My Ranmaru luck always surprises me.. My collection is growing.. Ran-chan has a soft spot for his junior.. ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡
(I'm only missing like, two of his UR cards by this point..)
Ello! Not sure if you'd be up to do this scenario; you don't have to if you don't want to ^^
What I have in mind: a bit of a crack fic, where reader manages to pick the boys up, maybe even carry them for sometime? (With Overbolt gang + Lilia)
What would be their reactions? Would it be even possible to pick some of them up for more than a few seconds?
Maybe they would get dropped by accident, or they would save themselves from a hard landong on their butts xD
Or reader won't budge and will continue carrying them around until their arms gave out? XD
If you would do this, it will be lovely <3 If not, it's okay!
Take your time and thank you in advance (◕ᴗ◕✿)
Wishing you a good day/night!
‘ ‘Up up and away!, ,
Premise; Picking up the Overblot boys+Lilia Vanrouge. Will your arms buckle and fall? Or will they be able to stand firm enough to carry the weight of another?
Starring; Overblot Boys+Lilia Vanrouge x GN! Reader(Separate)
Word Count: 9,900ish, 1k ish for each character
Side notes; gah I love cute stuff like this!! also please don’t fret about requesting stuff🫶 this was a very cute prompt to do!
Riddle Rosehearts
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 2/10 Pickup ability
⤷ He's so peeved.
⤷ The only two points Riddle gets is the fact that, despite all of this, is the fact that he is one of the shortest in the cast, and probably one of the lightest. Other than that? Nu-huh.
⤷ He is genuinely one of the worst to pick up, especially in the aftermath of such a feat. He's stiff. Unbelievably stiff, that you were honestly convinced you grabbed a really good replica doll version of him. You'll get scolded for hours on end if it wasn't for the periodic sputtered threats of being collared. Other than that, he is rendered absolutely speechless by the gall of what you've done. You can't even put him down, knowing damn well you'll get scolded for hours on end for unsophisticated, juvenile crime you've committed.
⤷ He won't ever allow you to pick him up willingly, so you have to take him by surprise, and the way you managed this was during one of his countless lectures, when you could see how riled up he was from Ace breaking yet another rule.
You'd found yourself strolling the gardens of Heartslabyul, gushing over the hedgehogs, admiring the rose petals drenched in ruby paint; likely another unbirthday party on the rise. White intricately carved tables were scattered around, paired with two to four darling seats for the little tea parties the dorm members hosted.
It was peaceful. Unusually tranquil for the dorm, considering just an hour ago you witnessed a particular indigo-haired and ginger-haired duo wailing over losing a pink and blue hedgehog with a vengeance to escape the two's grasp. It was almost like the calm before the storm. Where a gentle breeze tenderly cradled your cheek, brushing strands of hair out of your face. The whispers of the flora whisking past you, an orchestra that only a few ever paid attention to.
That all tore away as soon as you heard a berating voice coming from ahead of you, past a thick hedge that shrouded your vision with thorns, leaves, and roses. However, despite it, you knew full well who it'd be. The voice, embedded in your head.
You almost groaned in response to hearing it, but curiosity be damned, you couldn't help wanting to see what was going on. Being nosy wasn't treason, punishable by being collared, after all! Not… That you remembered from the 810 rules, at least... You tiptoed around the hedge, peering over the edge, finding the back of a fuming Housewarden, and a familiar first-year.
Riddle Rosehearts and Ace Trappola. Seemed Deuce managed to free himself from the wrath of their dorm leader. Good on him.
Ace sagged his shoulders, his face placid, with a blue hedgehog draped over his arm, without a care in the world that it was likely the reason he was being scolded. That was, until his gaze reached up, meeting your inquisitive eyes. He quirked an eyebrow up, fighting back against the grin that threatened to overtake his face, before he glanced between you and Riddle.
You stared him blankly. Was he trying to signal for you to help him? How would you- even? Carry Ridd-…
You squinted at the Rosen Tyrant, contemplating your life decisions. Sacrifice yourself to buy your friend some time. Get mauled by Riddle in his stead. Hope to survive with a story in tow, and not require a therapist after this… Or live happily ever after, skipping away whilst Ace's soul drifted from his body, collar locked around his neck as he complained and whined about it with you and Deuce afterwards.
Either way, you won't have any sanity.
You took a deep inhale. Exhaled. Inhaled again, held it, and skulked toward the Housewarden. Your footsteps were soft against the ground, and you counted for the wind rustling past for any noise the grass may have made. Each stride was just as nerve-racking as the last, and you were certain that Riddle would turn his head at the last second and wham his head into yours, effectively concussing you or causing your nose to spew red, matching the roses. Matched him. Chanting, "Please, Great Seven, make sure he doesn't swivel around at me right now," within your head like it'd save you from his fury.
As soon as you got behind Riddle, you risked a frenzied glare at Ace, who had to have owed you by now for putting your life on the line like this. "How could you have possibly lost him not once," Riddle put up a finger, "Not twice. But three times?" Riddle spouted, irritation tinged with amazement lining his tone, crossing his arms over his chest.
"How did you even manage-" Before the Rose-Tyrant could finish his next sentence, you grabbed him, cutting him off with worrying effortlessness. He blinked, staring dead at Ace, who couldn't help but wheeze at the distressed noise Riddle made as he was picked up, hovering above the ground uselessly. Even the tips of his heels couldn't graze the lawn.
You turned, marched off, still very much holding your breath, not sure if he'd been so stunned that he'd decidedly keeled over in your arms or not. All the while, behind you, all you could hear was the incessant cackle of Ace in the background; a laugh befitting of a mad witch.
You could see the vein popping in his forehead, how the paleness seeped from his face, replaced by blotchy patches of crimson until it consumed the entirety of his face. The periodic whisper under his breath, often one word, sometimes managed a second, "How…" "…Dare you," "Who do…" Yet never a fully fledged sentence.
His thoughts, instead, going haywire. How dare you pick him up? He can't believe this. He can't fathom the amount of audacity that you have; his SEETHING.
