By the time the last guests departed—laughing too loudly, staggering slightly, pockets lighter than when they’d arrived—the Lounge shifted into a quieter, more treacherous state. Tables were wiped down, glasses clinked softly as they were stacked, and the lingering scent of rich coffee beans and citrus polish settled into the velvet curtains like a memory that refused to fade.
Azul Ashengrotto stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gloves discarded for once. The lamplight reflected faintly off the polished marble, throwing golden lines across the floor. He adjusted the ledgers stacked neatly before him, aligning their corners with unnecessary precision.
Everything had to look impeccable.
Especially tonight.
He told himself this was about business—about reviewing the evening’s profits, ensuring nothing was misplaced, recalculating margins that he already knew by heart. He told himself that efficiency demanded his full attention.
And yet.
His gaze lifted, unbidden, drifting across the room.
You were seated near the far wall, where the Lounge’s shadows gathered thickest, half-hidden behind a tall potted plant whose leaves curled like watching eyes. You weren’t a customer—not anymore, at least. Your drink sat untouched in front of you, condensation sliding lazily down the glass.
Waiting.
Azul’s fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
Focus, he scolded himself. You have no reason to—
Your head tilted as you listened to Floyd complain animatedly to Jade about some perceived slight, and when you laughed—soft, unguarded—Azul felt something unpleasant twist in his chest.
An emotion he disliked. One he refused to name.
He lowered his gaze back to the ledger, though the numbers blurred together almost immediately.
It was ridiculous.
The Lounge was his. Every inch of it had been curated, negotiated, and refined through tireless effort and carefully worded contracts. He prided himself on knowing exactly where everything—and everyone—stood at all times.
And yet, when it came to you, he felt perpetually off-balance.
Azul glanced up again.
You weren’t looking at him.
That fact should have been a relief.
Instead, it felt… hollow.
He cleared his throat quietly and flipped a page in the ledger that didn’t need flipping. The sound echoed more sharply than he intended in the otherwise subdued atmosphere.
Jade’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, sharp and knowing, before returning to Floyd.
Azul ignored him.
He always did.
You shifted in your seat, finally reaching for your drink. Your fingers brushed the rim of the glass, hesitant, as though unsure whether you should stay or leave. The Lounge was technically closed, after all. Anyone else would have been gently—but firmly—ushered out long ago.
Anyone else.
Azul told himself that allowing you to remain was a matter of convenience. You had been helping earlier—running messages, assisting with minor tasks that didn’t warrant a formal contract. He’d found your presence… useful.
That was all.
And yet, his eyes followed the movement of your hand with traitorous interest.
You raised the glass, took a small sip, and winced slightly at the bitterness.
Azul suppressed a sigh.
He had warned you it wasn’t sweet.
Still, something in him softened at the sight. A foolish reaction, entirely unbecoming.
He returned to his work with renewed determination, pen scratching decisively across the page. He would not indulge this distraction. He would not—
“Azul?”
Your voice cut through the Lounge like a ripple across still water.
He froze.
Only for a moment. Just long enough to betray himself—though he doubted you noticed.
“Yes?” he replied smoothly, lifting his head with practiced composure. His glasses caught the light as he turned to face you fully, his expression neutral, attentive. “Is there something you require?”
Your gaze met his.
And held.
Azul felt the familiar tightening behind his ribs.
Stolen glances were one thing—fleeting, deniable, easily dismissed. But this? This was direct. Unavoidable.
He resisted the urge to look away.
“I was just wondering,” you said, hesitating slightly, “if you needed help with anything else before I go.”
Before you go.
The words echoed unpleasantly in his mind.
“I—” He stopped himself, recalibrating. “No. That won’t be necessary. You’ve already done more than enough this evening.”
Your shoulders relaxed a fraction, though your expression remained uncertain.
“Alright,” you said softly. “Then I’ll—”
You stood, pushing your chair in with care. The scrape of wood against marble sounded too loud in Azul’s ears. He watched as you gathered your things, movements unhurried but tentative, as though waiting for something.
For him.
The realization unsettled him.
He should let you leave. He should.
Instead, the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
You paused.
Turning back toward him, you smiled—small, genuine, and utterly disarming.
“I did,” you answered. “It’s always interesting here.”
Interesting.
Azul inclined his head slightly, accepting the compliment with a faint smile of his own. “I’m pleased to hear that. We strive to provide a unique experience.”
Your eyes flicked briefly to the counter, then back to his face.
“And you?” you asked. “Did you have a good night?”
The question caught him off guard.
Customers asked him about profits. About deals. About favors and debts.
They did not ask if he’d had a good night.
Azul adjusted his glasses, buying himself a moment.
“My night was… productive,” he replied carefully. “Which is what matters.”
You seemed to consider that, your gaze lingering on him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath his vest.
“I hope you get a chance to relax too,” you said finally.
Relax.
The notion was almost laughable.
Still, something in your tone made it sound less like a suggestion and more like a quiet wish.
Azul’s lips parted, then pressed together again.
“Safe travels,” he said instead. “And thank you again for your assistance.”
You nodded, accepting the dismissal with more grace than he deserved.
As you turned to leave, Azul told himself—sternly—that he would not watch you go.
He failed.
His eyes followed your retreating figure, tracing the familiar lines of your posture, the subtle way your shoulders squared as you stepped out into the corridor beyond the Lounge. The door swung shut behind you with a soft click.
The silence that followed was oppressive.
Azul exhaled slowly, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding bleeding out of him all at once.
“How touching.”
Jade’s voice drifted over from where he stood, expression placid but eyes alight with amusement.
Azul shot him a sharp look. “If you have something to say, Jade, I suggest you say it plainly.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of interfering,” Jade replied smoothly. “I merely find it fascinating how certain… variables can disrupt even the most meticulously balanced systems.”
Azul stiffened. “Mind your own affairs.”
Jade smiled.
Floyd, who had been conspicuously quiet, snorted. “Boss looks like he swallowed a bad oyster.”
Azul ignored him.
He gathered his ledgers, stacking them with unnecessary force before tucking them under his arm. “We’re closing for the night. Finish up.”
Left alone once more, Azul leaned back against the counter, the cool marble pressing through his vest. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself the smallest indulgence.
Your face surfaced in his mind unbidden.
The way your eyes met his. The warmth in your voice. The gentle concern you’d shown—freely, without contract or expectation.
It was dangerous.
Affection without leverage. Care without compensation.
Azul’s fingers curled against the edge of the counter.
He had spent his entire life ensuring he was never the one at a disadvantage. Never the one wanting without guarantee.
And yet, tonight, he had found himself watching you from across the room, stealing glances like a fool, afraid of being seen.
Afraid of what it would mean if you did see.
He straightened, smoothing his vest and adjusting his glasses once more.
This would not become a problem.
He would ensure it.
Even if it meant pretending that those glances—brief, restrained, and entirely unprofessional—had meant nothing at all
Azul Ashengrotto had known this the moment the official invitation arrived—embossed lettering, thick ivory paper, and the unmistakable seal of Night Raven College pressed into the corner like a silent threat. Events like these were less about celebration and more about display: power, prestige, alliances forged and broken under chandeliers and polite smiles.
Still, attendance was non-negotiable.
Azul adjusted his cufflinks for the third time, standing before the full-length mirror in Octavinelle’s dormitory. The tailored suit he wore tonight was darker than his usual attire—midnight blue, almost black, with subtle detailing along the lapels that caught the light when he moved. Everything about it was intentional. Controlled.
Impenetrable.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back.
You are here to observe, he reminded himself. To network. To be seen.
Nothing more.
The ballroom was already alive when he arrived. Music swelled from a live ensemble stationed near the far wall, strings and piano weaving together into something elegant and unobtrusive. Light spilled from towering crystal chandeliers, refracting across polished floors and shimmering gowns. The air buzzed with conversation—students, alumni, faculty, and invited guests all mingling in carefully curated chaos.
Azul slipped seamlessly into the crowd.
He exchanged pleasantries with ease, his smile polite and measured, his words chosen with surgical precision. Compliments were offered. Business cards subtly changed hands. Promises were made without ever being explicitly stated.
It was a dance he knew well.
And then—
He saw you.
You stood near the edge of the room, half-turned toward a display of historical artifacts encased in glass. The gown you wore was understated compared to some of the more ostentatious outfits around you, but that only made it more striking. Soft fabric, clean lines. Elegant without trying to be.
Azul felt the now-familiar tightening in his chest.
His first instinct was to look away.
His second was to calculate.
You’re alone, he noted immediately. No visible escort. No one vying for your attention.
The observations came automatically, a habit honed through years of assessing potential clients and rivals alike.
And yet, beneath the analysis lurked something far less useful.
You turned, as if sensing his gaze.
Your eyes met his from across the ballroom.
The moment stretched.
Azul did not move.
Neither did you.
The music seemed to dim, the chatter around him fading into an indistinct murmur. All he could see was the way your expression shifted—surprise, recognition, then something softer. Warmer.
There it was.
That unguarded look that unsettled him every time.
Azul inclined his head in a courteous greeting, his smile effortless and distant. The practiced mask slid into place without conscious thought.
You hesitated only a fraction of a second before returning the gesture.
