✨ Shine Bright Like a Shrimpy ✨

You wake up, blink, and immediately realize that your bed is both way too luxurious and way too large. Rich, velvet curtains drape around you, shimmering with gold embroidery.

A chandelier overhead sparkles with enough jewels to fund at least three public libraries. The air smells like a mixture of incense, rose petals, and maybe faint hints of… burning tyranny?

Oh, dear God. You’ve been isekai’d.

Straight into that novel you were doom-scrolling through to survive the crushing boredom of line-waiting.

Your mind reels back to the summary you’d read. The heroine, a weepy maid with all the emotional range of wet toast. The consort, a charming traitor with “dreamy eyes” who betrays his own Empress for said toast. And then, of course, the villainess.

That poor, genius Empress who actually had talent and ambition, who could annihilate anyone with a flick of her wrist and yet was somehow destined to lose it all because of a love triangle involving a glorified housekeeper.

And now—you are that Empress. The Villainess Extraordinaire, Scourge of Kingdoms, War-Waging Prodigy, Mary Sue on Steroids… and now you're stuck in this tragic play of bad romance tropes.

You shoot upright in bed, taking it all in. Lavish room. Silk sheets. Jewels littered around like confetti. And then you notice a presence by your bedside. You whip your head to see… her. The heroine.

She's standing there, looking down at you with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who hasn’t yet discovered a single personality trait. Her face is soft, angelic, and you already know that beneath those doe eyes lies… absolutely nothing.

She's here to dress you, a task that apparently requires thirty minutes of excessive hair-braiding, enough layers to construct a mattress, and endless, mind-numbing conversation about the consort.

Oh, right. The consort. Your dear, disloyal boy toy who’ll soon be scheming against you. He’s probably off somewhere sharpening his cheekbones in a mirror, wondering if he can pull off “soulful yet traitorous” in the same expression.

The heroine starts tugging on your hair, a bit too enthusiastically for your taste. "Your Majesty," she coos, “Your consort was asking for you yesterday. He misses your attention."

You mentally scream. I'm running an empire, Susan! Who cares about his feelings right now? You're barely awake, freshly isekai'd, and trying to mentally tally your enemies, not exactly in the mood for his fragile ego.

And, technically, aren’t you the one in need of support here? Not the consort, who apparently needs a throne, a palace, and a shoulder to cry on every two hours.

"Oh," you manage to reply, voice dripping with an irritation that you pray she interprets as imperial grace. "Tell him… I’m thinking about military reforms."

The heroine’s eyes flicker in confusion. "Military reforms?"

"Yes. Reforms. Vital to the stability of our empire." You wave a hand, and she clearly has no idea what you're talking about. This maid was not hired for her intellectual curiosity, that’s for sure.

Then comes the worst part: her doe eyes start misting over. Great. You forgot. Crying is, apparently, her most crucial skill set. She clutches a sleeve to her chest, looking at you as if you’ve announced the arrival of a natural disaster. "Your Majesty… but what about your consort?"

You take a deep breath. Focus. How did this woman end up so crucial to the plot? What was it about her that was supposed to outshine an entire empire? It’s as if she’s constructed entirely from damp tissues and vague romantic inclinations. And this is the girl who’s going to take you down?

But you’re already devising a plan. You’ll keep tabs on her. Outwardly, you’ll play the role of the intimidating yet graceful Empress, while inwardly making sure that neither she nor the consort gets a single chance to stab you in the back. And as for the consort himself…

Well, when he finally arrives for his “audience,” you’ll be sure to give him the warmest, most menacing smile in your arsenal. For now, you’ll have to endure the heroine’s dramatic sniffles and the hundred layers of fabric she’s convinced you need.

As she fiddles with a particularly elaborate golden sash, you look at her with an eyebrow raised. “Tell me,” you say, feigning curiosity. “What would you do if the palace were to… burn down?”

Her face goes blank for a second. Then, she frowns and wrinkles her nose as if this question is somehow unsolvable. “Um… cry?”

Of course. Absolutely riveting. You sigh and try to look satisfied, which is hard when you’re mentally questioning how this woman has a heartbeat, let alone plot armor thick enough to take you down.

By the time she finishes with your dress, you've already come up with about sixteen ways to save the empire and seventy-two reasons why this love triangle is absolutely ridiculous.

In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself. You’re the picture of beauty and deadly grace, an unstoppable Empress who could wield the fate of kingdoms.

And they want to reduce you to a footnote in the saga of this girl’s whimpering romance?

Well, that’s not happening. You’ve read the novel; you know how this story ends. And now that you’re here, you’re rewriting that ridiculous fate.

You try to keep a dignified expression, but inside, you’re screaming.

The entire reason you’ve gathered the harem is to graciously cut them loose and rid yourself of the ongoing melodrama. Because if there are no consorts, there’s no backstabbing love triangle, no tearful betrayals, and no doomed political coups.

You can practically taste the freedom already—so you clear your throat and begin, putting on your most diplomatic voice:

"Esteemed consorts,” you say, hands clasped. “Thank you for your service and devotion. You are now free to leave and may claim land and titles if you wish to remain in the empire.”

You pause, waiting for cheers or at least some relieved sighs. Instead, dead silence. You glance around and spot the heroine sneaking glances at the traitor consort, eyes brimming with pure unadulterated… something.

She looks like she’s five seconds away from throwing herself across a fainting couch. The consort looks at her for a moment and then back at you, entirely unimpressed.

Maybe they’re just in shock, you think, trying to keep it together. Maybe they need a moment to process the incredible gift of freedom you’ve just given them.

But then, from the back of the room, someone clears their throat—Floyd Leech. He raises his hand, a gleeful glint in his eye that makes your stomach churn.

See, Floyd was not a character that should’ve belonged in this novel. The man was unhinged. Slightly terrifying, if you’re being honest. He treated warfare like a casual hobby and had a grin that said I could absolutely cause problems on purpose.

And the worst part? Floyd was actually one of the few who stuck around in the original plot. After the Empress dies on the battlefield, he takes her body back to his home country, out of sheer love.

He's also the only one who got to call the Empress Regnant herself "Shrimpy" and lived to tell the tale. You'd swoon over the romantic implications if you weren't that same Empress who had bigger problems right now.

You steel yourself. “Yes, Floyd?”

“Can I stay?” he says, looking entirely too happy. “These other guys are boring, but you’re kinda fun to watch.” He stares at you like you’re some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. “Besides,” he adds, throwing an arm over a very uncomfortable-looking consort, “who’s gonna protect you if I leave? These losers?”

God help you.

Before you can even answer, the traitor consort steps forward, expression so intense you can feel it from across the hall. He clears his throat dramatically. “My Empress,” he says, taking a deep, tragic breath. “My heart is bound to you, like—like the tides to the moon. Like—”

In the background, the heroine lets out an audible, swooning sigh. Oh, please, you think. You’ve seen better monologues in toothpaste commercials. The consort glances at the heroine, clearly confused, then goes back to gazing at you with what he probably thinks is soulful longing.

Meanwhile, Floyd is grinning at him, shark-like. “Nice speech, buddy,” he says, clapping the guy on the back hard enough that the consort nearly goes sprawling. “But I think she liked mine better.” He leans in to whisper, loudly, “Besides, I bet you don’t even know her favorite food.”

The consort’s face scrunches. “Do you?”

“Nope!” Floyd beams, looking at you as if expecting some kind of reward. “But I’m gonna figure it out.”

The consort looks like he wants to protest, but before he can, another one of the harem—Lord Something-or-Other—steps forward, visibly shaking with emotion. He kneels, clutching a hand to his heart as if he’s about to propose.

“My Empress,” he says, voice wobbling with way too much sincerity. “Without you, my life is a barren wasteland. I would rather endure the endless, scorching sands of—”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Floyd groans. “Do you guys hear yourselves?”

“Can you not mock me while I pour my heart out?” Lord Something-or-Other snaps back.

“Sure I can. I’m multi-talented,” Floyd replies with a grin that’s somehow both playful and threatening. He leans against the throne, looking completely at home while you fight the urge to dive out the nearest window.

Now everyone’s in a frenzy. Every last one of these men—your so-called “consorts”—are lining up to deliver heartfelt soliloquies, tragic metaphors, and similes so flowery they might as well be a bouquet. You can barely keep a straight face as the next one steps forward, proclaiming that he would “gladly suffer a thousand winters if only to see her smile.”

As if on cue, the heroine wipes a tear from her eye, sighing dreamily. The consort she’s apparently in love with looks at her again, this time with an expression somewhere between pity and terror. But she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy whispering to herself, “Oh, how romantic…”

And then Floyd leans down and whispers in your ear, voice gleeful. “Y’know, if you let ‘em keep going, they might just start fighting each other for you. Free entertainment. Whaddaya think?”

You feel a headache coming on. “Floyd, please, I’m begging you—”

“What?” he asks, grinning wider. “I thought this was fun. C’mon, Empress,” he drawls, giving the title an absurd little flourish. “Let me stay. I promise I won’t let any of these guys stage a rebellion.” He smirks at the traitor consort. “Unless you feel like rebelling, huh?”

The traitor consort scoffs, bristling. “Unlike some of us,” he says, glaring at Floyd, “my devotion is genuine.”

“And boring,” Floyd mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Fine, Floyd. You can stay,” you say, hoping that giving him what he wants will end this disaster. You’re immediately filled with regret as his grin widens.