You were almost shocked he didn't already toss up his staff, whamming the side of your head with its gleaming top, as you near-damn-waddled with him in your arms to the entryway of the Heartslabyul dormitory. Into the living room, where peers stared in horror, maybe disbelief, probably both, at what they were witnessing. Then, the kitchen, where a mossy-haired baker roamed, baking pan in hand— never mind, it toppled onto the floor, clattering against the tiles.
You placed Riddle in front of Trey. Waved goodbye. Left the kitchen. Ran when you heard shrieking. No, that wasn't the word for it. You bolted out, never to be seen in the Heartslabyul Dormitory again for an entire month, never exhaling a full breath until you'd reached Ramshackle, skittering away whenever you saw a short-redhead male, not even registering if it was him or not.
But that never stopped Riddle from seeking you out, a frown plastered onto his face.
Keep your head on a swivel, alright? No soul will protect you from that Tyrant's wrath, not even the Great Seven themselves.
Leona Kingscholar
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Overall -1/10 pick up ability
⤷ Leona Kingscholar would be one of the worst to pick up out of this bunch, if I'm being frank with you on this one. He soars over many of his peers, muscular and downright deadweight in your arms. Worst part? He's an obstacle on purpose only to mess with you as you heave a ragged, shuddered breath as you're convinced your lungs have decided to officially stop working.
⤷ Your will to live afterwards? Long gone, dusted by the pure grief of carrying the lethargic lion. Your soul? Floating out of your body, never to be found again in this reality nor the next. Leona? Dead asleep, maybe cackling at your torment as your face twists into anguish. Until he drops to the floor, hissing a curse under his breath as he rubs his aching back and neck, your arms long limp as you sag into an exhausted hunch, clutching the nearest pillar or wall as if it'd save you from collapsing. You'd argue it was merited on his part... If you weren't also a casualty.
⤷ But anyhow, the first time you'd "carried" him was in the botanical garden when you'd been instructed by Crewel to go on and fetch a freshly snipped ingredient, known as a wolfsbane, within the enclosed and labeled forestry for the potion the class was crafting. Sounded easy, right? Something that wouldn't take you longer than fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if there was a particular stubborn growth that seemed to fight back against your numerous attempts to clip it, hanging by a mere thread to its stalk.
Until as soon as you'd rounded a corner, hedge clippers in hand, gloves snug against your flesh, a skip to your step, knowing that you'd have a break from being berated by the fashionista known as Professor Crewel, you'd found him.
Nearly atop the very plants you'd needed, the light beaming down on his features, illuminating him as the sun's soft glow caressed him. His tail swished side to side, hanging loosely from the stoned brick wall that surrounded it; asymmetrical, loose, and without a plan in sight. Just like the botanical garden seemed to strive for, a spellbinding wilderness lay with a bricked pathway to guide its trespassers deeper within, to see its treasures and hoarded wealth of flora.
You pursed your lips, a tight line as you narrowed your eyes on the man in all of his glory, a preening, incandescent feline, carelessly captivating in this sight, yet so very much in your way. A frequent trait you've seen among the kitty kind, even amongst the most skittish.
So, like any normal, rational being—who was not seeking to be scolded by the same Professor you'd moments earlier heard beckon an entire classroom of students to sit with a firm verbal command—made a plan. You couldn't afford to be yelled at, nor angrily squinted at by Crewel for the rest of class, until you fessed up that you'd been blocked by a ferocious lion, who wouldn't scamper to another spot with a polite "please" without a grilled cheese or going on some side quest to get something he wanted.
And even that wasn't a guarantee most of the time.
You took a cautious, deliberate step toward him, another, and then another. Careful to avoid any vengeful branches that would've made noise and pebbles to slip on; hell, you'd even held your breath at one point, attempting not to wake Leona Kingscholar from his catnap. Each time his tail—languid, slothlike—swished, you'd pause, gaping at him as if he might awake and swat at you at any moment, your heart in your throat as you allowed the seconds to pass. Yet he'd never moved, not an inch that you had noticed.
Which was peculiar to you, considering he had enhanced hearing—being a beastman and all—and you certainly didn't have an artifact or binding spell that made you have featherlight feet against the rock pathway. However, you weren't going to question your spout of good fortune! How could you, when you were already this close to victory? It'd be jinxing it, clearly! Once you had grown close to Leona, and more importantly, the wolfsbane, you let the breath that had been caught in your throat for Sevens knows how long out. It was ragged, yet filled with a sense of hope that seemed impossible moments prior.
Your eyes, traitorous as they were, carelessly shifted to him for a moment before returning to the motherload of wolfsbane just behind him.
Until you realized, after a moment or two, that the way his lips quirked up into an unusual, smug smirk was unbefitting of what you assumed was to be a very asleep lion, scampering about in his dreams, unaware you were looming up to him. You paused, pruning clippers in hand, before squinting at him.
He was toying with you.
And rightfully so, you were irritated.
Leona had been awake this entire time, internally cackling at your attempt at being stealthy, without even turning an inch to perhaps aid you in your pursuit. So, like any sane, rational individual—who was definitely not on the verge of snipping his tail off with the very open clippers in your hands—you stepped onto the stone, glaring down at the pompous lion. He hadn't even lifted a finger, nor fluttered open an eye at your sudden, strange movements.
But he would, you were confident in that.
You crouched down to his ankles, accidentally grazing one of the various, outstretched leaves as you placed the clippers onto the ground beside him. And, as I remind you again, like any sensible person, you seized his ankles and yanked him away with a grunt, swearing your arms were going to pop out like a doll's as he spewed a curse or three. But you didn't stray for long, couldn't allow yourself to see the expression that twisted his usual smug expression into one of utter irritation, as you wholeheartedly understood that you were about to get smacked for this one.