And then, mercifully—or cruelly—you looked away.
The spell broke.
Azul exhaled quietly and turned back to the conversation at hand, though he couldn’t recall a single word spoken to him in the moments that followed. His attention fractured, pulled inexorably toward where you stood.
He didn’t approach you.
That, too, was deliberate.
The gala floor was a dangerous place for proximity. Too many eyes. Too many assumptions. Any interaction could be misconstrued, twisted into gossip that would ripple outward faster than he could control.
Still.
His gaze found you again and again, drawn like a compass needle straying north.
You drifted through the room slowly, pausing here and there to speak with acquaintances. Occasionally, someone would laugh at something you said, and Azul would feel an inexplicable spike of irritation—not at you, but at them. At the ease with which they occupied your attention.
Ridiculous, he scolded himself. You have no claim.
The realization did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his chest.
At one point, you passed dangerously close to where he stood. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of your perfume—subtle, not overpowering. Something floral, tinged with warmth.
Azul’s fingers curled slightly at his side.
You didn’t look at him as you passed.
He told himself he was relieved.
He lied.
The evening wore on, measured in conversations and clinking glasses. Azul maintained his composure flawlessly, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churned. Every time he felt your presence nearby, his focus fractured. Every time you laughed, something inside him tightened.
This was not how he operated.
When he finally excused himself from a particularly tedious discussion with a visiting dignitary, he sought refuge near one of the balconies lining the ballroom. Cool night air drifted in through the open doors, carrying with it the distant hum of the sea.
He rested one gloved hand against the railing, steadying himself.
“Escaping already?”
Your voice came from behind him.
Azul stiffened.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
You stood a few steps away, hands clasped lightly in front of you. The light from inside framed your figure, casting soft shadows across your face. Your expression was open, curious—unarmed.
Dangerous.
“I could say the same,” he replied smoothly. “Though I wouldn’t call it an escape. Merely a strategic repositioning.”
You smiled at that, a quiet huff of amusement escaping you.
“Of course,” you said. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The familiarity in your tone unsettled him more than it should have.
Silence settled between you—not awkward, but heavy with things unsaid.
Azul was acutely aware of how close you were. Close enough that he could see the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. Close enough that if he reached out—
He did not.
“You look…” You hesitated, searching for the word. “Different tonight.”
He arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you said thoughtfully. “Not in a bad way. Just… more formal, I suppose.”
“This is a formal event,” Azul replied, though his tone lacked bite. “One is expected to dress accordingly.”
“Still,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “it suits you.”
The compliment landed like a dropped glass—sharp, unexpected.
Azul’s lips parted, then closed again.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “I take great care in my presentation.”
“I know,” you replied softly.
The implication—that you noticed, that you paid attention—sent a ripple of unease through him.
He adjusted his glasses, breaking eye contact. “And you? Are you enjoying the gala?”
“It’s… a lot,” you admitted. “But it’s nice to see everyone dressed up. Feels special.”
Special.
The word lingered.
Azul nodded. “Appearances have their uses.”
You leaned against the railing beside him, gaze drifting out toward the darkened grounds below. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
From the corner of his eye, Azul watched you.
He wondered if you could feel it too—that strange pull, the tension humming just beneath the surface. He wondered if you noticed his stolen glances, the way his attention strayed to you even when he told himself it shouldn’t.
“You know,” you said quietly, “you seemed… distracted earlier.”
Azul’s heart skipped.
“Did I?” he asked, voice even.
“A little,” you replied. “I thought maybe something was wrong.”
Concern.
Uncontracted. Unbought.
It made his chest ache.
“I assure you,” he said, carefully measured, “everything is proceeding exactly as intended.”
You studied him for a moment, eyes searching his face as though looking for cracks in the polished surface.
“If you say so,” you murmured.
The music swelled inside, a new song beginning—slower, more intimate. A few couples drifted toward the center of the ballroom, moving together in cautious harmony.
You glanced back through the open doors.
“They’re dancing,” you observed.
“Yes,” Azul replied.
You hesitated.
Then: “Do you ever dance?”
The question startled him.
Azul let out a quiet chuckle. “Only when it serves a purpose.”
You smiled faintly. “Figures.”
Another pause.
“I should return inside,” you said at last. “Before someone notices I’ve disappeared.”
Azul nodded. “Of course.”
You straightened, smoothing the fabric of your gown. Before turning to leave, you looked at him once more.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you said simply.
And then you were gone.
Azul remained by the railing long after you disappeared into the crowd.
He stared out at the dark grounds below, the cool air doing little to calm the storm inside him.
He had spent the entire evening stealing glances across the room, convincing himself it meant nothing. That it was harmless.
But standing there, with the echo of your words lingering in his ears, he could no longer deny the truth.
This was no longer just observation.
It was longing.
And longing, he knew all too well, was a liability.
The archives lay beneath Octavinelle like a second heart.
Hidden behind reinforced doors and layered security spells, the room was carved directly into the stone beneath the dormitory. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tight with contracts bound in leather, vellum, and enchanted parchment. The air was cool and dry, carrying the faint scent of ink, salt, and old magic.
Azul Ashengrotto preferred it here.
The archives were honest in a way people were not. Every promise recorded. Every debt quantified. No ambiguity—no room for misinterpretation.
No room for feelings.
He adjusted his gloves as he moved down one of the narrow aisles, eyes skimming spines with practiced speed. His mind should have been on the renewal clauses he was reviewing, on the discrepancies Jade had flagged earlier in the week.
Instead, it was elsewhere.
It had been three days since the gala.
Three days since the balcony, the music, the way you had looked at him as if you were trying to read something beneath the surface.
Azul disliked unanswered questions.
And you—whether you meant to or not—had become one.
He stopped in front of a shelf and pulled free a contract, flipping it open without really seeing the words. The neat script blurred together as his thoughts drifted, uncooperative.
I’m glad you’re here.
The memory lodged itself stubbornly in his chest.
It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t a request. There had been no ulterior motive he could identify, no leverage to exploit. Just a simple statement, offered freely.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
“Azul?”
Your voice echoed softly through the archive.
He froze.
The contract slipped slightly in his grip before he caught it, irritation flaring—at himself, more than anything else. He closed the book with a controlled motion and turned.
You stood at the end of the aisle, a little uncertain, fingers curled around the strap of a bag slung over your shoulder. The dim archive lights cast soft shadows across your face, catching in your eyes.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” you said quickly. “Jade said I might find you down here.”
Of course he had.
Azul straightened. “You’re not interrupting,” he replied smoothly. “Though this area is typically restricted. Did Jade authorize your presence?”
You nodded. “He said it was fine. Something about… transparency.”
Azul sighed quietly. That definitely sounded like Jade.
“And what brings you here?” he asked.
You hesitated, then lifted the bag slightly. “You asked me to deliver these. The revised menus and inventory lists.”
Ah.
Yes. He had.
Practical. Necessary. Sensible.
He gestured toward a nearby table. “You may set them there.”
You did so, careful not to disturb the neatly arranged stacks of parchment already occupying the surface. Your movements were deliberate, respectful—something Azul noticed, despite himself.
“Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t need to come all this way. Floyd could have retrieved them.”
You smiled faintly. “I didn’t mind.”
That again.
Azul’s gaze lingered on you for a fraction of a second too long before he looked away, returning the contract to its shelf. He folded his hands behind his back, adopting a posture of professional distance.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
You shifted your weight, glancing around the archive with quiet curiosity. “I’ve never been down here before. It’s… impressive.”
“That’s one word for it,” Azul replied. “Everything of value to Octavinelle is documented here.”
“And you,” you said lightly. “You keep track of it all?”
“I oversee it,” he corrected. “Delegation is essential.”
You hummed thoughtfully, eyes tracing the shelves. “Still. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
Azul scoffed softly. “Responsibility is merely another form of leverage.”
You looked at him then, expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. “You really see everything like that?”
He met your gaze.
“Yes,” he said simply.
The honesty surprised even him.
Silence settled between you, heavier than before. The archive seemed to amplify it, pressing in from all sides.
“You don’t have to stay,” Azul added after a moment. “If you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” you replied immediately. Then, softer: “I just… don’t see you here often. Not like this.”
He arched a brow. “Like what?”
“Alone,” you said. “Without an audience.”
Azul’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“This is where I think best,” he said. “No distractions.”
The lie tasted bitter.
You took a few cautious steps closer, stopping just short of invading his space. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you, a stark contrast to the cool stone around you.
“I was worried about you,” you admitted quietly.
Azul stiffened.
“Worried?” he echoed.
“You seemed… tense at the gala,” you said. “More than usual.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s hardly cause for concern.”
“Maybe not for you,” you replied. “But for someone watching… it was noticeable.”
Someone watching.
Azul’s pulse quickened.
“I don’t recall asking for your assessment,” he said, sharper than he intended.
Your expression flickered—not hurt, exactly, but something close to disappointment.
“I know,” you said calmly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
The words struck deeper than they should have.
Azul turned away abruptly, moving toward the table. He flipped open one of the folders you’d delivered, eyes scanning the contents without truly registering them.
“You’re not overstepping,” he said finally. “You’re simply… observant.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
He hesitated.