“Awesome! And you know what? Since everyone’s so devoted, why don’t we all stay? Make it a real party.” Floyd tosses an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the death glares from half the room.

Now you’re stuck with fifteen poets, one unhinged eel, and a heroine who’s still making heart eyes at a man who clearly isn’t interested. And as you sit there, feeling your last shreds of sanity slip away, you think, This is going to be a very, very long reign.

You’re making your way through the moonlit palace corridors, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the… experience that spending the night with Floyd Leech is sure to be.

Mostly, you’ve chosen him because, unhinged or not, he’s at least the most loyal out of this whole ridiculous lineup. Plus, there’s a kind of chaotic charm about him, like a very large, very untrained puppy with fangs.

But before you can even make it to his side palace, you’re intercepted.

“My Empress…” It’s the traitor consort. You sigh as he blocks your path, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. He’s clutching his chest dramatically, as if he’s seconds from fainting, and his voice wobbles with pure tragedy.

“Do you not love me anymore?” he blubbers, eyes shining with tears. “Why do you never choose me? Have I done something wrong? Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve graced my chambers?” He’s practically sobbing at this point, clutching at your sleeves like some tragic hero in a soap opera.

You stand there, blinking. “Uh… dude. I… what? ”

He looks at you with the heartbreak of a thousand rom-coms. “I thought you cared about me. I thought I meant something to you…”

You’re trying to process what exactly is happening (and failing spectacularly) when you hear an all-too-familiar voice.

“Yoo-hoo~!” Floyd’s voice echoes down the hall as he appears at the other end, looking like he’s just won the lottery. He practically skips toward you, a grin stretched across his face, his shark-like teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“Shrimpy!” he calls out cheerfully, giving you an exaggerated wave. But his cheerful demeanor drops like a rock the moment he sees the traitor consort clinging to you, tears streaming down his face.

Floyd’s grin turns into a much darker smirk, and his eyes narrow dangerously. He tilts his head, sizing up the blubbering man like he’s something he might enjoy crunching on for a midnight snack.

“Oi,” Floyd says, stepping closer, voice dropping into a lower, much more menacing tone. “What’re you doin’, crybaby? Gettin’ all snotty in front of my Shrimpy? That doesn’t seem real respectful, y’know?”

The traitor consort pales instantly, his tear-streaked face going from tragic to terrified in half a second flat. “I—I was just…” he stammers, trying to find an escape route.

“You were just what?” Floyd grins, but there’s absolutely nothing friendly about it now. “You got somethin’ you wanna say to her? ‘Cause I could help you say it better, y’know.” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis, and you swear the traitor consort’s soul nearly leaves his body.

And you? You’re exhausted. Normally, you’re pretty sure the original Empress would step in, say something appropriately royal and dignified to diffuse the situation. But at this point? You’re too tired to deal with either of them, and honestly, watching Floyd scare this guy senseless is a little too satisfying. So you just sigh and cross your arms, waiting it out.

“Look, I— I didn’t mean anything by it,” the traitor consort mutters, eyes darting between Floyd’s unsettling grin and your unimpressed stare. “I’ll… I’ll just go…”

And before you know it, he’s stumbling off, practically tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape Floyd’s glare. You can still hear his sniffles echoing down the hall as he disappears.

Floyd watches him go, then turns back to you with an exaggerated pout. “He didn’t even say bye. Rude, huh?” Then, just as quickly, his mood switches back, and he gives you a toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy! Let’s go. You’re finally here!”

And without another word, he loops an arm around you, practically dragging you the rest of the way to his palace. By the time you arrive, you’re half-expecting him to start a monologue or make a big romantic speech, but instead, he plops down on the massive, plush couch, pulling you down next to him with surprising gentleness.

“There we go! See? Ain’t this way better than dealin’ with crybabies?” He laughs, leaning back and throwing an arm over your shoulders.

You give him a look. “Do you actually scare all of them off on purpose?”

Floyd grins, showing all his teeth. “Only the boring ones.” He taps his temple like he’s sharing some brilliant secret. “Can’t have anyone else thinkin’ they’re more special than me, right?”

Honestly, you’re too tired to argue. So you just lean back, letting Floyd prattle on about his grand plans for “getting rid of the competition.” At least, you think to yourself, you’ve successfully survived another day of being Empress.

The banquet table stretches out in front of you, each seat filled by one of your fifteen consorts, who are locked in an elaborate battle of “who’s the cutest?” You watch, sipping your wine like it’s medicinal, as they coo, flirt, and — at least in one unfortunate case — attempt a juggling act.

A consort on your left even starts singing a heartfelt ballad he very obviously wrote himself. You silently make a note to ask Heroine if it’s possible to declare some sort of moratorium on public serenades.

Just when you think the evening can’t get any more surreal, the doors burst open. Floyd strides in, late as usual, with all the grace and subtlety of a pirate commandeering the dinner table.

Without breaking stride, he makes a beeline for the coveted King Consort chair, ignoring the man who’s been trying to occupy it and who now looks as if he’s about to faint.

Floyd’s “gentle” suggestion to move aside comes in the form of a rather forceful nudge, and the poor consort goes skidding two seats down, clutching his untouched plate of tiny hors d’oeuvres.

Floyd plops into the seat, throws his legs up on the table, and proceeds to grab a handful of grapes like he’s claiming territory.

Instantly, fifteen men start having what can only be described as a collective meltdown. One consort gapes at Floyd, cheeks puffing like an indignant chipmunk; another begins audibly hyperventilating. Somewhere on the far end of the table, a man has already shed a single, dramatic tear.

Your maid Heroine sidles up to you, wide-eyed. She whispers loudly, as if she’s sharing a forbidden secret, “Your Majesty! You’ve broken their hearts!”

You stare at her, bewildered. “How? By letting Floyd sit down?”

Heroine nods, lip quivering. “They think you’ve… chosen! That’s the King Consort’s seat!”

“What? ” You glance at Floyd, who’s now lying back, casually chomping on a drumstick he must have acquired from who-knows-where. He doesn’t seem perturbed in the least.

“Yes!” Heroine sniffles, pulling out a lacy handkerchief. “It’s the sacred chair of royal favoritism!” She dabs at her eyes, gazing at you with something akin to heartbreak. “And here I thought you were a romantic.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” You rub your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I just wanted a quiet dinner!”

One of the consorts, evidently hearing this, begins to wail, “But why, Your Majesty? We loved you!” It’s clear he’s already going to be composing several tragic stanzas about this moment.

Then Floyd — who’s been watching this entire scene with the amused look of someone who’s just discovered he’s won the jackpot — clears his throat, aiming a rather shark-like grin at Heroine. “Hey, little miss servant girl,” he says, his voice sugary sweet with a terrifying edge. “Maybe stop making Shrimpy feel guilty, hmm? Unless you want to join ‘em in the Royal Seat Shuffle?”

Heroine squeaks, as if he’s just offered to turn her into a garden gnome, and stammers an apology, hands fluttering as she edges away.

In the silence that follows, you decide enough is enough. “Thank you all for coming,” you announce, giving your consorts a forced smile. “This has been… lovely. But we’re done for tonight.”

The consorts hesitate, as if they want to protest. But when Floyd gives them one of his very special grins — the kind that says he just might take a whole different seat next — they practically stampede out of the dining hall, leaving behind a trail of emotional debris: teardrops, wilted roses, and a half-eaten plate of pastries.

As the door closes, Floyd leans back with a smirk, throwing an arm casually over the back of his new favorite chair. “So, looks like Shrimpy’s all mine tonight.”

You chuckle, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “Well, seems you chased everyone else off.”

“Don’t be like that,” he purrs, clearly pleased. “You know, you’re different now. Last time, you’d have been practically begging those guys to come back.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I’m just too tired to care anymore.”

He leans in, gaze softening. “Nah. You’ve just gotten tougher. And it looks good on you. The new Shrimpy’s got a spine.”

You smile, almost despite yourself, as Floyd raises his glass, winking. “To the new Shrimpy: long may she rule.”

The annual Talent Showcase Extravaganza for the Empress’s Affections has begun, and your consorts are pouring every ounce of drama and flair they possess into their performances, each desperate to secure that exclusive week at the countryside villa with you.

Unfortunately, it seems that the traitor consort — Mr. ‘I-know-the-theme-because-Heroine-can’t-resist-my-cheekbones’ — is dominating the competition. He’s wowing the audience with a perfectly themed tapestry, and you can already hear the maid giggling over in his cheering section.

This calls for drastic action.

You glance over to where Floyd is occupying himself by tormenting a pair of unfortunate ministers with tales of his more “creative” fishing techniques. With a sigh, you snap your fingers. He looks over, feigning annoyance at being interrupted in what he surely sees as “Minister Horror Story Hour.”

“Shrimpy, what gives? This is the first fun I’ve had since I got here,” he says, hands on his hips.

You clear your throat. “Actually, Floyd, I need you to… win this competition.”

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “What, by doing some fancy painting or something? Boring. If you want something painted, Shrimpy, I’ll fish out an octopus to do it for me.”

You take a deep breath. “If you do this, I’ll grant you any wish you want. Plus… an extra reward.”

Floyd pauses, smirking as he steps closer, his voice dropping into an exaggerated whisper. “Any wish, huh? Dangerous promise, Shrimpy.”

You raise an eyebrow, undeterred. “You in or not?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he sighs. “Fine. But I’m not painting. I’ve got something much better planned. Just try not to faint in awe, yeah?”