You grabbed your clippers whilst Leona grumbled out obscenities, reeling in his vexation as you made quick work of gathering the wolfsbane. Not even attempting to be precise, merely trimming the blooms, instead, you snipped at the bottom of the shoot before fleeing from your treasonous crime. Your hands were covered in specks of grimy dirt, a telltale sign of your distress as you yoinked at vegetation. You heard Leona's voice roar out behind you as you scurried down the pathway like a bat outta hell, "You damned Herbivore!" Each word held a distinct bite to it. A promise—and vow—that he would get you back for this.
But, you'd worry about evading his plots later... For now, you had to get back to class, with dozens of shoots of wolfsbane clamped into your gloved hands.
Just be a little more cautious about your surroundings, herbivore. You never know where you might run into a grudge-holding lion, you know?
Azul Ashengrotto
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 6/10 Pickup ability
⤷ Panicking. That's all. Just panicking. Internal. Outwardly. Spiritually. Maybe even economically at this point.
⤷ Now I don't think he'd be one of the worst, considering the list of contenders… But he's definitely attempting to wriggle out somehow until he realizes that if you do end up dropping him because of his erratic, downright flailing limbs, he will end up plummeting ungracefully onto the floor with a thud. Paired with a crunch from his glasses snapping in two, the remnants littering the floor, embedded deep within the Lounge's carpet. Never to be seen again, impaling Floyd's foot every time he got sick of his shoes and decided to go barefoot or sock-only.
⤷ Maybe a broken nose. Rib. Something. He didn't know!
⤷ After that? He is clinging to you for dear life. Subtlety, yes, so that others don't realize, but his nails are dug into your shoulder. If you drop him, he's committing inflation in the Mostro Lounge. Your drink WILL be 80 thaumarks, do not test him, perfect.
⤷ He's just getting used to the ground! You can't expect to rip it from him so unexpectedly, you know? That is simply cruel! … Should totally get into a contract with him or something over your treacherous act… Belittling merpeople, and all that… Hoisting them above ground, without water or floor to leech onto…
⤷ How barbarous you are, Perfect… sniffle, melodramatic handkerchief dap, a small droplet rolls down his cheek, clearly forced by the harsh way his blinking.
⤷ But the first time you managed to carry him wasn't a noble task, no. It was a dare to see if you could manage to sweep Azul off his feet, which you took literally. (And Floyd.. Meant it in the way of surprising him. But, you know, wing it, next time, he'll be clearer. Maybe. Probably not, he found this was a pretty hilarious outcome.)
You weren't too sure how you'd gotten roped into yet another one of Floyd Leech's schemes. You'd really think you'd learn your lesson. You were talking to the moray eel one minute, next moment, you were prowling up to the poor Housewarden of Octavinelle, preparing your attack, as if you were merely a shark on the prowl for a feast. One more limb-y than usual.
Really, you had to stop getting into bets with that damned eel, who hung by, peering over a corner with a manic glint in his mismatched eyes. He was gonna get you in trouble one day, with the law, probably next time. Or Riddle. Either way was possible, and just as horrific. If you weren't in the middle of something, you swore you would've felt a chill shimmy its way up your spine at the thought.
Azul held onto a clipboard, tapping the side of it with rhythmic thunks, looking over the previous night's sales. A small hum came out of him, flipping to the next page, completely unaware of your skulking as if you were in some stealth game thief, one tiptoe at a time as you raised your arms to your chest, or perhaps he did take notice of it. Simply too focused to care what shenanigans that were stirring within your mind, figuring you were just seeking another beverage or dessert free of charge.
Your plan was simple. Stupid, yes, but simple. Get behind him, make him turn around, mid-turn around, you'd trip him and gracefully catch him in your arms all damsel in distress style(you were his distress), win the bet, collect cash for tuna cans & free drink, and then skitter back to Ramshackle with your bounty.
Perfect plan, right? Well. It was the only one you could come up with on short notice, so it'll have to do.
Just as you were inches away from him, you blew at the back of his ear, causing him to jerk away and whip his head toward you; disbelief radiating off of him in waves. His pale blue stricken with confusion.
This was your chance.
You put your foot behind his as he attempted to stumble back, clutching his crimson-tipped ear, sputtering noises that resembled a car's exhaust rather than a person going through the five stages of grief. Currently, in the second phase. Anger, irritation. The clipboard, long forgotten, lay on the carpeted floor uselessly.
Perhaps, if you're (un)lucky, he'd match the Heartslabyul Housewarden, with a bulging vein appearing on his forehead, threatening to sue you for defamation if you'd ever uttered a single word of this to anyone else.
But you managed to catch him before he teetered too far—possibly concussing him. One of your arms underneath the backs of his knees, the other bracing up his back.
His hat fluttered dramatically to the ground at your suddenness, landing without even a thud, even after Azul attempted to claw it back into his grasp. Only to look cuckoo as you stumbled from his desperate grabby hands, flailing a little more outwardly than you could manage. Realizing it was futile and that he likely would've sustained injuries that would've been incredibly embarrassing to explain to the infirmary's ghosts if he continued, he instead stared at you, bewildered, looking as if you'd wronged his entire ancestral line, dating back to when Syllipsipodi bideni still roamed the waters of your world’s ocean.
As if you were a hazard, only spoken in hushed prophecy in businessmen circles, that promised to eradicate his business and will to live with mass review bombing. Karens, everywhere. Maybe even an orchestra, announcing his downfall— No, his obliteration. Or maybe one of those cats, so surprised by their owner's brazenness when they dare to pet their head, that they pummel the food-giver with dozens of strikes. Perchance, teeth bared into their skin, with bunny kicks at the ready.
Yet you couldn't dismiss the way he glanced at the ground, seemingly so out of reach from him now, and back to you with a shuddering, panic-stricken breath. Nor the soft pink that tinted his cheeks and ears. How all ten fingers dug into the flesh of your arms, likely leaving dozens of extended bruises in their wake as his grip kept dragging lower down your upper arm.
You'd probably laugh at his reaction if it didn't hurt like a bitch. Seriously, how much pressure can someone's fingertips do?! He didn't even have nails! Great Seven above, it was as if you were his last clutch to this world, a thread that'd threaten to snap if your knees even attempted to buckle.