“No,” he admitted. “It can be… useful.”
You smiled, relieved, and the tension in the room shifted—eased, but not gone.
“Azul,” you said after a moment, voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”
His shoulders tensed. “That depends on the question.”
You took a breath. “Why do you keep looking at me like you’re about to say something—and then don’t?”
The archive went very, very quiet.
Azul’s hand stilled on the parchment.
Slowly, he turned to face you.
You met his gaze without flinching.
So. You had noticed.
“I wasn’t aware I was doing that,” he replied carefully.
You tilted your head. “You were.”
Of course you were certain.
Azul adjusted his glasses, buying himself time. He could deny it. He should deny it. That was the sensible course of action.
Instead, he said, “Some thoughts are better left unspoken.”
Your eyes searched his face. “Are they?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Especially when speaking them would complicate matters unnecessarily.”
You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words against something you felt rather than heard.
“And what if the complication is worth it?” you asked quietly.
Azul’s breath caught.
“That’s a dangerous assumption,” he replied.
“I know,” you said. “But not everything has to be… negotiated.”
The implication made his chest ache.
“You don’t understand,” he said, voice low. “Everything is a negotiation. Whether you acknowledge it or not.”
“Is this?” you asked.
The question hung between you.
Azul looked at you—really looked at you—and felt something inside him strain against the careful walls he’d built.
“Yes,” he said at last. “It is.”
Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your features.
“Then,” you said softly, “what are you asking for?”
Azul closed his eyes.
For one reckless moment, he considered telling you the truth.
That he wanted to stop watching from across the room. That he wanted to know what it felt like to be looked at the way you looked at him—openly, without calculation. That he wanted—
He opened his eyes.
“I’m asking,” he said carefully, “for time.”
You frowned slightly. “Time for what?”
“To decide,” he replied. “Whether this is a debt I’m willing to incur.”
Your expression softened.
“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” you said. “Just… don’t shut me out.”
He hesitated, then nodded once.
“That,” he said, “I can agree to.”
You smiled—not triumphant, not relieved, but gentle.
“I should go,” you said after a moment. “Before I really start trespassing.”
Azul allowed a small smile of his own. “Probably wise.”
You turned to leave, pausing at the end of the aisle.
“Azul?” you said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t mind the glances,” you added quietly. “Just so you know.”
And then you were gone.
Azul stood alone in the archives long after your footsteps faded.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady, traitorous beat of his heart.
Stolen glances were one thing.
Being seen was another entirely.
And for the first time, he wasn’t sure which frightened him more.
Lanterns hung in uneven strings above the wooden planks, glowing warm gold against the deepening indigo of the evening sky. Music drifted from multiple directions at once—lively, overlapping melodies punctuated by laughter and the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Stalls lined the walkway, vendors calling out over one another as the scent of fried sweets, saltwater, and spiced tea mingled thickly in the air.
Azul Ashengrotto despised crowds like this.
Too many variables. Too many unknowns. Too many people brushing past without regard for status or intent. The boardwalk was a place where rules blurred and hierarchies softened, where people forgot themselves under the excuse of celebration.
Which was precisely why he was here.
Octavinelle had secured several temporary contracts for the festival—exclusive beverage supply rights, specialty desserts, a private seating area near the water. It was an excellent opportunity for exposure, profit, and goodwill. Azul had overseen every detail personally, from pricing to presentation.
He told himself that was the reason his attention felt stretched thin.
Not the way his gaze kept searching the crowd.
You had said you would be here.
Not to work—not officially—but to enjoy the festival. You’d mentioned it casually earlier that week, as if it were nothing more than a passing plan. Azul had nodded, filed the information away, and pretended the slight tightening in his chest meant nothing at all.
Now, surrounded by lanternlight and laughter, he found himself scanning faces with uncomfortable urgency.
“Boss~!”
Floyd’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and cheerful. Azul suppressed a grimace as the eel slung an arm over his shoulders with far too much familiarity.
“Relax, Azul,” Floyd said, grinning. “You look like you’re about to start charging people for breathing.”
“Uh-huh,” Floyd hummed. “And here I thought you were people-watching.”
Azul adjusted his glasses. “Return to your station.”
Floyd laughed and sauntered away, humming off-key.
Azul exhaled slowly.
Focus.
He moved through the Octavinelle area with practiced ease, offering polite smiles to customers, exchanging brief words with vendors, correcting minor inefficiencies. Everything was running smoothly. Profits were well above projection.
It should have been satisfying.
It wasn’t.
And then he saw you.
You stood near one of the lantern-lit game stalls, watching intently as a student attempted—unsuccessfully—to toss a ring over a series of glass bottles. Your expression was bright, animated, unguarded in a way Azul rarely saw. When the student missed for the third time, you laughed—genuine, unrestrained.
Azul stopped walking.
The noise of the festival seemed to recede, dulling at the edges as his attention narrowed.
You were dressed casually tonight, nothing like the gala. Comfortable clothes, hair loose, face bare of pretense. You looked… at ease.
It struck him, unexpectedly, how rare that was around him.
He hadn’t meant to approach you—not yet. He had told himself he would keep his distance, that this was not the place for complicated conversations or unplanned encounters.
Still, his feet carried him forward before he fully realized it.
He slowed as he drew nearer, careful not to be noticed too soon. Old habits—observe before engaging.
You turned slightly, accepting a prize from the stall owner with a sheepish smile. Someone beside you said something, and you glanced toward them, amusement flickering across your face.
Only then did Azul register the presence at your side.
A student from another dorm.
Tall. Well-dressed. Confident in a way that suggested ease rather than arrogance. His uniform colors marked him as neither Octavinelle nor one of Azul’s usual circles.
Azul’s fingers curled at his side.
He told himself—sternly—that this was irrational. You were not under contract. You were free to speak to whomever you pleased. This was none of his concern.
And yet.
He slowed further, stopping just beyond the edge of the lanternlight. From here, partially obscured by passing festival-goers, he could see you clearly.
Too clearly.
The other student leaned closer, saying something that made you laugh again—brighter this time. The sound twisted painfully in Azul’s chest.
You laugh like that for others too, he thought, unreasonably. Of course you do.
He watched as the student gestured animatedly, clearly relaying some story. You listened, eyes focused entirely on him, body angled in his direction.
Azul felt something sink low in his stomach.
This—this was what he had been avoiding. The reality he’d refused to confront. You had a life beyond Octavinelle, beyond stolen glances and half-spoken conversations in quiet rooms.
Beyond him.
He took a step forward despite himself.
He could interrupt. Offer a polite greeting. Reassert his presence—his relevance. It would be easy. He was good at inserting himself into conversations, at redirecting attention with nothing more than tone and timing.
He told himself that was all it would be.
Then the other student laughed, leaning in closer—
And pressed a kiss to your cheek.
It was brief. Casual. Familiar.
The world tilted.
Azul stopped dead.
The sound of the festival rushed back all at once, too loud, too sharp. The lanternlight blurred slightly at the edges of his vision.
You blinked, surprised, then laughed softly, cheeks coloring just a touch. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t look uncomfortable.
You smiled.
Azul’s heart sank.
The sensation was unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant—a heavy, hollow drop that settled in his chest and refused to move. His breath hitched before he could stop it, and he forced himself to inhale slowly, deliberately.
Control yourself.
This was nothing. A friendly gesture. Perhaps even expected.
And yet, his hands trembled faintly at his sides.
He became acutely aware of how exposed he was standing there, half-hidden but not invisible. If he continued forward now, he would be inserting himself into something already established—something he had no right to disrupt.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Azul hesitated not because of strategy—but because of fear.
Fear of being unnecessary.
Fear of discovering that all those stolen glances, all that unspoken tension, had existed only on his side.
You said something to the other student, expression warm. Whatever you said made him grin, clearly pleased.
Azul looked away.
He told himself it was the sensible thing to do. That this was confirmation of what he already knew—what he had been carefully avoiding acknowledging.
He had waited too long.
When he looked back, you were still laughing, still engaged, still unaware of the way his chest ached with something dangerously close to regret.
Azul took a step backward, then another, retreating into the flow of the crowd. No one noticed his withdrawal. No one ever did.
By the time he reached the edge of the Octavinelle area again, his composure had returned—mask restored, posture impeccable.
Only the tightness behind his ribs remained.
“Boss?” Jade’s voice came from his left, calm as ever. “Is everything proceeding satisfactorily?”
Azul nodded. “Yes. Exceptionally.”
Jade followed his gaze briefly, eyes lingering on the lantern-lit stall where you still stood.
“I see,” Jade said softly.
Azul did not respond.
He turned away from the boardwalk, from the laughter, from the sight of you illuminated in warm light that he suddenly felt excluded from.
Stolen glances, he had learned, were safe.
Approaching—crossing that distance—meant risking the truth.
Azul Ashengrotto disliked mornings. Not because he found them unpleasant—no, he had long since trained himself to function optimally at any hour—but because mornings were inefficient. People were slower, less precise, more prone to careless mistakes born of fatigue and distraction.
This morning, however, was inefficient for a different reason.
He had not slept well.