When Floyd finally unveils his “masterpiece,” the room falls silent. Somehow, he’s cobbled together a mosaic made entirely out of shiny rocks he probably pilfered from the palace’s prize garden.

The piece is of you, looking bold and triumphant, wielding what can only be described as a “battle spoon” against some sea monster (you’re guessing it’s supposed to be a shark, but it might just be a rock that looked vaguely fish-like).

“Ta-da!” Floyd announces, throwing his arms out. “The Empress: Rock ‘n’ Roll Edition. I call it, ‘Shrimpy, Queen of the Waves.’”

Despite yourself, you’re mildly… no, very swoony. Somehow, it’s both absurd and… kind of amazing. Floyd’s grin is pure mischief as he winks at you. “Like it, Shrimpy? Don’t worry, I can make one for the garden too.”

But your moment is interrupted by a loud sniffle from across the room. The traitor consort, clearly irate at being outshone, is tearing up, looking at you with big, watery eyes as if you’re the villain in this scenario. Heroine looks one step away from bolting to his side, but he raises a hand, his voice trembling as he murmurs, “No, I only want the Empress to comfort me.”

You shoot a silent plea to the universe, practically chanting, “Please, mercy, mercy…”

Floyd, never one to ignore an opportunity, steps up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Sorry, bud. Shrimpy’s already spoken for tonight. You’ll have to get in line. Oh, and try not to tear up over her rock portrait, yeah? Not all of us can handle the majesty.”

The crowd erupts in applause, one point to you and Floyd — and you’re pretty sure Heroine’s sulking in the corner, still staring longingly at the sobbing traitor consort, but that’s a future problem. For now, you’ve got a mildly unhinged art piece to hang up and a certain mischievous consort to thank.

It’s another late night in the study when you notice the Heroine, your ever-loyal (if not a little clueless) maid, lingering by the doorway, watching you with an odd expression. At first, you chalk it up to her usual eccentricities. But as the minutes tick by, she doesn’t move, just stands there with a faraway look in her eyes. Finally, you set down your work and gesture for her to come in.

“Hey,” you say gently, “what’s on your mind?”

She hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s nothing, really…” Then, in a small voice, “It’s just… I never got to study like this.”

Your brow furrows, and as she opens up, the full picture starts to form. The Heroine, despite her noble blood, was barred by her father from studying—her dreams of an education crushed under his outdated beliefs.

She clung to the traitor consort, she confesses, because he seemed like an escape, even if a flimsy one. He was a nobleman with some level of authority, and for her, he felt like the only ticket to a different life.

Understanding sinks in. It’s not love she feels for him at all. It’s desperation, something almost like a distorted version of Stockholm syndrome.

She’s convinced herself he’s her only way out, though it’s clear as day that he doesn’t deserve her loyalty. The man’s barely got two brain cells, but he’s got freedom—and for her, he must have looked like her only way out.

The realization hits you hard, like finding out your favorite dessert is made with broccoli. No wonder she’s been swooning over that guy. She’s not “in love”—she’s just starved for any path out of her cage. Your heart softens, and you give her a gentle, if slightly exasperated, smile.

“Well, that won’t do,” you say firmly. “How about this? I’ll teach you myself. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll get you the education you deserve.”

Her face goes through a series of hilarious expressions, from shock to joy to the kind of wide-eyed, wobbly-lipped excitement normally reserved for puppies seeing their owner after a long day. And so, your lessons begin.

Over the next few weeks, you teach the Heroine to read, and she devours each lesson like a kid in a candy store. She’s throwing herself into her education with such energy, it’s like she’s forgotten the traitor consort entirely.

And you’re thrilled—partly for her growth and partly because it means your coup odds have just dropped by a solid 90%.

Soon, Heroine’s loyalty to you is ironclad, her former starry-eyed infatuation with the traitor consort completely extinguished. You’re so relieved you could dance, and, maybe more importantly, you realize that the kingdom’s other daughters deserve the same chance.

In a flash of imperial inspiration, you draft a new law requiring all daughters, noble or otherwise, to attend the academy. The state will foot the bill, so no one has an excuse to hold their daughters back.

Later that night, feeling unexpectedly sentimental, you return to your room to find Floyd sprawled on your bed, grinning like he’s just heard the world’s juiciest gossip.

“You look smug,” you say, arching an eyebrow.

“Nah, just… pleased,” he drawls, giving you that signature mischievous smirk. And before you know it, he pulls you into a surprisingly tight hug, his arms wrapping around you with unexpected warmth. “Look at my Shrimpy, changing the world one law at a time.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks despite yourself. “Oh, stop it,” you mutter, though you don’t pull away.

He chuckles, giving you an affectionate squeeze. “Nah. You’re doing great, Empress. I’m proud of you.”

You’re speechless. Floyd? Sentimental? But as he holds you, laughing at your stunned expression, you can’t help but feel a little…smitten.

You’re reviewing reports in the study, savoring the rare, blissful calm, when the double doors burst open like some villain from a badly written romance novel. There stands the traitor consort, dressed in what looks like…a suit made of loose, strategically placed peacock feathers, a sequined sash, and—oh, yes—face glitter.

He strikes a pose, does a dramatic hand flip, and announces, “Behold! My love for you is eternal, as boundless as the stars, and as bold as my outfit!”

You're thinking about ordering Floyd to chase him out with a chair, when you catch Heroine’s expression—somewhere between horror and volcanic rage.

With a fierce gleam in her eye, she steps in front of you, looking like she’s about to deliver an exorcism. “You…” she begins, her voice so cold even the peacock feathers on his shoulders look like they might molt in fear. “You miserable, egotistical, fashion-disaster-in-waiting!”

He’s stunned, blinking like a child caught sneaking candy. “W-what? Heroine, you used to help me with my plans!”

“Yeah, well, that was before I got a brain cell,” she snaps. “I actually know my worth now, and it’s definitely not tied to whatever fever-dream cape situation you’ve got going on.” She points to his glittering sash. “What, did you rob an arts-and-crafts store on the way here? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

He stammers, visibly shrinking, feathers quivering with fear. “Y-you were always there for me…”

“That was when I was too naive to realize you were the human equivalent of a trash fire!” She’s in full swing now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, spitting out insults that would make the court jester blush. “Please, the Empress has standards, and you’re down there with questionable cabbage soup.”

He reels back, totally caught off-guard. By this point, you’re honestly not sure if you should applaud or slowly back away.

With a smirk, you lean forward and say, “Well, since you’re dressed for the occasion, why don’t you strut that ridiculous ensemble back to your own country?”

He opens his mouth, gapes like a fish, and finally closes it, completely defeated. Without another word, he shuffles out, feathers dragging behind him in a sad little pile.

The second he’s out of earshot, you sigh, look up, and thank the universe for finally sparing you from that headache. The Heroine just dusts her hands off, grinning like she’s just won the greatest battle of her life, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how terrifyingly competent she’s become.

Floyd has been hounding you about his reward for days now, showing up at all hours with the persistence of a cat at dinner time. You’re mid-sentence in a policy meeting, mid-sip at dinner, even mid-bath when you hear him shout from outside the door, “Hey, Shrimpy! Remember my prize? Don’t forget now!”

Finally, in a moment of resignation, you sigh and wave him in. “Fine, Floyd. What do you actually want?”

He grins, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that should probably have you worried. “Make me king consort.”

You open your mouth, ready to laugh and then say something like, “No chance,” but then…you pause. Because—why not? He’s loyal, he’s your particular brand of chaos, and honestly, the idea of using it as an excuse to disband the harem is almost too good.

You’d get to tell everyone you’d found the “love of your life” and keep your mornings free of peacock-feathered declarations of eternal devotion.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say, shrugging as if you just agreed to a dinner plan and not a royal title. “You’re king consort.”

For a solid five seconds, he’s frozen, blinking like he’s not sure if you just announced the best prank of the century or an actual royal decision.

Then, with a roar of laughter, he picks you up, actually tossing you in the air like a sack of grain. “SHRIMPY, I’M KING CONSORT! WOOOO!”

Ministers nearby practically leap out of their chairs in terror, and one drops his teacup with a spectacular crash.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, setting you down but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t think I forgot—I still get that week alone with you in the countryside. Just you, me, and the great outdoors.”

You’d expected to feel dread, but instead…you’re kind of excited? Because it turns out, when there’s no glittered consort in sight, Floyd’s brand of mayhem might just be exactly what you needed.

You’re slumped on the throne, staring into the void as a minister drones on about the scandalous rise in scarf-wearing among the commoners.

The man is red-faced and foaming at the mouth as if he’s narrating the downfall of civilization itself instead of just… knitted accessories. With each drawn-out sentence, your urge to grab his own scarf and dramatically tie it around his face grows stronger.

“And, Your Majesty, don’t you agree that such… frivolousness undermines the dignity of the empire?” he sputters.

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, one mental toe dangling into the sweet abyss of existential crisis. How did your life get to this point? Did the previous Empress really deal with scarf politics? You contemplate just passing the crown to the nearest potted plant. Surely it couldn’t do worse.

Then, like a savior bathed in sunlight, Floyd appears. He slinks in casually, eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of glee and malice. He takes one look at Wedgeworth’s scarf-induced fervor and rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see the scarf issue is really eating away at the Empire,” Floyd deadpans, clearly unamused at the absurdity.

The minister stammers, blinking like he’s never been interrupted in his life. “Well, actually, I was explaining to Her Majesty—”

Floyd raises a hand. “I’ll take it from here, Lord Scarfington. Very urgent royal matters, wouldn’t want to keep the Empress from them, now would we, hmm?”