The tension between you continued, growing like an inflation graph as you stared at one another. Neither of you moved, nor did you stop your strange little staring contest. Hell, you weren't even sure you were breathing at one point. Convinced that if you did, you'd get slapped with fifty different sue notices. Were you shivering in your boots from terror at the prospect? Probably. Definitely. He might take your poor, likely molding, rundown dormitory for this one for sure.
The only thing that broke the silence was a cackle behind you, mischievous as it was dangerous, before an arm looped around your neck, nearly choking you. You wobbled, made a noise that could only be described as "crypt-like," Azul floundered, and—
Great Seven above there he went.
With a thud and the flattening of his hat, there was Azul. On the floor. Groaning, cursing land dwellers under his ragged breath, clearly questioning his life decisions as he rolled onto his stomach. But he didn't get up. Instead, he just laid on the floor like a wet blanket. Not even attempting to unwrinkle his fedora.
How the hell did he even manage to sweat??? You were the one carrying him! Did Azul always look this ruffled up? Golly. "Please… Never mention this again, Perfect…" He wheezed out, latching onto the floor and anything that would keep him grounded. "I'll give you premium canned tuna…"
His pride's a lil' wounded. Give him some space, Dearest Perfect, maybe an hour in the octopot, and you'll gain your suave businessman back in a jiffy. Kay? Might break that lil' image of his if you don't, and we can't have that.
Jamil Viper
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Overall 7/10 pick up ability
⤷ Jamil isn't the tallest of these options, and as his hobby, breakdancing, requires flexibility, you can easily kinda haul him over your shoulder without him being as stiff as a board if you're powerful enough! I also think he'd be one of the lighter characters in general compared to the rest, honestly. The issue is, while I don't think he would be against it if you compare him to the others, that doesn't mean he isn't entertaining such frivolous things, either.
⤷ Man is scrambling around Scarabia with cleaning supplies, trying to watch Kalim so he doesn't fling himself out a window, and trying to keep up with his assignments. He doesn't have the time to worry about you trying to ferry him around when he has a dozen other things to do.
⤷ However, maybe the first time was during one of his basketball practices.
You had decided to watch him practice, even though he had vehemently told you—relentlessly, even—that you didn't have to haunt the stadium chairs. It wasn't worth watching him bicker with Floyd or Ace, and bounce a ball around the court; it wasn't even a tournament. You could've put forth your energy into schoolwork, attempt to wrangle Grim from setting something ablaze, or perhaps have a few moments of peace where you could just be yourself.
Yet you still showed up, despite his protests, lounging around the bleachers as if you'd owned them; a pleasant smile plastered on your face. One of the few, sole spectators who'd determined to loom about an unnecessary round, watching guys scurry around the gymnasium while dribbling a ball. Not a single thing could've ruined the swell of pride that thrashed deep within his ribcage.
Until his ankle twisted amidst a maneuver, causing him to skid across the floor, scuffing both his right shoulder and leg with a grunt.
He didn't know why he faltered, honestly.
Maybe the bottom of his shoes got stuck on the freshly polished, poorly rinsed off floors. Perhaps he'd accidentally twisted his leg pulling a maneuver, an attempt at dodging someone who was trying to take the ball away from him. Or maybe, something he'd never be willing to admit, it was the earnest look in your eyes that caught him off guard, as soon as he'd made eye contact with you.
The way your eyes solely fell on him, and only him, when there were countless other players that you could've been monitoring. It was foreign to him, both gratifying and unnerving; he'd even argue it should've been inconceivable to look at him so warmly.
⤷ Many of his teammates clattered around him, worry etched in their expressions as he clutched his ankle, producing nothing more than heaved breaths as he stared down at his leg. Jamil could've even sworn Floyd Leech hissed a quick curse, though he didn't glimpse the eel's teal blue hair, and even then, everything was blurred against the alarm that rose within him. Thoughts ran through him, blocking out the voices that surrounded him into an endless white noise as he attempted to regulate his breathing, as he bit the inner corner of his lip to distract himself. To draw the pain to another region that wasn't his leg.
Jamil didn't have time for this. Not the injury, nor the spotlight, as people fretted over him.
While he hadn't heard a snap, nor the crackling of his bones as he rubbed his swelling ankle, he wouldn't ever be able to rest it properly. Even if it was a mere strained muscle, he couldn't afford to relax while the Housewarden of Scarabia roamed the halls, chipper and naive to others' intentions. No matter how used the Al-asim was to threats or poison attempts, it was Jamil's duty to stand in place to guard him; if Kalim was hurt whilst Jamil was on bed rest, it'd be his and his family's fault, wholeheartedly.
And Jamil couldn't do that to them. They didn't deserve punishment for his deeds, his wrongs.
But, before those thoughts twisted further, to the awfully vivid imagery of what could've happened if Kalim was potentially hurt, he felt himself lifted off the ground. When he whirled his head to find who did it, all he could see was the blurry image of you huffing him up to a make-shift bridal carry as you nodded your head promptly at a mysterious figure before scurrying off and taking him to the Nurse's office.
Later, after he had received medical aid, he found out that it was Coach Vargas who was ordering you about, who was about to hurl Jamil over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and fly down the halls with him if not for your interception. Which, he thanked you later, as he feared he'd have popped at least a lung or two during that entire... escapade, if not for your interjection.
While it was a low-level twisted ankle, where he'd stretched the muscle instead of tearing it, both Kalim and you ended up badgering him about rest. That if he didn't, you'd end up carrying him around the school if you caught him doing strenuous tasks. He did anyway, even after the threat, but he was always looking over his shoulder, surveying carefully in case you'd appear out of the bushes and ambush him.
Of course, you do try to wrestle the broom out of his hands any time you can, both of you dancing around the incident in your banter with one another as you both pull the broom closer, as if it were a game of tug of war.
A battle of wills.