The sensation lingered like a dull ache behind his eyes as he adjusted his tie in the mirror, fingers moving with mechanical precision. His reflection stared back at him—composed, immaculate, unyielding. No trace of unrest betrayed the tight coil of thoughts beneath the surface.
Good.
He straightened his vest and turned away.
The memory of lanternlight tried to surface again.
He buried it.
By the time he reached the Octavinelle common area, Jade was already reviewing a stack of documents, posture relaxed, expression unreadable as ever. Floyd lounged nearby, half-draped over a couch, humming to himself.
“Morning, Boss,” Floyd chirped. “You look like you fought a kraken in your sleep.”
Azul adjusted his glasses. “If you have nothing of value to contribute, kindly refrain from commentary.”
“Ouch,” Floyd laughed. “Guess that’s a yes.”
Jade’s eyes flicked up briefly, sharp and observant. “You seem… contemplative today.”
“I am always contemplative,” Azul replied coolly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a schedule to maintain.”
He left before either twin could say more.
The corridors of NRC buzzed with the low hum of activity—students moving between classes, conversations overlapping in fragments that blurred together into background noise. Azul walked with purpose, footsteps measured, gaze forward.
He did not expect to see you.
Which was, perhaps, his first mistake.
You were standing near the notice board outside one of the lecture halls, speaking animatedly with a small group of students. Among them—
The same student from the boardwalk.
Azul slowed.
Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to register.
You laughed at something said, the sound light and familiar. The other student leaned closer, gesturing toward the notice board as if explaining something. You listened attentively, nodding along.
Someone else in the group chuckled. “Honestly, you two are always together lately.”
The words reached him by accident.
Unintended. Unfiltered.
Azul’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
You smiled, glancing at the student beside you. “We just happen to have similar schedules.”
“Well, it works,” another voice chimed in. “You’re good for each other.”
Good for each other.
Azul kept walking.
He did not turn his head. Did not allow his expression to change. Anyone watching would see nothing more than the Housewarden of Octavinelle proceeding to his destination, unbothered and precise.
Inside, something strained.
The phrase echoed unpleasantly in his mind, looping in a way he could not immediately silence. Good for each other. As if compatibility were something easily assessed by proximity and laughter.
As if he had ever been allowed such simplicity.
He entered the lecture hall and took his seat, posture impeccable. The lesson began. Notes were taken. Questions were answered with polite efficiency.
And still—
His gaze drifted.
Across the room.
You sat two rows ahead, slightly to the left. Close enough to notice the subtle shift of your shoulders when you laughed quietly at something whispered beside you. Close enough to see the way the other student leaned in to murmur a comment, how easily you accepted the intrusion into your space.
Azul’s pen paused mid-stroke.
Focus.
He forced himself to resume writing, jaw tightening ever so slightly. This was beneath him. Distracting himself over trivial social interactions was inefficient at best, self-sabotaging at worst.
And yet, when the lecture ended, he found himself watching again.
You gathered your things, exchanging a few words with the student before leaving together. Not hurried. Not secretive.
Comfortable.
Azul waited until the room was nearly empty before standing.
The day continued like that.
Fragments. Moments. Glimpses he did not seek and could not avoid.
At lunch, he spotted you across the cafeteria, tray balanced easily in your hands as you slid into a seat beside the same student. You shared food—your fork reaching across the table without hesitation. Someone teased you about it. You laughed.
Azul chose a table far from the windows.
He ate methodically, tasting very little.
Later, in the library, he passed you in the aisle between shelves. This time, you noticed him.
Your eyes met for the briefest moment.
Something flickered across your expression—surprise, perhaps, or hesitation. You opened your mouth as if to speak.
The student at your side said something, and you turned back to them.
Azul inclined his head politely and continued walking.
He did not slow.
He did not look back.
The restraint it took felt like holding his breath underwater.
By mid-afternoon, his patience was wearing thin.
He buried himself in work, retreating to the Mostro Lounge to review contracts and inventory. Numbers behaved. Figures aligned. Projections remained favorable.
This, at least, was familiar territory.
And yet, even here, you followed him.
Not physically—but in echoes.
“…saw them earlier today,” a student said near the counter, voice carrying unintentionally. “They’re practically inseparable lately.”
“Really?” another replied. “I thought they were just friends.”
“Well, if they aren’t, they should be. They balance each other out.”
Azul’s pen pressed harder into the paper.
The Lounge seemed suddenly too quiet.
He dismissed the staff early, claiming operational adjustments. By the time the doors closed, the sky outside had begun to darken, evening bleeding slowly into night.
He stood alone behind the counter, hands braced against the marble.
He told himself this was foolish.
You had never promised him anything. He had never asked. Whatever existed between you—whatever tension had coiled and sparked in stolen glances and half-finished conversations—had remained unspoken by his own design.
This was the consequence.
And yet, knowing that did nothing to ease the ache.
He saw you again just before dusk.
You were crossing the courtyard, the air cooling as the sun dipped low. The student walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally. You were laughing again—always laughing.
Azul stood at the edge of the steps, partially concealed by shadow.
He did not approach.
He did not retreat.
He watched.
Someone nearby remarked, “They really do look good together.”
The words struck harder this time.
Not because they were cruel—but because they were casual.
Unchallenged.
Accepted.
Azul felt the strain then, sharp and insistent, pulling taut against the careful composure he maintained. His chest tightened, breath catching for just a moment before he forced it steady.
He adjusted his glasses.
No one noticed.
You paused in the courtyard, turning to face the student fully now. He said something low, something meant only for you. You smiled, softer this time. Not laughter—something quieter. Something fond.
Azul looked away.
He had learned long ago how to endure this kind of thing. To want without reaching. To observe without claiming. To let desire calcify into something manageable.
Still, as the day drew to a close, he found himself haunted by a single, unwelcome thought:
If he had spoken sooner—
He cut the thought off sharply.
Regret was an indulgence.
Stolen glances were safe.
He could endure this.
He would endure this.
Even if it meant watching from across the room, again and again, pretending the sight did not hurt—pretending his heart did not sink every time your laughter drifted toward someone else.
Azul did not remember deciding to retreat to his room.
One moment, he had been signing off on the last of the evening’s reports, pen moving with practiced precision. The next, he found himself standing inside his private quarters, the door sealed shut behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.
The room was immaculate.
As always.
Curtains drawn just enough to let in the muted glow of the corridor lights outside. Desk cleared save for a single stack of documents aligned to the edge, corners perfectly squared. Books arranged by height and subject, shelves dusted within an inch of their lives. Even the bed—unused at this hour—was made with near-military precision.
Control, rendered physical.
Azul removed his gloves slowly, laying them atop the desk instead of tossing them aside. He loosened his tie, then stopped, fingers stilling at his collar.
His chest felt… tight.
He frowned, adjusting his posture as if that might fix it.
It didn’t.
He exhaled through his nose and moved deeper into the room, shrugging out of his vest and placing it carefully over the back of a chair. Each motion was deliberate, methodical—ritualistic, even. The same routine he followed every night.
Tonight, it did nothing to settle him.
He sank into the chair behind his desk and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
Silence pressed in.
That was when it began.
Not a memory—not at first. Just a sensation. A low, persistent ache beneath his ribs, as though something had lodged itself there without permission. He pressed a hand flat against his chest, brows knitting.
Ridiculous, he thought. You’re overtired. That’s all.
He closed his eyes.
The boardwalk returned to him unbidden.
Lanternlight. Laughter. The way the warm glow had caught in your hair, the way you had looked so completely at ease—so entirely elsewhere. He saw it again with merciless clarity: the angle of your smile, the casual closeness, the moment—
The kiss to your cheek.
Azul’s breath hitched.
He opened his eyes sharply, gaze snapping back to the ceiling as though it had betrayed him.
“No,” he muttered under his breath.
The word felt useless.
He rose abruptly, pacing the length of the room. His footsteps were measured, controlled, but his thoughts were anything but. Each step seemed to stir another fragment loose.
Your laughter in the courtyard.
Your profile in the lecture hall.
The way others spoke of you—together, good for each other, inseparable.
He had not sought those moments.
They had found him anyway.
Azul stopped in front of the window, staring out into the darkened grounds of NRC. Lights glimmered faintly in the distance, other students moving through their evenings, their lives intersecting and diverging without calculation.
He envied them.
The realization startled him.
Envy was inefficient. Dangerous. It implied a desire for something one could not—or would not—take.
He pressed his palm against the cool glass.
This feeling—this constant, gnawing tension—was unfamiliar territory. He had known stress, certainly. He had known fear, humiliation, anger sharp enough to taste.
But this?
This was quieter.
Worse.
It did not burn. It weighed.
He returned to his desk and sat again, pulling one of the documents toward him in a vain attempt to focus. Numbers swam on the page, refusing to settle. His pen hovered uselessly above the paper before he set it down with a sharp exhale.
His mind betrayed him again.
The archives.
You standing too close, eyes searching his face. The way you had said you didn’t mind the glances. The way he had felt—just for a moment—seen.
Azul’s fingers curled into the edge of the desk.
He had wanted to say something then.
He had wanted to step forward at the boardwalk.
He had wanted—wanted—
The word lodged in his throat.