The ministers exchange horrified looks, but when Floyd locks eyes with them, his expression darkens into a gaze that could probably scare the teeth off a shark. Ministers shuffle out, muttering about “the sanctity of scarves” and how they “never liked those shellfish folk anyway.”

When you’re finally alone, you look at Floyd, and he gives you a grin. “Come on, Shrimpy, I’ve got a surprise.”

He leads you through a series of narrow, winding hallways you didn’t even know existed until you arrive at a small, hidden courtyard surrounded by high walls and shaded by some flowering trees.

In the middle of it is a picnic spread that looks… questionable. There’s food you don’t recognize: odd, glistening items that could pass as snacks in a very brave galaxy.

“I brought some delicacies from the Coral Sea,” Floyd announces, looking way too proud. “I even cooked some of this myself.”

You smile, hoping he means the less suspicious dishes, but as you take a bite of one of the “unique” items, you immediately realize your error. It’s a taste explosion, and not in a good way; you’re fairly certain you just ate something alive. Floyd’s already laughing, watching you try to hold back a gag.

“Oh, that’s rich, look at your face!” He claps his hands, doubled over with laughter.

But then you try the food he actually cooked, and it’s… it’s really good. Your eyes widen. “Floyd, you didn’t tell me you could cook!”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Guess you just have that effect on me, Shrimpy.”

As you eat, you feel the weight of scarf debates and mundane ministerial crises slip away. Floyd’s teasing you about your reaction to the Coral Sea snacks, you’re pretending to smack him, and somewhere between the laughter and the food, you realize you’re completely relaxed. You’re even… happy.

Then he casually picks up a pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, Shrimpy,” he says slowly, “bet I can take you down.”

“Bring it, fish-boy,” you fire back, grabbing a pillow.

A feather flies. Then another. In no time, the two of you are engaged in a full-on pillow war, feathers floating through the air in chaotic puffs. You swing a pillow with all your might, narrowly missing Floyd, who dodges and counters with a playful shove, sending you sprawling onto the blanket, laughing so hard you’re almost crying.

In the flurry of feathers and laughter, you realize just how much you care about him. And as if reading your mind, Floyd suddenly stops, pinning you down, his face hovering just inches above yours. His usual playful grin fades into something softer, more serious, and you find yourself staring up at him, completely captivated.

You kiss him, right there, surrounded by scattered feathers and half-eaten snacks. “I think I’m in love with you, Floyd,” you whisper.

He grins, looking almost smug. “Knew you’d come around eventually, Shrimpy. You’re a smart one.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, and pull him into another kiss, feeling lighter than you have in ages. Whatever royal nonsense tomorrow brings, you know you’ve got him—and for now, that’s more than enough.

Vacation plans with Floyd start out so simple in theory, but the minute he said, “Countryside? Nah, Shrimpy, we’re going under the sea,” you just nodded because, hey, you did promise a reward. Plus, how bad could it be?

Bad, it turns out, is relative. Upon arrival, Jade, Floyd’s brother, gives you a grin that says welcome, poor soul. “So, my brother’s finally gone and gotten himself an Empress. How unexpected,” he says with a glint in his eye that suggests he’s got a bet running on how long you’ll last.

But you’ve barely survived Jade’s interrogation when Azul, Coral Sea’s resident business octopus, swims up with an entire briefcase of contracts and a grin that spells danger.

“Welcome, Your Majesty! I thought we might discuss a mutually beneficial agreement,” he says smoothly, his tone so charming you almost miss that the contract slides in a 50-year lease on your kingdom’s fishing industry.

“So that’s how it is here,” you think, snapping back to business mode. You haggle until both sides are happy, but the second you reach across to shake Azul’s hand, Floyd swoops in, sighing dramatically. He grabs your hand, practically prying it out of Azul’s. “Alright, Shrimpy, enough time with the fish dealer. You’re mine this week.”

Before you can blink, he’s thrown you over his shoulder like you’re a stray potato sack, striding away from an open-mouthed Azul and an utterly delighted Jade who looks like he's a minute away from bursting out popcorn.

By the time he hauls you to your guest room and plops you on the bed, his usual grin has given way to an expression you’ve only seen on annoyed cats. He’s holding your hand in a grip that could rival steel, not letting go even as he sulks like a kid who just lost his favorite toy.

“Floyd,” you say slowly, “is something wrong?”

He looks away, puffing out his cheeks, refusing to answer. It's downright adorable in an overgrown, slightly unhinged eel sort of way. You squint at him, reaching over to grab his face, smushing his cheeks together until he finally makes eye contact. “Hey, I can’t read your mind, Floyd. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He mutters something too low to hear, and you lean closer, arching a brow. “What was that?”

“You’re my Shrimpy,” he grumbles louder, still not meeting your eyes. “And the handshake with that fish scammer went on too long.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to burst into laughter. “So that’s it, huh?” A laugh slips out despite your efforts, and his pout deepens, though his grip on your hand stays as firm as ever. “You silly eel,” you chuckle, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “As if anyone could match me like you do?”

That does it. His expression softens, the pout melting into that slightly unhinged, overly excited Floyd smile you know too well. “See, Shrimpy, that’s why you’re the only one for me!” he practically shouts before pulling you into a spin that has you clinging to him for dear life.

He kisses you again, and you’re so breathless you half-expect a storm outside to rise to match.

But it doesn’t matter—he’s too busy swearing up and down that he’s not letting anyone else get a “single fin” on you. And somehow, as you laugh together, it feels like you really are on a vacation you never knew you needed.

The ceremony for crowning Floyd as your King Consort goes all-out, much to your delight—and, judging by the expressions around the room, their absolute horror. The whole throne room is so packed with flowers and banners it might as well be a festival.

You’ve made sure that this is a spectacle the diplomats and ministers will never forget. After all, the more smitten you look with Floyd, the less they’ll try to “reason” you out of it. And if they have any opinions about your choice, well, they can keep it to themselves—or they can talk to Floyd.

As you lean in to place the crown on Floyd’s head, he’s giving you a smirk so bright you swear it’s practically a stage light. The second the crown touches his head, he dips you into a kiss that is equal parts “fairytale ending” and “scandalized gasp from the old guard.” The ministers are barely holding in a collective gasp. Someone clutches their chest like they might need medical attention.

Over on the sidelines, you can see Jade and Azul clapping way too enthusiastically for the room’s mood. Meanwhile, everyone else looks like they’re watching you deface a holy artifact. You pull back with a satisfied smile, fully aware of the whispers swirling through the room.

Now, to seal this newfound reign in your own… unique way.

You turn to the front rows where your now-ex-harem stands, looking various shades of awkward and confused. These “prizes” will be going back to their respective nations, and it’s about time. “Ambassadors,” you announce, your tone absolutely oozing sincerity, “I believe you’ll be taking back your… prizes. Enjoy.”

The diplomats exchange looks, clearly unsure if they should feel insulted or relieved. You give them a regal wave and watch as they shuffle out with the ex-consorts in tow, one of whom lets out a dramatic sigh loud enough to reach the rafters.

Just as the room finally starts calming down, you glance over at the row of your ministers—many of whom look like they’d rather have run off with the consorts.

These are the ancient relics of nepotism who have only ever accomplished growing their own egos and possibly a few money-siphoning schemes. You decide now’s the time to deal with them, too.

Smiling so politely it almost looks sweet, you say, “Ministers, thank you for your service. But I’m sure you’ll understand when I say…” You pause, voice dropping to an icy sweetness, “You’re dismissed. Please kindly fuck right off.”

Several of the men freeze, as if unsure they heard you correctly. One or two start spluttering, “But—Your Majesty—this is—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Floyd cuts in, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You’re free to go! You wouldn’t want to disappoint the Empress, would ya?”

It takes a second, but the room clears of protesting ministers soon enough. Then you turn to the waiting group of young scholars, women who fought their way up to the top on pure merit, many of them owing their presence here to your recently passed education reforms. “Welcome,” you say with a genuine smile. "Your interviews will be conducted tomorrow"

Their reactions are priceless. Several tear up on the spot, whispering thank-yous so heartfelt you nearly tear up yourself. One of them murmurs, “This is a dream come true. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

You feel a swell of pride. This is what you’ve wanted to see—a competent court, fresh talent, and the chance to make a real difference. Just as you’re soaking in the satisfaction of this triumph, Floyd leans over, clearly up to something.

“You’re done now, yeah?” he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

“Uh, yes?” You've barely said the words, only for him to suddenly scoop you up and throw you over his shoulder, entirely ignoring the royal dignity of it all. The young scholars stare, completely unsure of whether to salute or run.

“Floyd!” you half-laugh, half-scold. “You could at least let me walk out on my own!”

“Nah,” he says, casually strolling down the hall with you like you’re a sack of potatoes. “You’re mine now, Shrimpy. And besides, it’s tradition for the King Consort to carry his Empress, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” you mutter, but you wave cheerfully at everyone as you’re carried off.

As he strides out of the throne room, ignoring the horrified gasps and protests behind you both, Floyd grins. “Any more old men to fire? ‘Cause I’m having a great time.”

You shake your head, smiling. After all, you’re the Empress—who’s going to stop you now?

Your empire has transformed. The old guard, once weighed down by nothing but scarves and scandals, has finally given way to a bright-eyed group of scholars and ministers, most of whom—much to the old ministers' horror—are brilliant young women now leading the realm.