Vil Schoenheit
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 6/10 Pickup ability
⤷ Vil Scheonheit is a strange case for me, I think, at least in this regard. He has a leaner build and is staggeringly tall with or without heels. However, I also see him being particularly flexible, similarly to Jamil, and he is most likely accustomed to it in some form, considering his career paths. However, I do have some notes to knock off besides this, I fear.
⤷ While I don't believe Vil Scheoheit is necessarily against you picking him up, nor being carried in general. He has presumably had numerous roles, or even photoshoots, in which he is being hauled in some manner, and vice versa. To some degree, he has to be used to it or even adaptable to it. However, I do believe he is incredibly meticulous about how he is carried about. After all, as an actor, he has to remain dignified and noble in some form, even if it is with a prop sword dug into his "torso." So, injuries are less than preferable to him. Sometimes, he cannot even afford to be a scratch from felines, nor paper.
⤷ Because of this, he is nitpicky. If you careen in the slightest or even awkwardly wrinkle his clothing, he might scold you, spouting off a list of differing ways on how you could improve your positioning to make it easier on both you and the person you're carrying. After all, how else will you seek to improve?
⤷ Though if you drop him, no matter how elegantly he may tumble, he will banish you from attempting again until he has seen an improvement in how you hold others.
⤷ After all, Vil is no mere fool. He knows and understands that anyone can learn with time and patience. To prosper despite their harsher start to their journey. Similar to a diamond in the rough, unrefined and chipped, yet with all of the potential to be beautiful with effort and care.
⤷ That doesn't mean he won't be second-guessing the next time you attempt afterwards, though; lilac irises scrutinizing you, glancing between your arms and to your hopeful, pleading expression. As if seeking a reason to decline your pursuits, or maybe wondering if he should grant it, even if he knows he'll earn a cheeky grin from you in response.
The first time you ever carried him was in the Film Research club. Perhaps you were visiting a friend. Maybe you were a part of it yourself, scampering around and educating yourself with better tips on acting, helping with prop setups, costumes, makeup, whatever it was you sought out from the club.
He was standing poised, his back turned toward you as he instructed a select group of individuals who beamed at him, clinging to his every word with admiration and wonderment. You could've sworn you saw their eyes twinkle, even from nearly across the room, as if they could've never imagined being coached by thee Vil Schoenheit. You couldn't hear much of what he was saying, only tidbits, but it seemed as if he were giving advice on acting.
Whatever it was about, it wasn't your business to find out.
After all, you'd already been requested to help out with numerous assignments; the one you were trudging toward now was with a bent prop, unyielding in its attempt to stay crooked. Apparently, the person in hysterics claimed it was, "so far inclined it looked like it'd be fit to play an elderly person in those retirement home commercials." What that meant, you have no clue. You didn't want to, either, if the person didn't look close to combusting into flames in an instant if you'd said you were busy.
Until—unfailingly—the universe decided to make yet another thing your business instead of letting you be, wandering the academy without being dragged into another struggle.
"Potato, come here."
You didn't even realize he was talking to you until you spared a glance in his direction, curious to see the unfortunate—or perhaps they were fortunate—soul who was being beckoned by the famed actor, only to meet his unwavering gaze.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
You were the hapless, potato-ey soul.
"Oh, um- I'm in the middle of-" You tried to come up with an excuse, panic building up in your throat, scratchily, no doubt twisting your expression until you saw the impromptu student onlookers of Vil, staring at you as well. Your words, now uselessly collected on the tip of your tongue as you closed your mouth, as you blinked at the group, wondering now if the universe must've had a grudge or two against you; counting your potential sins up, even that one time in kindergarten when you'd accidentally hurtled yourself into a kid who hesitated before getting up from the slide.
You swore you didn't do anything too villainous, yet here you were, staring down the famed actor and hoping that you could've evaporated on the spot. You let out a shaky breath, a poor attempt at recovering from your loss of words, before you practically dragged your feet toward Vil Schoenheit, hoping you wouldn't get nagged by the poor soul who'd whined over disarray.
Despite your tepid response, he didn't shift in discouragement. He still stood polishedly, without a wear or tear, as he'd gestured to you—as if you were a prop on display.
"[Your Name], potatoes," he turned to look toward the half dozen club members, to which you couldn't help but wonder why he called people "potatoes" of all things. Of all things, potatoes? However, your inquiry quickly dissipated as he added on, without skipping a beat, "will be aiding me with teaching you proper methods on how to carry an individual during a scene."
The excited gasps that rang out before you were full of amazement; one even clapped their hands, all the while you gawked at Vil Schoenheit, mouth slightly ajar. Who merely gave you an omniscient smile, as if he'd known full well that you'd been scampering about helping all that you could.
And you know what? Fair, expected from the fairest queen to notice your floundering about the room like a headless chicken, carrying fabric and prop displays wherever you went. A people pleaser, the challenge in his pupils spoke of. So, with a snort, you committed to the bit. For your ego, and the stories you'd come out of this were boundless, and you couldn't possibly let that go.
Just remember now, don’t drop him now. His glower can be quite killer, you know?
Idia Shroud
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 1/10 Pickup ability
⤷ If you expected this to be higher, you're poorly mistaken, I fear. The only point Idia is getting is from the fact that he is lanky, even if he is tall in height. Other than that, it is absolute hell attempting to haul him over your shoulder, or even carry him in what he could only manage to describe under flustered grumbles as "held like a total lovestick romantic interest for the protagonist in some sort of shoujo," as he cocoons himself in the safety of his bed's sheets.
⤷ He is genuinely impossible to catch, like a wiggly worm that won't allow you to pluck him from the comfort of the ground, evading every attempt through elaborate—and downright concerning—plans. Elusive, no matter how hard you try, he'll scamper away with a speed you've never seen a trackfield club member go. Only to croak in his room minutes later, convinced he had deflated his left lung in that spurt of adrenaline. However, if you somehow manage to get a hold of him... It is an entirely separate problem.