He did not finish the thought.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows braced against the desk, head bowed. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and he did not immediately correct them.
Pressure built behind his eyes.
This is illogical, he told himself. You lose nothing by this.
And yet, it felt like loss.
He replayed the day again, unwillingly. Each stolen glance he had sworn meant nothing now resurfaced with brutal clarity. How often had he looked? How long had this been building beneath his notice, hidden under layers of caution and self-denial?
Too long.
He straightened abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor, and crossed to the mirror mounted near his wardrobe.
His reflection met him instantly.
Azul Ashengrotto stared back—composed, elegant, untouchable. The Housewarden of Octavinelle. A prodigy of contracts and control.
He searched his own face for signs of weakness.
There were none.
That, somehow, made it worse.
“I did everything correctly,” he said quietly to the empty room.
No one contradicted him.
He had maintained distance. He had spoken carefully. He had never overstepped, never exposed himself to unnecessary risk.
And yet, here he was—alone in his room, heart aching over something he had never dared to claim.
Something he had never even named.
Azul turned away from the mirror.
He sat on the edge of the bed this time, hands resting on his knees, posture rigid. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in with the weight of his thoughts.
The image of you laughing—unguarded, genuine—rose again.
Not with him.
Never with him.
His chest tightened sharply, breath catching before he could stop it. He swallowed, forcing air back into his lungs, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers.
This pain—this quiet, persistent hurt—was unlike anything he had experienced before. There was no contract to renegotiate, no strategy to revise. No clear source he could confront or eliminate.
It simply existed.
And for the first time, Azul did not know how to make it stop.
He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling once more, arms folded tightly across his chest as if to hold himself together. The weight inside him remained, unmoved by logic or denial.
He closed his eyes.
He did not sleep.
Instead, he relived moments he wished he could forget—each glance, each almost-step forward, each silence he had chosen in the name of caution.
Restraint had always been his strength.
Tonight, it felt like a cage.
And somewhere in the quiet of his immaculate room, Azul Ashengrotto acknowledged—without words, without permission—that he was hurting.
Deeply.
For something he had never allowed himself to reach for.
Monday arrived with its usual efficiency—schedules to review, meetings to oversee, profits to calculate. Azul Ashengrotto rose at his usual hour, dressed with his usual care, and stepped into his role as though nothing had changed.
No one noticed.
Tuesday followed. Then Wednesday. Then Thursday.
Each day, he functioned flawlessly.
Inside, something eroded.
It did not announce itself loudly. There were no outbursts, no visible cracks in his composure. Instead, it was a steady, quiet attrition—a wearing down that manifested in the smallest, most insidious ways.
He caught himself pausing too long over nothing.
His gaze lingered where it should not.
He reread the same line of text three times before comprehending it.
At night, sleep eluded him. When it came, it was shallow and unsatisfying, leaving him waking with the same tightness in his chest he had gone to bed with. The memories returned unbidden: laughter in passing, warmth not meant for him, the effortless closeness he had never reached for.
He did not seek you out.
He did not avoid you, either.
That was worse.
He saw you across courtyards, down corridors, reflected faintly in glass and polished stone. Always just out of reach. Always existing in the periphery of his vision, where stolen glances could be excused as coincidence.
You seemed… fine.
Happy, even.
That knowledge hurt in a way he did not begrudge you for. If anything, it confirmed something he had already suspected: whatever this pain was, it belonged solely to him.
Friday morning arrived wrapped in fog and salt air.
Azul sat alone in his office, the Mostro Lounge still quiet at this hour. Papers lay neatly arranged across his desk, contracts awaiting review. The familiar scent of ink and polished wood grounded him—usually.
Today, it barely helped.
He had reached the point of decision.
Not a dramatic one. No grand declaration or sudden change in behavior. Simply an internal shift—a quiet resolve to let go. To stop indulging the ache, to accept that some things were never meant to be pursued.
He would survive this.
He always did.
A knock sounded at the door.
Azul looked up, irritation flickering briefly before he smoothed it away. “Enter.”
The door opened, and in stepped the student.
Your so-called partner.
Up close, the man was… unimpressive.
Not incompetent—Azul could recognize ambition when he saw it—but shallow in his confidence, careless in the way he held himself. The kind of person who mistook charm for substance and proximity for entitlement.
Azul gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “To what do I owe this visit?”
The student sat, producing a folder with a grin that tried—and failed—to be subtle. “I was hoping we could discuss a contract.”
Azul’s fingers stilled atop the desk.
“I’m listening.”
The student leaned forward, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “It’s about you helping me… influence someone.”
Influence.
Azul already disliked where this was going.
The folder slid across the desk.
Azul opened it.
And felt something inside him go very, very still.
The terms were laid out plainly enough. Assistance in persuasion. Strategic guidance. Social leverage. All directed toward one goal: manipulating you—your decisions, your perceptions, your emotional responses—to better suit this person’s interests.
Azul read every word carefully.
The audacity of it was almost impressive.
Almost.
He looked up, meeting the student’s eyes. His expression remained perfectly neutral, polite even.
Inside, something curdled.
Pathetic.
Not the request itself—Azul had seen far worse—but the assumption behind it. The belief that you were something to be maneuvered, shaped, controlled by whoever happened to want you badly enough.
That this man, of all people, thought himself entitled to such influence.
Azul compared him—unfairly, perhaps—to himself.
And realized the difference with startling clarity.
This man wanted to possess you.
Azul wanted you safe.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and undeniable.
You should be safe.
Not flattered into compliance. Not steered by false intimacy or subtle pressure. Not treated as a prize to be secured through underhanded means.
Azul closed the folder gently.
“I see,” he said calmly. “An interesting proposal.”
Relief flickered across the student’s face.
Azul began to write.
His pen moved smoothly, decisively, altering clauses with practiced ease. Adjusting language here, reframing intent there. On the surface, the contract remained what it was meant to be—a request for assistance.
In reality, it became something else entirely.
Safeguards woven in like silk threads. Conditions that would activate upon the slightest misuse of influence. Penalties that would trigger if manipulation crossed into coercion. Escape clauses favoring the manipulated party, not the manipulator.
And one final adjustment—subtle, devastating.
A clause that would, in time, expose the student’s actions publicly should he attempt to enact them.
Azul slid the contract back across the desk.
“Sign here,” he said mildly.
The student barely skimmed the page before doing so.
Of course he didn’t.
Azul signed last.
The ink dried.
The damage was done.
As the student stood to leave, clearly pleased with himself, Azul watched him go with detached calm.
He did not feel triumph.
Only certainty.
When the door closed, Azul leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, pressing thumb and forefinger briefly to the bridge of his nose.
He felt tired.
But lighter.
He looked down at the contract one last time before filing it away, expression unreadable.
You would never know.
You would never see this moment, never realize how close someone had come to treating you like a variable in a calculation.
That was fine.
Azul had not done this to be seen.
He stared out the window as the sea stretched endlessly beyond the glass, dark and vast and familiar.
You should be safe, he thought again.
Not with him.
Not because of him.
Just… safe.
The realization settled quietly into place, painful but resolute.
This was how he loved.
In silence.
In restraint.
In protection offered without expectation of return.
Azul Ashengrotto straightened, replaced his glasses, and returned to work.
The week ended.
And though the ache did not vanish entirely, it no longer felt like something without meaning.
It was simply proof that, once, he had cared deeply—and chosen to let that care exist without claiming it.
The first attempt was subtle—well within what he believed the contract permitted. A carefully framed suggestion, a social nudge meant to guide rather than force. He expected compliance. Ease. Gratitude, even.
Instead, resistance.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… refusal.
You did not bend.
The second attempt came with pressure layered beneath charm. A manufactured misunderstanding. A gentle push toward guilt.
Still nothing.
What did happen—what he hadn’t anticipated—were the consequences.
Whispers reached him within days. His words repeating themselves back to him in distorted echoes. Friends withdrawing. Invitations quietly rescinded. Opportunities slipping away as though the ground itself had decided he was unwelcome.
By the time he stormed into Azul Ashengrotto’s office, his confidence was gone.
Desperation replaced it.
“This isn’t working,” he snapped, slamming his hands onto the desk. “Fix it.”
Azul did not flinch.
He merely adjusted his glasses, eyes cool and attentive. “The contract is functioning exactly as written.”
The boy stared at him, panic creeping into his expression as realization dawned too late. “You sabotaged me.”
Azul smiled thinly. “You sabotaged yourself.”
Silence stretched, brittle and dangerous.
“End it,” the boy demanded hoarsely. “End the contract. Undo this.”
Azul leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “The contract will terminate once the truth is disclosed to the other party.”
Color drained from the boy’s face.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Azul said softly. “Transparency is the price of release.”
The boy laughed once—sharp, broken. “You’re ruining me.”
“No,” Azul corrected. “I am preventing further harm.”
With no other options left, the boy did what desperate people always did.
He told the truth.
He confessed everything—his intentions, the manipulation, the contract, the plan to shape you into something compliant and convenient. Each word landed like a blow, unraveling the image he had so carefully cultivated.
You listened.
You did not interrupt.
And when he finished, you stood and walked away.
The relationship shattered cleanly, decisively. There was no dramatic scene—just a quiet, irreversible ending.