Among them is your ex-maid, the heroine herself, newly appointed as Minister of Diplomatic Affairs and already so intimidatingly competent that foreign diplomats quake just a bit when she enters the room.

And the grandest twist of all: you declare that your successor will not be by blood but by merit. The heir to the throne will be the sharpest, most capable mind in the empire, regardless of their birth.

You’re already giddy as you imagine the ambitious parents prepping their offspring for the grueling tests you’re planning—challenges you’ll design alongside your newly assembled council.

After hours of being regal and respectable, you finally get back to your chambers, ready for a night of blissfully ignoring politics. Floyd, your beloved eel, is already sprawled on the couch like he’s conquered half the known world, arms open and ready to receive you. You practically collapse into his embrace, sighing as you burrow against him.

“So, Shrimpy,” he drawls, smirking. “Fix the whole empire yet?”

“Almost,” you laugh. “At least I’ve retired the Scarf Parliament. That’s enough for today.”

You snuggle closer, closing your eyes, and for a second, you think back to the ridiculous, drama-filled story that threw you into this life. Maybe the original author had a point, or maybe she just really liked throwing you curveballs.

Either way, cuddled up with the love of your life while your empire flourishes, you can’t help but think, yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Series Masterlist

Living as long as he has, two lifetimes longer than he bargained for, Dazai has come to dread, rather than desire, connection. Every interaction, every smile he shares, was fake. A skinsuit of palatable politeness and absurd humor. No genuine connection could be possible for a clown as false as he. So why entertain his charades when you could be happier, so much happier, with any of the other handsome bachelors of Le Comte's mansion. You and Isaac would look cute together, two flustered apples stumbling into each other's lives by happenstance, or with Vincent, two sunflowers facing each other's sunshine smiles. His desire held no merit in the light of authenticity, it would only melt away all that made his company enjoyable and leave behind the ugly truth of his existence–dreadful shame as a human and shameful dread as a vampire. There was no escape from his true nature–an abomination, a mistake.

Still, you agreed to spend time with him, and he rewarded you with a good time. The path lined with hydrangeas became your favorite spot in all of Paris. Every milestone in your relationship came back to that special place. Your first rain shower, your first kiss. The hairpin he gifted you that day, you promised to never part with it.

–

There’s times I wonder why I can’t love you.

Love, a powerful force as great and terrible as desire. Dazai denied his capacity for love, a door he locked behind desire which he smothered and choked out a long time ago. In his past life, love only ever led to tragedy. Time and time again, he tried to depart from this world on his terms with a past lover, only for fate to keep him shackled to reality, alone. He led those poor women to their deaths with the promise of following them, a promise he never kept. And now, walking beside you among the living, he is reminded of that broken promise.

But he also couldn't stay away from you, not when he saw you all alone, miserable in solitude, aimless, joyless. Seeing you under that familiar cloud of dread made you more approachable, somehow, like you wouldn't blind him on sight or burn him with the radiance of a thousand suns. Sadness calmed him. It's what drew him to the more melancholy of the mansion residents, like Jean D'Arc. He didn't hide his misery, but rather embraced it as a perpetual part of him, a life sentence.

And then there were those who teetered between joy and misery, like Vincent Van Gogh; at times, the brightest of the bunch, but on rare, delightful occasions, mutely demure and hollow. Some of Vincent's best work were born during these rare rainy seasons. Someone like Vincent confused him immensely, equal parts bright and grimdark, neither was a cover for the other, but rather existed in a strange symbiotic harmony. You were much the same, too dangerous to keep around for long.

–

Please, let me go. I already know how this’ll end.

As much as he enjoyed your company, you were better off pushed far, far away from him. When the month came to an end, and Le Comte announced that the magic door that brought you here can send you back, he had to bring it up. He couldn't keep you trapped here if you secretly longed to return home. Why wouldn't you?

"I can't promise you happiness,” he said. “So please, forget about me."

"But I don't want to forget, Shuji,” you replied. “I'm not leaving without you!"

You were the only one to call him by his real name, as opposed to his pen name, without making his skin crawl. He would dearly miss the sound of his name on your lips. It had been a difficult journey to earn it.

"...For your sake, I'm begging you, please reconsider."

The confident mask he’s perfected remains intact, softened only to ease the message.

You wouldn't budge. It was that stubborn optimism you held onto that he cherished, and it is also why he couldn't hold onto you. You were so bright, so lovely, so lively, and he was a dark inkblot stain in your reality. To let this charade go on any longer would obscure your light and eventually pull you down into the miserable pit he called home. He couldn't let that happen.

Which is why he had to take matters into his own hands and push you through the door himself. You had to go, it was for the best, so then why did you reach out to him even as he pushed you away, and why did you pull him through the door with you?

In the space between worlds, you held onto him for dear life, insisting on stringing him along wherever this strange time-traveling door decided to spit you out next.

But just like his past life, he emerged from the door alone, back in Le Comte's mansion, except quieter, somehow. A house of twelve residents, no matter how large, would always carry some kind of noise–Theo and Arthur bickering in the game room over a chess board, Leonardo and Isaac building some kind of technological contraption, Mozart's piano practice in the next room. And then there were everyone's pets, of course. Napoleon's eagle Jupiter, known for her surprisingly loud, high-pitched whistling, liked to tease Jean's pet tiger, pecking its head and flying in and out of its attack range.

But Dazai didn't hear nor see any trace of that here. The mansion looked newer, like it hadn't been lived in for that long. Most of the mansion's rooms were locked, including his own bedroom. A light layer of dust coated the furniture that lined the hallways. A trail of raccoon footprints led to the kitchen, much to their butler Sebastian's dismay. Where was he, anyway?

Dazai rounded a corner and found a single door open down the hallway and the sound of laughter. Inside, he found you, smiling and giggling beside Vincent on opposite sides of a painting easel. You held a bouquet of sunflowers close to your chest while he brought your likeness onto the canvas in vibrant oranges and blues. Neither of them noticed him, it felt too voyeuristic to linger any longer. You were happy, that's all that mattered. He could withdraw safely without hurting you.

On his way back, he bumped into Leonardo, who looked at him warily.

"Who are you?" he asked Dazai.

"Why, Leo-san, I'm your housemate of many years."

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. "How have I not noticed you sooner?"

"Actually..."

Dazai explained how he got there. Judging by the quietness of the mansion and Leonardo's confusion, he figured the door sent him way back in time. Did you arrive here before him? That would explain how you got so close to Vincent already.

"Talk to 'Comte',” said Leonardo, wanting no part in this mess. “Let him know what happened, all of it."

Dazai found Le Comte in his office. His blond sweep of hair was longer than Dazai recalled, reaching down to his shoulders. It made him look younger, if that were possible for a pureblood vampire.

"I may have slipped through the magic door." Dazai smiled casually, as though confessing a petty crime.

"You...what?"

"By accident."

"Interesting," said Le Comte, rubbing his chin. Then, he muttered to himself, "Fascinating. An alternate timeline...?"

"What was that?"

"It is strange. When I offered you a piece of eternity, you declined. Said one lifetime was long enough. But now you're saying... you chose differently, a split in reality."

"Another reality...?"

"In other words, you don't belong here."

"But the door–"

"In a month's time, yes. You will have to wait. You may reside here until then."

Ever the hospitable Comte he was, as Dazai has come to appreciate. The month should fly by. In the meantime, Dazai kept himself busy with writing and wandering. He conversed with the few residents he could find around the mansion, only sunshine Vincent, his rough-n-tough younger brother, Theo, and you.

"At least you are happier here," Dazai mused out loud, as you passed by Le Comte's door, hand-in-hand with Vincent.

Dazai wondered where you were headed. Probably the garden. You and Vincent had that in common, you loved the outdoors.

"That resident may not be who you think it is. In fact, I am almost certain it is not." Le Comte let out a deep, troubled sigh. "Who knows where your companion may be...? I would offer to help in your search, but you've given me much to ponder. I was not aware of this aspect of the door's traveling abilities. Désolé, I must ask you to leave at the nearest opportunity."

One month Dazai had to wait out until the door allowed him to travel again. One gruelingly, agonizingly long month. He thought the time would fly by, as every month did, but something about this discomforting quiet–a mansion so large for so few–slowed time down to a snail-pace crawl. He missed the commotion, the constant gossip, the residents he often teased. None of that was here in this strange alternative. Strangest of all were your interactions with him. You talked the same, walked the same, yet somehow...different.

"Nice to meet you, Dazai-san. I've heard so much about you," you said.

"We've met before. Haven't we, Toshiko-san?" Dazai said softly with mirrored politeness. "It would be more accurate to say, Nice to see you again."

That was your first meeting–so formal, so distant–in the dining hall where Comte introduced Dazai to the residents. 'You' were picking up plates after everyone left. Dazai stayed behind under the guise of helping out.

"That's not my name, though." 'You' replied. "And I'd remember if I met someone so handsome."

"Ah, you must be Yoshie-san. My mistake. You strongly resemble someone else I know very well. You know what they say about birds of a feather."

"...Someone like me?"

"Indeed," he said. Your confusion was equally adorable, leaning towards suspicion. "In my dreams, that is."

"I see." 'You' relaxed, picking up the cutlery next. "Is that so? Writers sure have a way with words."

Dazai's eyes narrowed fondly, "That, we do. I'd love to teach you more ways to weave words in private. Just the two of us."