⤷ He is flailing, THRASHING, violently, without a care in the world if he gets dropped in the moment(He will later.) Idia isn't built for all that! You gotta understand, right? Right? So, just let him graze the ground; drag him by the hood, even! That's totally more acceptable to his dignity than this! He can't even handle touch half of the time, and you expect this to turn out all swell and dandy? No, not a chance, a noob has better probabilities one-shotting an eldritch boss with no armor, and a brittle stick for a weapon; and that's hopeless, even for a thoroughly experienced gamer such as himself.
⤷ Which means you have to catch him when he is at his weakest, and that is exactly what you managed the first time you ever carried him...
It was late at night, dawn likely on the rise, with both of you holing up inside his room, countless disc games dotted around the floor and desks as he hunched up in his chair, continuing his monster-hunting spree. You'd already sagged yourself on a beanbag, having given up after the umpteenth hour, grumbling how your hands had to be blistered after a particularly annoying boss match.
Exhaustion seemed to flitter across your eyelids each time you blinked, but a quick sip of the energy drink that sat on the stack of textbooks beside you eased the incessant voice telling you to drift into a long slumber till evening, telling your professors that you were feverish and bedridden. Any excuse to aid in your goal of catching pixelated sheep, and wafting into a nap even the Housewarden of Savannaclaw would've envied.
And you weren't the only one falling to the drowsiness of the AMs.
The time seemed like it was finally catching up to your favorite deranged gamer as a yawn dragged out of Idia, slumping back into his chair with a groan. His fingertips abandoned the keyboard as he slammed his hands against his face, a poor attempt at trying to wake himself up. You could hear his foot tapping against an unsystematically placed cord from underneath his desk, something he'd only do whenever it came to two things: maiming people on PvP with a steering wheel and pedals, and whenever he felt his will dissipate from the acknowledgment that he wouldn't be able to finish a last-minute event.
Illegible murmurs began to spill from him, and you were half convinced he truly was going to pass out at his desk this time.
Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight, the azure illumination from his hair paired together with erratic flares, drooping and slowing as his mood dwindled.
Alright. You couldn't take it anymore.
He looked like a sopping wet cat refusing to back down, instead insisting it could still play with its string toy after a particularly chaotic battle of wills between its owner and it. You couldn't bear it, and Ortho was certainly going to "scold" you after seeing his face covered with embedded keyboard marks in the morning, instinctively clicking at his mouse long after his computer turned off.
Actually, couldn't you consider it morning now?
... You were going to ignore that for your own sanity, ignoring your godawful sleep schedule for the night, and instead focusing on another particularly sucky sleep-deprived geek.
You rose from your spot on the beanbag, only stumbling a fraction—narrowly evading a switch controller and a stack of coding books—compared to the persistent staticky feeling that'd consumed your body from sprawling out on a borderline beat-up sack-filled cushion that looked like it'd taken the hits of many, many losses in its poor life. You held out your arms, in case your legs decided to say fuck all and collapse from underneath you; finding yourself lucky whenever you took a weary step, discovering how that tingling, prickly feeling began to diminish into nothingness.
A grin spread across your face, glimpsing back toward the chair illuminated with an azure hue that'd consume its occupant, mischief spreading inside of your heart and soul.
You'd skulk toward him, careful to dodge his haphazardly tossed mangas, empty cardboard boxes from the hundredth figure, unopened bags of snacks you'd both prepared for your all-nighters, and wires that loomed across the path. You mumble a curse under your breath, knowing full well he'd already maxed out the volume on his headphones by now, convinced that one of these days either he or you was going to trip and croak, traversing in these conditions... Maybe you should've asked Idia later on for some gadget to levitate over clutter like Ortho had.
If... You didn't, you know, get banished from his room and forced to play separately inside your own.
Surely he'd forgive you for your heinous crimes against introvertism.
Probably.
Maybe.
... Another thing you were going put inside a file for later worries!
You'd reached his side, gleaming down at him, noting the countless creases around his eyes, his arms drawn limply to his sides. Totally an incoming headache... Or migraine. Neither of which you were sure he'd survive without crashing out or wallowing in his misery, hood over his head with the strings firmly taut, grumbling something about how even electronics have betrayed him. "You know... You're gonna strain your back, like, sleeping hunched over like that?"
The response you earned was an indiscernible mumble, bordering on a whine, about how all he needed was another energy drink from his fridge. Just the reaction you suspected he'd offer, which only fueled your plan to get him to take a break for the night. So, like any good buddy ol' pal who did not feel like dealing with that, you scooped him out of the chair, huffing him onto your shoulder as if he'd been a bag of potatoes.
All the while beaming with unfiltered amusement, laughter sparking out of you, "Uppies, Daisy, flamey! Can't have Ortho being disappointed in both of us, now can we?" You careened to the side, your steps stammering as you attempted to gather yourself; Idia was not helping your valiant effort to not collapse on top of each other as he wailed about.
He sqwuaked, hooted, and hollered, continuing on his tirade that he wasn't tired, except far louder than previously, merely... Relaxing his eyes as he attempted to wriggle out of your grasp like a worm. Definitely not falling asleep at his desk! You even heard something muttered under his breath whenever he wheezed, your shoulder accidentally digging into his side(his fault), along the lines of, "upgrading shields to s-tier... Maxing out defense and perception stats to combat this."
His body bounced against the mattress that was strewn together messily with blankets and pillows, a grunt coming out of him after you'd tossed him onto it. You beamed, straightening as you'd huff out, "Swear, I think you dislocated my shoulder with..."
You blinked.
Blinked again. To see if you weren't hallucinating from lack of sleep, but no, it was real.
Lying there without a sneer, nor a snarky quip, was Idia; passed out, on zero battery mode. After all of the grief he gave you, he'd knocked out immediately after he'd sworn up and down he was not that tired. You'd nearly snorted at the discovery of this dawning on you in waves, but instead, turned your heel and sat down at the previously empty chair.
Surely he'd be more lenient on you if you finished up his dailies, right?