You grieved.
Azul watched from a distance as others gathered around you, voices low, hands gentle. He did not approach. He would not intrude on that pain.
Not yet.
The contract dissolved itself the moment the truth surfaced. Ink faded. Clauses unraveled. The damage stopped spreading.
Days later, you learned.
Not from him—but from someone who thought you deserved to know. How the contract had been twisted. How the trap had been disarmed from the inside. How Azul Ashengrotto had ensured you were never truly cornered.
You sought him out.
The Lounge was quieter than usual, late afternoon light spilling through the windows in soft gold. Azul stood behind the counter, reviewing paperwork, posture immaculate as always.
You stopped a few feet away.
“Azul.”
He looked up.
You thanked him.
Simply. Earnestly. Without embellishment or expectation.
“For helping me,” you said. “For protecting me.”
He inclined his head, expression composed. “It was the logical course of action.”
You smiled.
“I don’t think logic was the only thing involved.”
Before he could respond, you turned to leave.
And something inside him—something careful and restrained and quiet for far too long—broke.
I should cross the room.
The thought came sudden and absolute.
Azul moved.
One step. Then another. His arm extended before he could overthink it, fingers reaching out instinctively as your name left his lips.
“—!”
You stopped.
Turned.
Light caught you just right—bouncing off your expression, your eyes warm and curious, grief softened now by relief. You smiled at him, open and real and utterly unguarded.
“Yes, Azul?”
His heart melted.
Not painfully this time—but warmly, like ice meeting sun.
Yes, his mind whispered.
This was the right choice.
And for the first time, the distance between you no longer felt insurmountable.
this… absolutely oncredible. read from 3:30-4:30 am and i do not regret it for a second. this fic was the first one in a LONG time to get me to actually have a bodily reaction (i could literally feel the sting of rejection everytime azul stopped himself from reaching out to reader omg )
10/10 WILL. be recommending and saving for future reads
jade leech x (gender neutral) reader
cw: nsfw
note - thank you so much to @mochinomnoms for commissioning me!!! >w< it was an honor to be able to write ptm!jade.
STEP 1 - indulge in his fantasies. (using telepathy in the library is a completely legal move.)
The near-silent library is a stark contrast to the noise in your brain. It never starts small, as someone without telepathy might assume. In actuality, it’s loud and sudden, a barrage of random tidbits, half-formed and semi-coherent. You have no choice but to sit there and listen, an unwilling audience to Jade Leech’s internal monologues.
And, oh, does he monologue. You’d crown him King of Thoughts if you could, what with the sheer amount of rumination he does on a daily basis. You think he says more in his head than he does with his mouth, which is why it comes as no surprise when his thoughts finally reach you.
You’re focused so intently on that history book. I wonder what you’re researching. Could it have something to do with the Coral Sea? Aah… What a pretty sight you’d be beneath the sea.
You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. He’d want that, wouldn’t he? A chance to talk your ear off about his home and then slyly wheedle you into visiting under the pretense of tourism or a “favor for a friend,” whatever that would mean. But you know enough about Jade—way too much, actually—to avoid falling into his trap.
The way your brow furrows when you’re confused… So cute! What other expressions will you show me? Is the subject you’re studying one of particular interest? Will you look at me like that—like I’m a book worthy of being read front to back?
Briefly, you lift your gaze to watch him. His expression remains unchanged, fixed on his own alchemy homework, and you might’ve believed that’s all there is if it weren’t for his thoughts bullying your own into submission.
I’m so pleased we get to study together. Could this be considered a date? Isn’t it romantic studying in this isolated corner, just the two of us, all alone… No interruptions whatsoever. Aah, if only I could observe you forever like this…
You suppress a shiver and turn to the next page, hoping to bury your nose as deep as you can in this passage on magestones.
If I ask (Name) to study in the woods with me next, would they? Ooh, wouldn’t that be lovely? We could forage for our lunch and make a delightful picnic out of the mountain’s spoils. And maybe we might even find ourselves taken with the beautiful scenery and couple right there on the forest floor. To go at it like animals just as nature intended… Wouldn’t that be a dream, (Name)?
Without meaning to, you flinch at hearing your own name. Jade has no idea of your secret power and you intend to keep it that way. Who knows what mischief he’d get up to if he knew! You don’t even want to think about it, which is why you hurry to school your surprise before Jade can sense it.
“Is something the matter?”
“Hm? Ah, sorry. I felt a chill.”
“Did you?” He smiles like he doesn’t believe you, but his thoughts reveal something else entirely.
If that’s the case, you should take my jacket. It would be even better if my scent stuck to your clothes, too. Ah, I know! The library is plenty big. We can find an even more isolated spot and I can personally warm you, body to body.
“Y-Yeah. Just a chill. That’s all.”
He’s shameless! you think, but this isn’t the most ridiculous thing to come from Jade’s manic imagination. Even now, you can hear him fawning over the way you chew on your bottom lip in concentration.
I want to kiss you. I want to put my mouth all over yours. I want to bite into your lip like it’s fruit and taste iron nectar.
You hazard a peek at him. He’s scribbling an answer to an alchemical formula. You’ve no idea how he can remain so placidly stone-faced, especially when his thoughts are so far beyond simple bedroom talk. Apparently this eel is filled with so much lust, all in obsessive abundance. One-sided telepathy is more burden than boon, but moments like this, where you’re given an unintentional peek into the ever-so-enigmatic mind of Jade Leech, you choose to savor your gift.
If it weren’t for your telepathy, you’d have no idea Jade’s actually quite the dreamer. His thoughts, while smutty from time to time, are infinitely more entertaining than these mundane school days. You’ll gladly tune into Jade’s Mind Theatre if it’s going to provide you with a healthy dose of amusement. He gets excited so easily, thinking up entire narratives and fantasies. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to give him what he wants. You doubt you’ll get any studying done now.
Might as well take advantage of this, you decide, sliding your shoe from your foot.
Would you open your mouth for me if I went in to kiss you? How wide would it go? Wide enough for me to peer down your throat? Aah, it’s too embarrassing! If you did that, I’m certain it’d prove challenging to hold back… For now, I shall settle myself with something unique to land-dwellers. Ever so slightly, his mismatched eyes flick towards the table, as if he intends to look through it at your legs hidden beneath. Land-dwellers have such elegant strides. Sigh… If only you would spoil me with a shred of attention from those curious limbs of yours.
He’s painting all kinds of steamy imagery with every situation, and each one is more pornographic than the last. You have to wonder where he gets these ideas. Surely these aren’t Jade Leech Originals? There must be a source for his inspiration. Do fish dream of porn sites?
Shaking that absurdity from your brain, you lift your foot in search of him. It bumps the leg of his chair and then climbs up, up, up to settle between his thighs. It takes all of your restraint not to make direct eye contact when you prod at his crotch, intentional in the way you flex your toes. He doesn’t flinch—or even react. Not outwardly. Inside, however… It’s a different story.
Oh? Is (Name) aware of where their foot is right now? Surely this isn’t actually… You run your foot along the growing strain in his slacks, and he lights up as though shocked with electricity. Like you’ve tugged on something deep inside him and pulled it loose, igniting the potent want that’s been headlining his thoughts ever since you sat down. It is! It really is! I’m not dreaming, am I? Remain calm. Don’t act too rashly now.
You glance at him just in time to watch Jade retreat behind his fist, hiding the delirious smile sharpening on his face.
Why are you doing this? You’re planning something, aren’t you? You can feel his eyes crawling along your form when you cast your gaze on the page, feigning indifference to the current situation. As expected, Jade’s thoughts have a predictability to them that almost makes you laugh. But even if you are… Applying just a little pressure, you think you catch a shudder roll through his shoulders. Plumeria-pink blossoms on his cheeks, and a bead of sweat rolls down to his chin. Oooh, I sincerely hope this never ends!
In all your wildest dreams, you never would’ve imagined listening to the Jade Leech squeal. It doesn’t feel real. Just looking at him and how unassuming he normally is, only ever showing a peek of the scheme lodged between sharp teeth, it’s difficult to picture him clutching his chest and rolling around on his bed like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Please, please, please don’t stop. I’ll do anything for you. I’m all yours, so please keep going. Just as he thinks this, he bucks his hips against your foot. Do you wish to see me on my knees? Or would you prefer if I forced you to yours? Which is more appealing? Which will make you look at me and only me, right here at this very moment?
Smiling, you toe the line of outright audacity and ask, “How’s your homework coming along, Jade? Make any progress?”
His cock twitches against your toes. You press against him with more force, and it delights you all the way to your core to hear his breath hitch low in his throat. So low it’s practically a growl.
“My homework…” he mutters, as if trying to chew through the word in his clumsy mouth. His eyes are hazy, shimmering with pleasure. You tilt your head at him and poke at his erection.
Is that so important right now? Must we focus on that? Please, (Name), you’re driving me insane. What does that have to do with—
“Your homework…?” you prompt again, pulling him from his impatient thoughts. You lift your foot off for a moment, long enough for him to realize the lack of connection, and already his hips are pursuing in hopeless haste.