There it was. Your beet-red bashful expression. He couldn't help it, teasing you was much too fun, even if it meant his ruin. He was leaving in a month, he might as well enjoy this perfect distance. That sentiment struck him with a sudden sense of déjà vu and a flood of nostalgia. How close could he allow himself to reach for the sun before he burned in its light?

You stepped back. "Why does that sound so...scandalous?"

"Only if we're caught."

"Dazai-san, I must confess I'm already spoken for," 'You' said.

"Vincent can join us." As he spoke, he crowded your space, forcing 'You' to back up into a corner. Then, he said, "The more, the merrier."

SLAP!

Oh, this alternate 'You' was so much bolder. His head snapped sideways with the force of your palm. No doubt, his face stung comically red.

"I gotta go." 'You' slipped past him while he stood there stunned.

When he came to his senses, he called out a cheerful "Be seeing you!" to your retreating form.

This was the perfect distance. Dazai's depraved and twisted comfort zone. It was for the best, he reminded himself. You were happy with someone else, and he still got to be part of your life.

In his writings, Dazai reflected on these interactions. The formality, the boldness, the distance–something about 'You' didn't feel right. Up close, Dazai noted some physical differences, too. Your eyes were narrower, your hair color lighter. 'You' didn't bite your nails from his teasing. Indeed, as he suspected. It's not that you weren't the same you anymore, but rather 'You' wasn't you at all. Upon that realization, he couldn't stand it for another second.

–

No matter how many loops I go through, the first will always be the one I cherish most.

Through the magic door, Dazai traveled again. And with each landing, Dazai watched you fall in love with someone else over and over again.

In one loop, Napoleon took you under his wing, then did Mozart (begrudging), then did Leonardo (protectively). One month apiece of adventure, drama, heartbreak and reconciliation. On the fourth leap, you fell for Arthur's charms, on the fifth in Vincent's arms again, and on a sixth chased after Isaac despite his alarms. Round and round, you went, catching and releasing hearts. In the background, Dazai took notes of your escapades, your highs and lows, and tucked them in-between his stories. You fascinated him, the way you swayed from one vampire to the next with reckless ardor. On loop-seven, you and Theo get impossibly close; then loop-eight, you save Jean from his darkness; and by loop-nine, caged in Shakespeare's embrace. All the lives he could've lived, none of them lead him back to you.

A year passes in these travels, from one reality to another. A year until his first breakthrough. A letter left behind by you.

It reads:

 "To Shuji,

I landed in a reality where you didn't exist, and yet le Comte said he met you, said you were looking for me. I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but just know I won't rest until I find you. And when I do, I'm going to tackle-hug you so tight that you choke on your own regret. No amount of distance will get in my way.

Sincerely,  Your one and only,  Toshiko-san"

Your special alias, the very first one he assigned to you. Your threats endeared him, thinly-veiled affection and sprinkles of violence. Dazai was no stranger to pleasure and pain walking hand-in-hand.

–

As long as we look to the same moon, we’ll always be together.

Love and desire, forces Dazai rejected within himself, were now the only fuels that kept him going, along with a new force he didn't fully comprehend (and maybe never will). Hope, or something that resembled it, as others in his past life had described it. He never truly got it. But your words were teeming with it, the inevitability of it. For the first time in two lifetimes, Dazai believed in hope despite equally fearing it.

He decided to respond to your letter and leave a copy behind in every reality he visited, on the off-chance you may find it, to let you know he was out there just as you were, wandering between realities in search of each other.

His letter reads:

“Has it already been a year since we’ve been apart? Maybe longer? Would you be mad at me if I said Happy Anniversary? I’d like to see you mad at me in-person, red-faced and fuming from the ears. What a cute sight that would be.

To celebrate this milestone, I had an idea for a while. Whenever you find this letter, let’s meet at the place where it all began: the path lined with hydrangeas. As long as we walk the same path and look up at the same moon, together or worlds apart, we’ll always be connected. I'll be waiting for you.

See you there, my one and only beloved."

Whether you find this letter in a year or seven years, Dazai will keep searching for the one who filled his heart with love, desire, and strangest of all, hope. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living as long as he has, two lifetimes longer than he bargained for, Dazai has come to dread, rather than desire, connection. Every interaction, every smile he shares, was fake. A skinsuit of palatable politeness and absurd humor. No genuine connection could be possible for a clown as false as he. So why entertain his charades when you could be happier, so much happier, with any of the other handsome bachelors of Le Comte's mansion. You and Isaac would look cute together, two flustered apples stumbling into each other's lives by happenstance, or with Vincent, two sunflowers facing each other's sunshine smiles. His desire held no merit in the light of authenticity, it would only melt away all that made his company enjoyable and leave behind the ugly truth of his existence–dreadful shame as a human and shameful dread as a vampire. There was no escape from his true nature–an abomination, a mistake.

Still, you agreed to spend time with him, and he rewarded you with a good time. The path lined with hydrangeas became your favorite spot in all of Paris. Every milestone in your relationship came back to that special place. Your first rain shower, your first kiss. The hairpin he gifted you that day, you promised to never part with it.

–

There’s times I wonder why I can’t love you.

Love, a powerful force as great and terrible as desire. Dazai denied his capacity for love, a door he locked behind desire which he smothered and choked out a long time ago. In his past life, love only ever led to tragedy. Time and time again, he tried to depart from this world on his terms with a past lover, only for fate to keep him shackled to reality, alone. He led those poor women to their deaths with the promise of following them, a promise he never kept. And now, walking beside you among the living, he is reminded of that broken promise.

But he also couldn't stay away from you, not when he saw you all alone, miserable in solitude, aimless, joyless. Seeing you under that familiar cloud of dread made you more approachable, somehow, like you wouldn't blind him on sight or burn him with the radiance of a thousand suns. Sadness calmed him. It's what drew him to the more melancholy of the mansion residents, like Jean D'Arc. He didn't hide his misery, but rather embraced it as a perpetual part of him, a life sentence.

And then there were those who teetered between joy and misery, like Vincent Van Gogh; at times, the brightest of the bunch, but on rare, delightful occasions, mutely demure and hollow. Some of Vincent's best work were born during these rare rainy seasons. Someone like Vincent confused him immensely, equal parts bright and grimdark, neither was a cover for the other, but rather existed in a strange symbiotic harmony. You were much the same, too dangerous to keep around for long.

–

Please, let me go. I already know how this’ll end.

As much as he enjoyed your company, you were better off pushed far, far away from him. When the month came to an end, and Le Comte announced that the magic door that brought you here can send you back, he had to bring it up. He couldn't keep you trapped here if you secretly longed to return home. Why wouldn't you?

"I can't promise you happiness,” he said. “So please, forget about me."

"But I don't want to forget, Shuji,” you replied. “I'm not leaving without you!"

You were the only one to call him by his real name, as opposed to his pen name, without making his skin crawl. He would dearly miss the sound of his name on your lips. It had been a difficult journey to earn it.

"...For your sake, I'm begging you, please reconsider."

The confident mask he’s perfected remains intact, softened only to ease the message.

You wouldn't budge. It was that stubborn optimism you held onto that he cherished, and it is also why he couldn't hold onto you. You were so bright, so lovely, so lively, and he was a dark inkblot stain in your reality. To let this charade go on any longer would obscure your light and eventually pull you down into the miserable pit he called home. He couldn't let that happen.

Which is why he had to take matters into his own hands and push you through the door himself. You had to go, it was for the best, so then why did you reach out to him even as he pushed you away, and why did you pull him through the door with you?

In the space between worlds, you held onto him for dear life, insisting on stringing him along wherever this strange time-traveling door decided to spit you out next.

But just like his past life, he emerged from the door alone, back in Le Comte's mansion, except quieter, somehow. A house of twelve residents, no matter how large, would always carry some kind of noise–Theo and Arthur bickering in the game room over a chess board, Leonardo and Isaac building some kind of technological contraption, Mozart's piano practice in the next room. And then there were everyone's pets, of course. Napoleon's eagle Jupiter, known for her surprisingly loud, high-pitched whistling, liked to tease Jean's pet tiger, pecking its head and flying in and out of its attack range.

But Dazai didn't hear nor see any trace of that here. The mansion looked newer, like it hadn't been lived in for that long. Most of the mansion's rooms were locked, including his own bedroom. A light layer of dust coated the furniture that lined the hallways. A trail of raccoon footprints led to the kitchen, much to their butler Sebastian's dismay. Where was he, anyway?

Dazai rounded a corner and found a single door open down the hallway and the sound of laughter. Inside, he found you, smiling and giggling beside Vincent on opposite sides of a painting easel. You held a bouquet of sunflowers close to your chest while he brought your likeness onto the canvas in vibrant oranges and blues. Neither of them noticed him, it felt too voyeuristic to linger any longer. You were happy, that's all that mattered. He could withdraw safely without hurting you.

On his way back, he bumped into Leonardo, who looked at him warily.

"Who are you?" he asked Dazai.

"Why, Leo-san, I'm your housemate of many years."

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. "How have I not noticed you sooner?"

"Actually..."

Dazai explained how he got there. Judging by the quietness of the mansion and Leonardo's confusion, he figured the door sent him way back in time. Did you arrive here before him? That would explain how you got so close to Vincent already.

"Talk to 'Comte',” said Leonardo, wanting no part in this mess. “Let him know what happened, all of it."

Dazai found Le Comte in his office. His blond sweep of hair was longer than Dazai recalled, reaching down to his shoulders. It made him look younger, if that were possible for a pureblood vampire.

