the very stressed out Riddle after his plans were aggressively stomped on by the weather. They still have the tea party, just inside instead. At least it's a lot warmer inside. They still have a good time :>
Bonus: The reader keeps one of the ice chunks that hit their head (or maybe Riddle's head) for some reason. They gift it to Riddle to keep in the freezer after that. Riddle is concerned.
(Also December 4th is my birthday so it'd be really cool (hah) if I got this as a birthday gift lol. It's alright if not though lol)
My, my, esteemed patron! The kitchen has received your "reservation," and we are... beaming!
First, to have you "order" from our special Fluffcember menu is a delight. But to see that your "reservation" falls on... your birthday? My goodness! This is not just a "dish," this is a celebration! The Manager (and the entire, invisible staff) is honored to prepare this "gift" for you. We shall endeavor to make it... extra cool (hah!).
A "dish" that begins with the stress of a ruined plan but finishes with the warmth of an indoor party... and... a... souvenir? What an... eccentric... and delightful "flavor profile"!
Serving: Hail
It was, in Riddle's estimation, perfect.
The small table in the Rose Maze was set for two. The tablecloth was a crisp, perfect white. The teacups were placed exactly four inches from the edge, their handles at a precise 45-degree angle. The tarts, which he'd reluctantly allowed Trey to help with, were symmetrically arranged.
The sky was... well, it was a bit... grey. But the forecast had said "cloudy, no precipitation." And Riddle trusted the forecast.
"Of course it is," Riddle said, a small, proud smile on his face as he poured the tea. "A proper tea party requires a proper, orderly setting. It is the respectful way to—"
CLACK.
Riddle... froze. You... froze. A single, marble-sized piece of ice, as if mocking him, had landed directly in the center of the strawberry tart.
"...What," Riddle whispered, his voice dangerously quiet, "was that?"
CLACK-CLACK-TINK-CLACK-THWACK.
It was as if the sky had suddenly, violently, declared war on your tea party. Within seconds, a torrential, angry downpour of hail was hammering your perfect table. The "clack-clack-clack" on the porcelain was deafening.
"THIS IS... NOT... IN THE FORECAST!" Riddle shrieked, his voice barely audible over the icy assault. He was staring, wide-eyed, as his beautiful tarts were... pulverized... by the weather.
"Riddle, we gotta—!"
BONK.
A particularly audacious piece of hail, the size of a gumball, ricocheted off the teapot and bonked Riddle directly on the crown of his head.
He didn't move. He just... squeaked. He looked so personally offended, so unbelievably affronted that the sky would dare...
...You lost it. You burst out laughing. A loud, un-Heartslabyul, snorting laugh.
"It... it hit you!" you howled, covering your mouth. "Riddle, the... the sky... just tried to 'Off with your head'!"
"THIS IS NOT... AMUSING!" Riddle yelled, his face a furious red, but his voice was full of panic as he tried to shield the teapot with his own body. "THE TEA! THE... THE PLAN! IT'S... IT'S RUINED!"
"Riddle, forget the plan!" you laughed, grabbing his arm. "Run!"
You grabbed the tray of (now-dented) teacups and the (thankfully) safe teapot, and dragged your very-stressed, very-sputtering boyfriend back through the maze, the hail clattering at your heels.
You tumbled into the Heartslabyul lounge, both of you soaked, your hair dripping. Riddle was panting, his hair a mess, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated stress.
"This... this is... unacceptable..." he was muttering, pacing. "I... I checked twice! The... the order... the plan...!"
"Hey," you said, setting the tray down by the fireplace. You put your hands on his shoulders, stopping his pacing. "Riddle. Look at me. It's... funny."
"It is NOT—"
"It is," you smiled. "It's chaotic, and it's stupid, and... we're inside now. Where it's warm." You gently fixed his mess-of-a-hair. "So... the location of the plan has changed. We're having the tea party... here. By the fire. It'll be... 'cozy.' A... a new rule."
Riddle looked at the fireplace. He looked at the (slightly-dented) pot of tea. He looked at you, your face bright and amused. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. "...'Cozy'..." he repeated, as if testing a new, foreign rule. "...A... a tea party is... acceptable... indoors... in... 'inclement weather'..." he finally decided. "...Very well. Let us... 'be cozy'."
And it was better. You both sat on the floor on a big, fluffy rug, the fire crackling, the sound of the furious hail outside making the inside feel that much warmer. The tea was still hot. The tarts were... 'aesthetically challenged'... but still delicious. Riddle... visibly... relaxed. He even... smiled. "...This... is... acceptable," he finally said, a small, genuine smile on his face.
...Later, when the storm had passed, you announced you "forgot something." You ran back outside... and returned, triumphant.
You were holding a single, very lumpy piece of ice, wrapped in a handkerchief.
"...What," Riddle said, his brow furrowing, "...is that?"
"This," you said, with all the reverence of a royal decree, "is The Offender."
"...The... 'offender'?"
"The one," you said, tapping your own head, "that dared to 'bonk' the Dorm Leader. I'm... gifting it to you."
Riddle... stared. He looked at the melty, lumpy ice. He looked at your completely serious, beaming face. "...You... are... gifting... me... a... piece of precipitation." "Yep! We have to keep it! In the freezer! As a... a memento. Of the day the sky's plan... was worse... than your plan."
Riddle was... profoundly... concerned. He was... so... confused by you. He... also... had never been more in love. He let out a small, baffled sigh. "...Very well. I... I will... find... a... 'regulation-sized'... container... for... 'The Offender.' ...You... you are... so strange."
A "dish" prepared for... a very special "patron"! The kitchen is so delighted to serve this, and we all wish you the happiest, warmest, and most 'cozy' of birthdays!
We hope this FluffcFember "reservation" is to your satisfaction, and that it makes your day just a little cooler! (Hah!)