He takes in a shaky breath, grabs hold of the table’s edge, and forces a cordial, close-lipped smile. Do you want me to beg for it? Is that what you’re playing at here?
“I could ask the same of you. Surely you haven’t finished studying already?”
It’s impressive he can keep his composure while falling apart inside.
Please, I’m so close. I was right there. Just a little more… Please, (Name)!
“Mm, nah. I think I’m due for a break and…” In your peripheral, you catch sight of a pair of sleek, black horns. “Oh, hey, it’s Malleus! We haven’t hung out in a minute.” Planting your foot on the floor, right back into your shoe, you push out from the desk and stand up. “See you around, Jade.”
Stuffing your things haphazardly in your bag, you sling it over your shoulder and trot off towards him. You can hear Jade’s disappointment echoing inside your head.
NOOOO—!
And, wow, that sure is some authentic eel agony.
— — —
STEP 2 - let him think he’s won, if only for a short while.
You hear him inside your head before you see him, which makes you wonder just how long he’s been lurking there, soundless and thoughtless.
Last time, our fun was cut short due to an…unfortunate interruption. But this time I’m determined to see it through to the end. After all, if you’re going to start something as exciting as foreplay, isn’t it only fair you finish it?
Not wanting to be kept in the dark any longer, you twist around in your seat to view him sitting in the row right above yours. He smiles. “Good morning, (Name).”
“Hey, Jade. What’s up?”
It will be another thirty minutes before the next class. Professor Trein always starts right on the mark, so we have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves before that. And I’ve made sure there will be no dragon prince sightings today. He and (Name) don’t share any classes, and there should be no reason for him to walk past this specific classroom. And even if he does… Well, I’ve locked the door with magic and it will stay shut until class time.
Elbow poised on the desk, you rest your head in your hand and grin. Someone sounds proud.
“I’ve recently discovered a unique land custom that’s caught my interest, if you’d be willing to spare a few moments.”
You’ll say yes, won’t you?
“What is it?”
From out of seemingly nowhere, Jade produces a box of Pocky. For once, you don’t need to be privy to his mental machinations to understand his motives. He intends to get a kiss from you. It’s as simple as that and, strangely, cute. That he’d scheme to such Machiavellian levels and all for a kiss… He must have been devastated last time. To be so close to the edge, only for bliss to be ripped away before he could drown in it. You’d feel bad for toying with him if he didn’t make doing the same to you one of his hobbies. If anything, this is just revenge paid in full. Equivalent exchange, if you will. Although thinking that way makes you feel more like an Octavinelle student than someone with telepathic abilities.
Choosing to play dumb for Jade’s sake, you take the box from him and turn it over in your hands. “Looks interesting. How do we play?”
Jade moves down the aisle to reach your row and plops down in the seat next to you. “The rules are very simple. Both of us will take an opposite end of the Pocky stick and work our way towards the center. The goal is to avoid snapping it or pulling away. If you’re the first to do either, you lose.”
“I see.” You open the box and remove the package. Jade wouldn’t expect you to just crush it into bits, which is tempting in its own right. “Sure. Why not? There’s still plenty of free time before class starts, and this looks like fun.”
If you lose, you’ll have to kiss me. And if we tie, it will end similarly. No matter which route you choose, it all leads to a kiss. It’s perfect. I have you all to myself for the next twenty minutes… I couldn’t be happier!
There’s something endearing about the Jade you’ve come to know through your telepathy. Sliding a stick from the pack, you hold it up. “How does this work again?”
“Like so. You’ll bite the very end, but not so hard that it breaks. Otherwise, that’s one point for me and one less for you.” Smiling, Jade plucks it from you and puts the chocolate-covered side in his mouth.
“Ah, got it. In that case… Aah.” You lean in and open your mouth wide.
Jade’s eyes widen. With this proximity, holding steady eye contact, you watch his pupils dilate. When you chomp down, the stick breaks before the game can even begin.
Sheepish, you giggle. “Oops. I guess I got ahead of myself there.”
“It’s not a problem. They’re rather fragile. Luckily, there’s plenty more to enjoy.” He beams and makes quick work of the broken one.
Was it because you’re being hasty? Do you want this as much as I do? If that’s the case, there’s no need to rush through this little game. We could do it right here. There’s time. All we have is time, in fact. He looks into your eyes. Won’t you take pity on a poor soul like myself? Don’t you wish to kiss me?
Wouldn’t you like to know, Jade? you think, assuming the same position as before. This time, you take care to balance the stick between your teeth. Your eyes flick to his mouth and then up, reviewing the reticence on his face. He seems more interested in your lips, cheeks dusted the slightest shade of salmon-pink, which is why it surprises you that he’s taking such care with his nibbling. You’re waiting for him to surge forward and claim your lips with reckless abandon, indulging in more than enough kisses to put an addict to shame. And yet here he is, tucking that infamous strand of hair behind his ear, playing kittenish.
We’re so close… I can smell the soap you used this morning. Aah, how tasty you smell. I’m sure you’d taste just the same. Oh, I could eat you up right here and now.
He’s savoring this. Taking his sweet time. For someone whose thoughts are brimming with impatience, he’s being awfully chaste about this. Which is why you move in, devouring a significant portion in one rapacious bite. Your lips almost brush his.
Oh?!
Jade jerks back, blinking owlishly. “It appears you’ve won this round.”
“Indeed I have.” You grin and finish off what remains of the stick, all while he watches with perceptive, two-toned eyes.
Must I fall back on my own moray instincts? he chides himself. There’s no need to be so cowardly…
Despite that, he’s the first to lean in when the two of you begin your third round. You take turns biting off pieces of the Pocky, inching ever-closer.
Almost there… Just a few more bites and we’ll kiss! (Name) is so close. I wonder if they can hear my heart beating? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?
You reach to grab hold of Jade, both of your hands settling on either side of his face. He remains rooted in his seat, curiously peering back. Holding him there, you close the distance just enough to bite off the piece that’s held between your mouths.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes!!!
Before Jade can think to move in and join lips, you’re already pulling away.
Ah. Another missed opportunity. I need to be faster next time. You won’t be able to run so easily.
The game continues in much the same fashion, a calculated edging of almost-but-not-quite that drives Jade progressively insane. You bask in his thoughts and the madness that derails each train. He’s insatiable, aiming for your mouth every round, only to fall short by his own self-sabotage or your quick thinking. During one round, he had the thought of just capturing your mouth and doing away with the game. In response, you reached between his legs to grab at his inner thigh, causing his lips to part in a soft gasp.
What…was that about? Were you going to touch me there? Why didn’t you? What’s stopping you?
“I win,” you declared, sticking your tongue out.
Jade quite literally wallowed in his own thoughts after that, ashamed that he had come so close and was still so far from ecstasy, which made victory even more addictive.
You’re too cruel to me… It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes at his faux sniffles. You’re not fooled for a minute.
Down to the last few sticks, with five minutes to spare, you offer Jade a truce. “You should get to your class. Don’t wanna be late, yeah?”
“I can spare the time.” He smiles pleasantly, though his thoughts are the exact opposite of that.
How cold… You’re pushing me away now? After all my efforts… Clearly, I need to try harder.
“I don’t exactly wanna get caught in here either.”
“I suppose being named a troublemaker wouldn’t be very helpful for your goody-goody—ah, pardon me—obedient student brand,” he agrees, hiding a razored smile behind his gloved fist.
But if everyone were to see, they’d know you’re all mine.
“Yeah… That wouldn’t be good.” You force an awkward laugh. You sure have a boundless imagination, Jade… “As far as this game goes, I think I’ve won this time. We’ll have to play again.”
“Yes, we should.” He munches on two sticks at once. His mask of self-satisfaction is impressive, though. Despite not getting what he wanted, he seems to have taken great joy in simply observing your reactions each round.
Next time, I won’t lose.
“How about this?” You swipe the final stick from his hand and lean in, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “A consolation prize.”
Jade hums, his fingers reaching up to ghost over the spot you smooched. “How kind of you to humor me.”
Yes, yes, yes, YES! A win is a win! How’s that, Malleus?
As you finish off the final Pocky, giggling to yourself, you listen in on his internal celebration. Just in time, too. The door swings open, and Ace and Deuce pop their heads inside. Riddle isn’t too far behind, ensuring the both of them get to class on time for once.
“Oh, guys! Over here!” You wave to them. “Hi, Riddle!”
He acknowledges you with a smile and a casual wave.
Jade stands from his seat and bids you farewell, but not before you send him off with a coy grin. “See you later, Jade.”
I get to see you. Aah, aren’t I just the luckiest?
— — —
STEP 3 - eventually, he’ll find himself fed up. (cheating is a completely legal move in a game of anything-goes chaos.)
Jade has found himself in a bit of a pinch.
For a while, he’s felt the strangest sensation. It’s as if someone has poked around his brain and pulled each of his thoughts from the gooey folds, laying them out on a teleprompter to be read at their leisure. As if he’s the morning paper, spread open for their enjoyment. There’s most certainly a spell that allows that, but he’s not so sure that’s what this feeling is. It can’t be what you’re doing. You do have an unusual affinity for reading him, a fact he’s taken into account throughout the weeks. No matter how many plans he’s devised, you seem to have a creative way of mixing up his objectives with your own clever diversions.