"I may have slipped through the magic door." Dazai smiled casually, as though confessing a petty crime.

"You...what?"

"By accident."

"Interesting," said Le Comte, rubbing his chin. Then, he muttered to himself, "Fascinating. An alternate timeline...?"

"What was that?"

"It is strange. When I offered you a piece of eternity, you declined. Said one lifetime was long enough. But now you're saying... you chose differently, a split in reality."

"Another reality...?"

"In other words, you don't belong here."

"But the door–"

"In a month's time, yes. You will have to wait. You may reside here until then."

Ever the hospitable Comte he was, as Dazai has come to appreciate. The month should fly by. In the meantime, Dazai kept himself busy with writing and wandering. He conversed with the few residents he could find around the mansion, only sunshine Vincent, his rough-n-tough younger brother, Theo, and you.

"At least you are happier here," Dazai mused out loud, as you passed by Le Comte's door, hand-in-hand with Vincent.

Dazai wondered where you were headed. Probably the garden. You and Vincent had that in common, you loved the outdoors.

"That resident may not be who you think it is. In fact, I am almost certain it is not." Le Comte let out a deep, troubled sigh. "Who knows where your companion may be...? I would offer to help in your search, but you've given me much to ponder. I was not aware of this aspect of the door's traveling abilities. Désolé, I must ask you to leave at the nearest opportunity."

One month Dazai had to wait out until the door allowed him to travel again. One gruelingly, agonizingly long month. He thought the time would fly by, as every month did, but something about this discomforting quiet–a mansion so large for so few–slowed time down to a snail-pace crawl. He missed the commotion, the constant gossip, the residents he often teased. None of that was here in this strange alternative. Strangest of all were your interactions with him. You talked the same, walked the same, yet somehow...different.

"Nice to meet you, Dazai-san. I've heard so much about you," you said.

"We've met before. Haven't we, Toshiko-san?" Dazai said softly with mirrored politeness. "It would be more accurate to say, Nice to see you again."

That was your first meeting–so formal, so distant–in the dining hall where Comte introduced Dazai to the residents. 'You' were picking up plates after everyone left. Dazai stayed behind under the guise of helping out.

"That's not my name, though." 'You' replied. "And I'd remember if I met someone so handsome."

"Ah, you must be Yoshie-san. My mistake. You strongly resemble someone else I know very well. You know what they say about birds of a feather."

"...Someone like me?"

"Indeed," he said. Your confusion was equally adorable, leaning towards suspicion. "In my dreams, that is."

"I see." 'You' relaxed, picking up the cutlery next. "Is that so? Writers sure have a way with words."

Dazai's eyes narrowed fondly, "That, we do. I'd love to teach you more ways to weave words in private. Just the two of us."

There it was. Your beet-red bashful expression. He couldn't help it, teasing you was much too fun, even if it meant his ruin. He was leaving in a month, he might as well enjoy this perfect distance. That sentiment struck him with a sudden sense of déjà vu and a flood of nostalgia. How close could he allow himself to reach for the sun before he burned in its light?

You stepped back. "Why does that sound so...scandalous?"

"Only if we're caught."

"Dazai-san, I must confess I'm already spoken for," 'You' said.

"Vincent can join us." As he spoke, he crowded your space, forcing 'You' to back up into a corner. Then, he said, "The more, the merrier."

SLAP!

Oh, this alternate 'You' was so much bolder. His head snapped sideways with the force of your palm. No doubt, his face stung comically red.

"I gotta go." 'You' slipped past him while he stood there stunned.

When he came to his senses, he called out a cheerful "Be seeing you!" to your retreating form.

This was the perfect distance. Dazai's depraved and twisted comfort zone. It was for the best, he reminded himself. You were happy with someone else, and he still got to be part of your life.

In his writings, Dazai reflected on these interactions. The formality, the boldness, the distance–something about 'You' didn't feel right. Up close, Dazai noted some physical differences, too. Your eyes were narrower, your hair color lighter. 'You' didn't bite your nails from his teasing. Indeed, as he suspected. It's not that you weren't the same you anymore, but rather 'You' wasn't you at all. Upon that realization, he couldn't stand it for another second.

–

No matter how many loops I go through, the first will always be the one I cherish most.

Through the magic door, Dazai traveled again. And with each landing, Dazai watched you fall in love with someone else over and over again.

In one loop, Napoleon took you under his wing, then did Mozart (begrudging), then did Leonardo (protectively). One month apiece of adventure, drama, heartbreak and reconciliation. On the fourth leap, you fell for Arthur's charms, on the fifth in Vincent's arms again, and on a sixth chased after Isaac despite his alarms. Round and round, you went, catching and releasing hearts. In the background, Dazai took notes of your escapades, your highs and lows, and tucked them in-between his stories. You fascinated him, the way you swayed from one vampire to the next with reckless ardor. On loop-seven, you and Theo get impossibly close; then loop-eight, you save Jean from his darkness; and by loop-nine, caged in Shakespeare's embrace. All the lives he could've lived, none of them lead him back to you.

A year passes in these travels, from one reality to another. A year until his first breakthrough. A letter left behind by you.

It reads:

 "To Shuji,

I landed in a reality where you didn't exist, and yet le Comte said he met you, said you were looking for me. I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but just know I won't rest until I find you. And when I do, I'm going to tackle-hug you so tight that you choke on your own regret. No amount of distance will get in my way.

Sincerely,  Your one and only,  Toshiko-san"

Your special alias, the very first one he assigned to you. Your threats endeared him, thinly-veiled affection and sprinkles of violence. Dazai was no stranger to pleasure and pain walking hand-in-hand.

–

As long as we look to the same moon, we’ll always be together.

Love and desire, forces Dazai rejected within himself, were now the only fuels that kept him going, along with a new force he didn't fully comprehend (and maybe never will). Hope, or something that resembled it, as others in his past life had described it. He never truly got it. But your words were teeming with it, the inevitability of it. For the first time in two lifetimes, Dazai believed in hope despite equally fearing it.

He decided to respond to your letter and leave a copy behind in every reality he visited, on the off-chance you may find it, to let you know he was out there just as you were, wandering between realities in search of each other.

His letter reads:

“Has it already been a year since we’ve been apart? Maybe longer? Would you be mad at me if I said Happy Anniversary? I’d like to see you mad at me in-person, red-faced and fuming from the ears. What a cute sight that would be.

To celebrate this milestone, I had an idea for a while. Whenever you find this letter, let’s meet at the place where it all began: the path lined with hydrangeas. As long as we walk the same path and look up at the same moon, together or worlds apart, we’ll always be connected. I'll be waiting for you.

See you there, my one and only beloved."

Whether you find this letter in a year or seven years, Dazai will keep searching for the one who filled his heart with love, desire, and strangest of all, hope. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living as long as he has, two lifetimes longer than he bargained for, Dazai has come to dread, rather than desire, connection. Every interaction, every smile he shares, was fake. A skinsuit of palatable politeness and absurd humor. No genuine connection could be possible for a clown as false as he. So why entertain his charades when you could be happier, so much happier, with any of the other handsome bachelors of Le Comte's mansion. You and Isaac would look cute together, two flustered apples stumbling into each other's lives by happenstance, or with Vincent, two sunflowers facing each other's sunshine smiles. His desire held no merit in the light of authenticity, it would only melt away all that made his company enjoyable and leave behind the ugly truth of his existence–dreadful shame as a human and shameful dread as a vampire. There was no escape from his true nature–an abomination, a mistake.

Still, you agreed to spend time with him, and he rewarded you with a good time. The path lined with hydrangeas became your favorite spot in all of Paris. Every milestone in your relationship came back to that special place. Your first rain shower, your first kiss. The hairpin he gifted you that day, you promised to never part with it.

–

There’s times I wonder why I can’t love you.

Love, a powerful force as great and terrible as desire. Dazai denied his capacity for love, a door he locked behind desire which he smothered and choked out a long time ago. In his past life, love only ever led to tragedy. Time and time again, he tried to depart from this world on his terms with a past lover, only for fate to keep him shackled to reality, alone. He led those poor women to their deaths with the promise of following them, a promise he never kept. And now, walking beside you among the living, he is reminded of that broken promise.

But he also couldn't stay away from you, not when he saw you all alone, miserable in solitude, aimless, joyless. Seeing you under that familiar cloud of dread made you more approachable, somehow, like you wouldn't blind him on sight or burn him with the radiance of a thousand suns. Sadness calmed him. It's what drew him to the more melancholy of the mansion residents, like Jean D'Arc. He didn't hide his misery, but rather embraced it as a perpetual part of him, a life sentence.

And then there were those who teetered between joy and misery, like Vincent Van Gogh; at times, the brightest of the bunch, but on rare, delightful occasions, mutely demure and hollow. Some of Vincent's best work were born during these rare rainy seasons. Someone like Vincent confused him immensely, equal parts bright and grimdark, neither was a cover for the other, but rather existed in a strange symbiotic harmony. You were much the same, too dangerous to keep around for long.

–

Please, let me go. I already know how this’ll end.

As much as he enjoyed your company, you were better off pushed far, far away from him. When the month came to an end, and Le Comte announced that the magic door that brought you here can send you back, he had to bring it up. He couldn't keep you trapped here if you secretly longed to return home. Why wouldn't you?

"I can't promise you happiness,” he said. “So please, forget about me."

"But I don't want to forget, Shuji,” you replied. “I'm not leaving without you!"