Malleus Draconia
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 4/10 Pickup ability
⤷ This... It would be higher, if not for the fact that Malleus would actually, while very much accidentally, don't get me wrong, lobotomize you with his horn if you attempted to carry him in a more bridal carry if he moved weirdly. He's also unfathomably, downright illegally tall, with or without his horns; even for most beastmen, human, fae, and creatures alike. Let alone the fact that an ex-general also trains him in combat, doesn't make it any easier to even attempt. He's gotta have some form of muscle on him.
⤷ But I also don't think he thought it'd be possible to carry him either. Not in an arrogance thing, though that would definitely still fester in the back of his mind if you'd ever suggested it, but because he'd never considered the possibility that someone would try to.
⤷ The last time he'd been carried was when he was a mere child, a little over the average mortal's lifespan; Lilia coddling him to his chest as a goodbye before he'd fled for yet another adventure. To another story, his prince would be told when he returned. And, as his title still stands proudly, it'd never happened again. Hugged, yes, but never whilst soaring; only the beats of his wings he figured could do that anymore. There were regulations to be met, rules to follow, and far too many eyes scrutinizing his every move.
⤷ That was until you jested one day, when the witching hour's dusk consumed you both on a midnight walk, that you could carry him with ease if you truly wanted.
It was the tail end of spring, yet it felt strikingly like a winter day.
The moon stood overcast with clouds, whisking its source of light away and leaving it up to the few light poles that flickered to life, and the fireflies that burned just as brightly. The air had been crisp, and each inhale you took burned a little more than the previous. The gloves you'd been wearing in an attempt to warm yourself up seemed fruitless. You rubbed your hands together, a frown tugging at your lips as the scratchy material of the fabric began to irritate your skin.
You swore you were gonna get some rash from these Great Seven forsaken things... Maybe it was time to get higher-quality ones. Or, at least, ones that didn't feel like you were gonna, you know, rub your skin off. Wouldn't deodorant work? To soften its itchiness? As it did with those damned shorts?
No... Scratch that. It'd probably only get fuzz stuck to your hands. That'd just put you in a worse position, picking lint off your hands, cursing the glove's creator under your breath. It'd just be better to toss them, maybe unravel them and make them into a cat-sized scarf or yarn ball for Grim to bat around(in a very monster-like way, totally not giving into his feline urges) if you'd had time.
You'd almost forgotten you weren't alone if not for the inquisitive, mellifluous voice that rang out beside you, startling you out of your thoughts, "Child of Man, do you find yourself affected by the frigid weather tonight..?"
You'd sigh out, a white, translucent fog following behind, almost reminding you of the ghosts that always loomed about Night Raven College. Or your dorm, for that matter. "Smidge... You'd think it'd be warmer, considering the time of year, y'know? Swear, I'll end up freezing to the floor at this rate..."
"I could carry you back to Ramshackle if you do find yourself stuck to the floor," he paused before adding, "It... Might require an ember or two, or attached to the stone, however, to get you off."
A shiver involuntarily shimmied up your spine. "... As pleasant and uh... Warm as that may sound, you have a better chance of me hurling you on my shoulder than that..."
"Certainly a brazen claim there. Would you even be able to lift me off the ground, Child of Man?" You didn't even have to look at his face; the cocky grin on his face was painfully obvious in his tone.
"You wanna test it?" You jeered, risking a glance at him, only to meet amusement-laced, lime irises.
"I cannot say I wouldn't like to see your feeble attempt."
"Feeble, you say?" You snorted, fighting off the stupid grin that almost consumed your face. "I could totally carry you! Parade you around campus and everything to prove just how strong I am, could even beat Sebek and Silver in an arm wrestle."
But instead of a verbal jab, he paused his strut. When you turned to face him, a few strides away, confusion likely written all over your face, he'd tilt his head, "Go on, then."
"... Huh?"
"I'd like to see you try to carry me."
You blinked at him, baffled. Carry him? He'd puncture your left eyeball if you attempted that! Hell, maybe even carry it around all symbolically, pompously displaying what happened to the last person who dared to try to carry him. Yet your pride... It purred in your ears, growing in volume, telling you that you could totally do it. That you wouldn't flounder about like a toddler picking up a dumbbell for the first time before dropping it on someone's foot five seconds later.
You squinted at him, up and down, sideways, really taking in his form. That shouldn't be too hard... Right? You didn't have to parade him across all of Night Raven College all haughtily, truly, out of spite, like you once said. Just... Had to lift him off the ground. That was simple, wasn't it? Managable, even! Could this have been the stupidest thing you've done? Probably not. Side quests were endless. But... Certainly up there.
"... Alright, you're on." You strode to him, near-damn beaming until you were a foot away. That was where reality started to hit, and you really wondered if he was gonna puncture your eye out with his horn. Great Sevens, they really needed to nerf this guy somewhere. Height, strength, sorcery abilities... Your ego was gonna take a massive swan dive if you couldn't lift him an inch off the ground. But apprehension, no matter how great, will never get you the outlandish stories you'd go on to puff out, all peacock style, to the rest of the world.
Or, maybe just the first years.
You placed your hands on his sides, tentative, then ensnared his waist in your arms. You were bracing more than he was, him lax as you internally panicked; in fact, he seemed to ease into your touch. A flurry of worries began to cloud your judgement until you ripped the bandaid off, lifting him...
And you swore you felt multiple muscles in your back completely snap as you made what could only be described as a goose declaring war on all of humanity. Great Seven, what the fuck was he made out of..?! Your body shrieked in protest, nearly crumbling against your will, but spite outlived, managing just an inch or two before your arms fell away.
You heaved, huffed, and wheezed as you curled into yourself, convinced your left lung had to have popped during all that strain, all the while Malleus threw his head back, laughter roaring out of him. You scowled in his direction, "It was the gloves..! They made it harder!" Which only made him cackle harder as you leaned on a lamp post out of breath.
Man. If you didn't understand Lilia's constant complaining about his back issues, then you definitely do now... Malleus would be benevolent enough to carry you back home... Right?
Eugh...