It’s as fascinating as it is infuriating.
Jade can be patient. It’s in his mer biology to be this way—to lie in wait for the perfect moment and then strike, quick as a flash. And yet he’s a thread worn too thin, his restraint moth-eaten and nearly nonexistent. As much as he appreciates the art of silent observation—stalking as some prefer to call it—he does not enjoy being placed beneath the microscope and dissected for an appraisal of his character. It makes him squirm, quite frankly, which is why he can’t understand why you seem to be so skilled at reading him. It can’t be magic. Is it a sixth sense unique to you? He must know.
And he could, if he decided to use Shock the Heart and pluck the truth right from your throat. But that wouldn’t be very fun. It would defeat the purpose of the chase, something he’s started to crave ever since the two of you developed this on-off game of thrills. A game that’s taken so many variations, each one ending in some level of failure. He has yet to steal a kiss from you—a real kiss, one that’s mouth to mouth—and so until he does that his mission remains incomplete.
Somehow, despite taking the utmost care to veil all of his motives, you’ve managed to suss out his objective.
So he’s chosen to fight fire with buckets of fuel. If you can be unpredictable, he’ll do the same. Times ten.
He approaches you innocently at Ramshackle one afternoon, as unassuming as an eel hidden in the reef. “I have a gift for you.”
I hope you’ll accept it. I spent all week mixing this up.
“A gift? That’s new.”
He pouts. “Can’t I give you a gift because you deserve one?”
“You certainly can.” Brow raised, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest. “But you’ve never given me a gift before. At least, not outside of special occasions.”
“Then today shall fall in that category.”
“Sure. Uh-huh.” You hold your hand out next. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got. I’m a little curious.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a lip tint I created in alchemy on my own time. I thought this shade would match your eyes wonderfully. It also has moisturizing properties, so your lips will always feel rejuvenated whenever you wear it.”
You take the tiny capsule and unscrew the lid. “That’s…really considerate. Thank you. The color’s stunning!”
I’m so happy you like it. It took a while to get it just right, but it was all worth it in the end.
“Are you wearing some, too?” you ask, twisting the stick up and applying an even amount to your lips.
“Indeed. This is another creation of mine.”
“Huh. Why the sudden interest in cosmetics?”
“I was feeling inspired.”
Just as I assumed. You look exceptionally ravishing in my shade. I was right to pick it.
“Well, thank you. This was actually really nice of you.”
“You flatter me. I’m always nice.”
“I could disagree.”
“Could you?”
You smack your lips together. “What do you really want?”
“That wounds me, (Name). Can’t I visit a dear friend?”
“You are.”
“May I step inside?”
You move aside to let him pass. “Be my guest.”
Jade beams. Soon. Very soon…
“So what’s up? Did you just want to give me this present, or did you have something else planned?”
“I suppose you could say that.” He hums and brushes past you smoothly. “How do you feel?”
“How do I…” You narrow your eyes at him and swipe some of the tint from your lip. Rubbing it between your fingers, you analyze it with a frown. “Hold on. What’s in this?”
A mix of moisturizer, raspberry pigment, essential oils, poison…
He watches realization dawn on your face. You must’ve puzzled it out—that he laced the tint. Not to be malicious. Not at all. Rather, he did so because it’s entertaining.
Now what will you do, (Name)? This poison isn’t strong enough to truly hurt you. I’m not a monster. But it will make your lips go numb. Oh, and I believe it’s meant to have a paralytic effect as well. So many exciting surprises. Either way, whether you decide to suffer or be saved, it will bring me great pleasure to witness your choice.
“It’s nothing fatal. Although it will cause you some discomfort, should you choose to endure it. But fear not. I’ve brewed an antidote that’s guaranteed to provide the relief you’ll need.”
He gives you an angelic smile, a stark contrast to his very less-than-angelic methods. At your questioning stare, he withdraws a tube of lipstick and applies a generous amount. You seem to understand the implication, for you roll your eyes skyward and groan.
“All of this for a kiss?” You squish your cheeks and then press two fingers to your mouth. “You’re so dramatic! You could’ve just asked.”
Oh? Are you already starting to feel numb? It must be working faster than I thought.
“Now where’s the fun in that? Isn’t this infinitely more thrilling? If you don’t wish to kiss me, that’s fine. You’ll just have to let the effects wear off throughout the day. I imagine that’s quite the misery, not being able to feel your face or even string together a coherent sentence. A heavy tongue won’t help you in class. Oh, well… Do know I am always willing to hand the antidote over…for a price.”
He turns to the door. A few steps should do it. If you’re desperate enough, he won’t even have to pass through the threshold before you stop him.
“And to think I’ll miss out on hearing your lovely voice for the next few hours… Such a shame.”
Now all I need to do is wait and then…
A long pause follows suit. Jade knows you’re going to choose the antidote. Why wouldn’t you? It’s near-immediate relief. You’d be a fool to pass on that.
Another minute. He lingers in the doorway and then, reaching for the handle, is stopped by your defeated groan.
“Okay, all right! I give up. You win.”
Finally! Was that so hard?
Jade whirls to face you without hesitation, unable to tamp down his eager smile. You’re already reaching for him, and for a tiny, hopeful second he thinks you might sock him in the jaw for this stunt. Instead, you grab hold of his jacket and yank him towards you, planting your mouth firmly against his. The rough treatment has his heart rate rocketing to a frenzied gallop, even more so when you mold your lips together in an effort to coat them in as much of the antidote as possible. Desperation and hunger mix together until you’re practically chomping at him, endeavoring to collect every bit of antidote from his deceitful tongue as possible.
It isn’t until you’re retreating and he’s pursuing that he realizes just how ravenous he’s become.
You’re so foolish, (Name). Did you think that was all? One kiss isn’t nearly enough for me. Not after all the kisses you’ve withheld. I’ll make sure to collect my fill. With interest, of course.
Jade seizes your wrists and shoves you up against the wall. All you can manage is a surprised squeak, your protest swallowed up in a starved, open-mouthed kiss. He chases after you like you’re his only source of oxygen. Sharp teeth prick your skin and draw tiny spots of blood, which are smeared along your lips in yet another breath-snatching smooch. You can’t pull back completely, for the wall forces proximity on the two of you, and Jade has pressed himself so close it’s as if he’s trying to mold your bodies into one. But you’re not trying to flee, he realizes. In fact, you kiss him with just as much feverish energy, biting into his lips so you can swap spit and blood like it’s something sacred. Perhaps you’ve been just as famished for him as he is for you. A fun thought that spurs him on in his possessive conquering of your mouth.
Eventually, though, you need to break for air. Jade is selfishly pleased to see your lips bruised and marked by his teeth, even more so when he tastes you on his tongue. It settles the envy that’s been burning with barely restrained ferocity ever since you first left him for Malleus. Now you look like you belong to him, and he has the entire day to prove it.
You’re so stunning with blood-soaked lips. Don’t you know what that does to a predator like myself? The way it makes me hunger…
Licking the blood from his lips, he watches your chest rise and fall with each pant. “I’m inclined to be kind because I favor you so, but it’s only fair to deliver the same amount of suffering I’ve been subjected to tenfold.” Jade slides each leather glove from his hands and sets them aside. “Therefore, I do hope your schedule is open for the rest of the day. If it isn’t…” An ominous grin spreads on his face, devoid of his usual hidden agenda. He’s positive you can discern his intentions this time, now unveiled and obvious. “It will have to be.”
Now then, let me see you writhe. For every second you denied me what I was owed, I shall be certain to take double—no, triple the amount.
“You sure about that?” you challenge, brows knitted smugly.
“With absolute certainty.”
Jade half-pulls, half-guides you deeper into Ramshackle. You don’t have any time to get a hold on your bearings before you’re being tipped back onto the sofa. You scramble to sit up, but Jade’s already peeling his jacket from his person. He doesn’t have time to put himself through foreplay limbo. There’s a bright gleam in his eyes. He wants to indulge in you now and nothing’s going to prevent him from that.
“W-Wait—at least go to the bedroom if you’re gonna—”
He cuts you off with another greedy kiss. While you struggle to keep up with his rapid, biting pace, he works to pull you from your clothes. Clinging to him, you hook your legs around his waist and drag him against you. Pelvis to pelvis, Jade rolls his hips and shudders at the friction.
“Hurry—take it off,” you mumble, grasping his shoulders and grinding down against the hardening tent in his slacks.
When he hunches over you, face pressed into the crook of your neck, he can smell your excitement. Licking a stripe up your neck, he savors the stutter in your throat—that delicious catch in your breath—and grins.
“Why rush? By the end of the day, we’ll surely find ourselves in the bedroom.”
soo the reason i dont write that much anymore is because of OCD. its a compulsion to read fanfics man😓 got me through my darkest times soooo to break it im gonna force myself to write.
especially on my other account cause i act like such a narc there LOL
I already knew about dont you forget. Or atleast the rosie one not the reprise and i knew we were getting his backstory but MAN I DID NOT WANT HIM TO GIVE HIMSELF OVER TO VOX WTF MAN. Also that reprise and the way alastor went fucking BATSHIT PARANORMAL WAS HAWT
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