Lilia Vanrouge
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 8/10 Pickup ability
⤷ Now, I need it to be known. He is ALL for being picked up. The downright illegally devious laugh that spurts out of him if you try and swing him around? Or running around with him on your back around school or Foothill Town, even if it's to Sam's store for a silly adventure?
⤷ Him pointing out ancient, bizarre artifacts as he leans off your shoulder, spouting off a story he remembered about it. Whether it'd be from the creation's era, or a tale about its previous owner—"Lovely maiden, don't get me wrong! If the circumstances were different, and she wasn't attempting to impale my shoulder with her spear, we would've been quite a duo."—while you question just how old this man is? A dream, honestly.
⤷ The issue is the fact that the man is an ex-general and currently training two knights under his wing. He's gotta have SOME sort of muscle, even if he is a whopping 158 centimeters.
⤷ This was not you picking him up. This was an ambushed, strategic attack, befitting to be considered a skilled assassination attempt, performed by an ancient fae with a passion for causing havoc wherever he goes.
⤷ And you should, under any circumstance, be scared. Terrified, even. Because no matter how deep you roam within Night Raven College, venturing within its twisted halls that go on to nowhere, clearly uninhabited by the dust that looms over every artifact, every art frame with intricate, yet faded and chipped paint, he will find you. And he will leap. Somehow, despite his complaining that his knee hasn't worked well for a century now.
⤷ Which is ironically, how it first came to be that you "carried him." (You state it was a hostage situation and murder attempt; he claims no such thing.)
Night Raven College was complex.
So complex that even after months of being at this damned school, you still had trouble navigating throughout it, besides your select few classes. Which, even that was a debate sometimes, because you could've sworn the hallways moved on you at times, shifting every so slightly. Whether it'd be an entirely new section of the school, a fork in the road you insisted wasn't there prior, to even a dead end that you'd walked through previously to your potion's classroom once.
A labyrinth, perhaps, you could label it— except, no matter where you went, it'd lead to something foolish and inconceivable.
Which was terrible whenever you had to find a classroom.
You'd even tried asking a portrait for help. The most exquisite, kindhearted one you could've found, only for the lady with brunette curls cascading off her shoulders, who had such sweet eyes in her photo, to laugh frenziedly at you. As if your dilemma was funny, before flat out ignoring you as if you were a buzzing insect beneath her.
"Not even the paintings in this stupid school are useful, not even to get directions," You grumbled, ego bruised like a far too ripened plum, only to be discarded uselessly to the floor. You frowned, cursing the previous Night Raven College Headmasters long prior to Crowley who decided to make this hellish school layout. The packet of papers in your hand hanging loosely in your hand.
Were all academies in this world so chaotic? You wondered, marching down the hallway to finish your mission of the day. Surely this can't be a normal layout for other schools. How else were you supposed to get to your classes?
Little did you know, a particular bat fae lurked by one of the tall, looming windows in the corridor, one you'd somehow missed during your fury. One who strived off of mischief as if it were a medication, and the person you always had to keep your eye on.
You paused before a crossroad that split into two directions, both just as barren of students as the one previous. Crowley never told you there was a fork in the road here. How were you supposed to figure out which way was the correct choice, and not waste even more time?! Furrowing your brows, you debated using the oldest trick in the book, relying on merely chance for your navigation; Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catnip to children and adults all over who couldn't make a decision to save their lives—the holy grail for the hesitant and indecisive.
You pointed to the right, "Eeny…" Then to the left, "meeny," you started, your words trailing off into a murmur, indistinguishable to anyone who wasn't three centimeters away from you.
You'd gotten to the holler part, pointing in the right direction, you'd heard a whoosh behind you. So quiet you weren't even sure if it was your imagination, but melodic enough where it couldn't have been the wind breezing through an open window.
Before you could register what was happening, a body slammed into your back and clung. You shrieked, as any normal person would, wheezed at the sudden new weight, swiveling your head around to see your assailant, only to find familiar hot pink hair streaks, and a glimpse of what could only be described as the horn of a treacherous monster—only double back to find it was sprouts of hair. This, paired together with the low rumble of laughter that seemed to spill out of the perpetrator, only seemed to solidify who it was.
Lilia Vanrouge.
Arms wrapped loosely around your neck and waist, carelessly, as if he knew you wouldn't outright drop him, a baritone voice rang out, chipper as ever, "Ah, afternoon, perfect! I couldn't help but notice you were in need of assistance!"
"You… know, you… Could've asked. Like a normal," Your voice was ragged from your startle, your words in shambles, yet you continued on, squinting at Lilia as if he had three heads. "Human being," you hissed the final words.
"You see, I am but a fae!" He placed his hand on his chest, dawning a solemn expression. "Gestures that are not riddled with trickery would merely lessen my life force, you must understand," he sniffled. Sniffled. Like he was the victim. Prick.
"Oh, come on," you'd groan. "You can't be serious." But you couldn't help but bite the bait, your voice a whisper of what it once was, "… Is that true?"
"Well. No. Not exactly." He'd shrug. "However, it is much more entertaining."
"You're the worst…"
"You love me."
"Not that much."
"So cruel… I should retract my offer to aid you in your expedition." Lilia sighed out, placing his head atop your shoulder. "You never did answer me now. Where is your destination, hum?"
"Astrology… Headmaster wanted me to give the professor this." You waved the packet. "Not sure why he couldn't do it himself. All he does is boast about how benevolent he is and spin in his fancy chair."
"Rather curious habits… Though, as much as I would hate to tell you this, dear mortal." The ancient fae's voice held a touch of sympathy, suspiciously gentle for him—as if he were attempting to soften the blow, as he added after a pause, "… You are in an entirely different section of the campus."
A beat of silence past as you stared at him.
#this is one of those 'oh yeah we're stewards of the planet' moments #the skill with which she grabbed that bird tho #apex predators who take it upon themselves to heal and repair little things…
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
ellievsbear
vaporwave
romaincrisis
gummygunk
snowghoul