You were the only one to call him by his real name, as opposed to his pen name, without making his skin crawl. He would dearly miss the sound of his name on your lips. It had been a difficult journey to earn it.

"...For your sake, I'm begging you, please reconsider."

The confident mask he’s perfected remains intact, softened only to ease the message.

You wouldn't budge. It was that stubborn optimism you held onto that he cherished, and it is also why he couldn't hold onto you. You were so bright, so lovely, so lively, and he was a dark inkblot stain in your reality. To let this charade go on any longer would obscure your light and eventually pull you down into the miserable pit he called home. He couldn't let that happen.

Which is why he had to take matters into his own hands and push you through the door himself. You had to go, it was for the best, so then why did you reach out to him even as he pushed you away, and why did you pull him through the door with you?

In the space between worlds, you held onto him for dear life, insisting on stringing him along wherever this strange time-traveling door decided to spit you out next.

But just like his past life, he emerged from the door alone, back in Le Comte's mansion, except quieter, somehow. A house of twelve residents, no matter how large, would always carry some kind of noise–Theo and Arthur bickering in the game room over a chess board, Leonardo and Isaac building some kind of technological contraption, Mozart's piano practice in the next room. And then there were everyone's pets, of course. Napoleon's eagle Jupiter, known for her surprisingly loud, high-pitched whistling, liked to tease Jean's pet tiger, pecking its head and flying in and out of its attack range.

But Dazai didn't hear nor see any trace of that here. The mansion looked newer, like it hadn't been lived in for that long. Most of the mansion's rooms were locked, including his own bedroom. A light layer of dust coated the furniture that lined the hallways. A trail of raccoon footprints led to the kitchen, much to their butler Sebastian's dismay. Where was he, anyway?

Dazai rounded a corner and found a single door open down the hallway and the sound of laughter. Inside, he found you, smiling and giggling beside Vincent on opposite sides of a painting easel. You held a bouquet of sunflowers close to your chest while he brought your likeness onto the canvas in vibrant oranges and blues. Neither of them noticed him, it felt too voyeuristic to linger any longer. You were happy, that's all that mattered. He could withdraw safely without hurting you.

On his way back, he bumped into Leonardo, who looked at him warily.

"Who are you?" he asked Dazai.

"Why, Leo-san, I'm your housemate of many years."

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. "How have I not noticed you sooner?"

"Actually..."

Dazai explained how he got there. Judging by the quietness of the mansion and Leonardo's confusion, he figured the door sent him way back in time. Did you arrive here before him? That would explain how you got so close to Vincent already.

"Talk to 'Comte',” said Leonardo, wanting no part in this mess. “Let him know what happened, all of it."

Dazai found Le Comte in his office. His blond sweep of hair was longer than Dazai recalled, reaching down to his shoulders. It made him look younger, if that were possible for a pureblood vampire.

"I may have slipped through the magic door." Dazai smiled casually, as though confessing a petty crime.

"You...what?"

"By accident."

"Interesting," said Le Comte, rubbing his chin. Then, he muttered to himself, "Fascinating. An alternate timeline...?"

"What was that?"

"It is strange. When I offered you a piece of eternity, you declined. Said one lifetime was long enough. But now you're saying... you chose differently, a split in reality."

"Another reality...?"

"In other words, you don't belong here."

"But the door–"

"In a month's time, yes. You will have to wait. You may reside here until then."

Ever the hospitable Comte he was, as Dazai has come to appreciate. The month should fly by. In the meantime, Dazai kept himself busy with writing and wandering. He conversed with the few residents he could find around the mansion, only sunshine Vincent, his rough-n-tough younger brother, Theo, and you.

"At least you are happier here," Dazai mused out loud, as you passed by Le Comte's door, hand-in-hand with Vincent.

Dazai wondered where you were headed. Probably the garden. You and Vincent had that in common, you loved the outdoors.

"That resident may not be who you think it is. In fact, I am almost certain it is not." Le Comte let out a deep, troubled sigh. "Who knows where your companion may be...? I would offer to help in your search, but you've given me much to ponder. I was not aware of this aspect of the door's traveling abilities. Désolé, I must ask you to leave at the nearest opportunity."

One month Dazai had to wait out until the door allowed him to travel again. One gruelingly, agonizingly long month. He thought the time would fly by, as every month did, but something about this discomforting quiet–a mansion so large for so few–slowed time down to a snail-pace crawl. He missed the commotion, the constant gossip, the residents he often teased. None of that was here in this strange alternative. Strangest of all were your interactions with him. You talked the same, walked the same, yet somehow...different.

"Nice to meet you, Dazai-san. I've heard so much about you," you said.

"We've met before. Haven't we, Toshiko-san?" Dazai said softly with mirrored politeness. "It would be more accurate to say, Nice to see you again."

That was your first meeting–so formal, so distant–in the dining hall where Comte introduced Dazai to the residents. 'You' were picking up plates after everyone left. Dazai stayed behind under the guise of helping out.

"That's not my name, though." 'You' replied. "And I'd remember if I met someone so handsome."

"Ah, you must be Yoshie-san. My mistake. You strongly resemble someone else I know very well. You know what they say about birds of a feather."

"...Someone like me?"

"Indeed," he said. Your confusion was equally adorable, leaning towards suspicion. "In my dreams, that is."

"I see." 'You' relaxed, picking up the cutlery next. "Is that so? Writers sure have a way with words."

Dazai's eyes narrowed fondly, "That, we do. I'd love to teach you more ways to weave words in private. Just the two of us."

There it was. Your beet-red bashful expression. He couldn't help it, teasing you was much too fun, even if it meant his ruin. He was leaving in a month, he might as well enjoy this perfect distance. That sentiment struck him with a sudden sense of déjà vu and a flood of nostalgia. How close could he allow himself to reach for the sun before he burned in its light?

You stepped back. "Why does that sound so...scandalous?"

"Only if we're caught."

"Dazai-san, I must confess I'm already spoken for," 'You' said.

"Vincent can join us." As he spoke, he crowded your space, forcing 'You' to back up into a corner. Then, he said, "The more, the merrier."

SLAP!

Oh, this alternate 'You' was so much bolder. His head snapped sideways with the force of your palm. No doubt, his face stung comically red.

"I gotta go." 'You' slipped past him while he stood there stunned.

When he came to his senses, he called out a cheerful "Be seeing you!" to your retreating form.

This was the perfect distance. Dazai's depraved and twisted comfort zone. It was for the best, he reminded himself. You were happy with someone else, and he still got to be part of your life.

In his writings, Dazai reflected on these interactions. The formality, the boldness, the distance–something about 'You' didn't feel right. Up close, Dazai noted some physical differences, too. Your eyes were narrower, your hair color lighter. 'You' didn't bite your nails from his teasing. Indeed, as he suspected. It's not that you weren't the same you anymore, but rather 'You' wasn't you at all. Upon that realization, he couldn't stand it for another second.

–

No matter how many loops I go through, the first will always be the one I cherish most.

Through the magic door, Dazai traveled again. And with each landing, Dazai watched you fall in love with someone else over and over again.

In one loop, Napoleon took you under his wing, then did Mozart (begrudging), then did Leonardo (protectively). One month apiece of adventure, drama, heartbreak and reconciliation. On the fourth leap, you fell for Arthur's charms, on the fifth in Vincent's arms again, and on a sixth chased after Isaac despite his alarms. Round and round, you went, catching and releasing hearts. In the background, Dazai took notes of your escapades, your highs and lows, and tucked them in-between his stories. You fascinated him, the way you swayed from one vampire to the next with reckless ardor. On loop-seven, you and Theo get impossibly close; then loop-eight, you save Jean from his darkness; and by loop-nine, caged in Shakespeare's embrace. All the lives he could've lived, none of them lead him back to you.

A year passes in these travels, from one reality to another. A year until his first breakthrough. A letter left behind by you.

It reads:

 "To Shuji,

I landed in a reality where you didn't exist, and yet le Comte said he met you, said you were looking for me. I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but just know I won't rest until I find you. And when I do, I'm going to tackle-hug you so tight that you choke on your own regret. No amount of distance will get in my way.

Sincerely,  Your one and only,  Toshiko-san"

Your special alias, the very first one he assigned to you. Your threats endeared him, thinly-veiled affection and sprinkles of violence. Dazai was no stranger to pleasure and pain walking hand-in-hand.

–

As long as we look to the same moon, we’ll always be together.

Love and desire, forces Dazai rejected within himself, were now the only fuels that kept him going, along with a new force he didn't fully comprehend (and maybe never will). Hope, or something that resembled it, as others in his past life had described it. He never truly got it. But your words were teeming with it, the inevitability of it. For the first time in two lifetimes, Dazai believed in hope despite equally fearing it.

He decided to respond to your letter and leave a copy behind in every reality he visited, on the off-chance you may find it, to let you know he was out there just as you were, wandering between realities in search of each other.

His letter reads:

“Has it already been a year since we’ve been apart? Maybe longer? Would you be mad at me if I said Happy Anniversary? I’d like to see you mad at me in-person, red-faced and fuming from the ears. What a cute sight that would be.

To celebrate this milestone, I had an idea for a while. Whenever you find this letter, let’s meet at the place where it all began: the path lined with hydrangeas. As long as we walk the same path and look up at the same moon, together or worlds apart, we’ll always be connected. I'll be waiting for you.

See you there, my one and only beloved."

Whether you find this letter in a year or seven years, Dazai will keep searching for the one who filled his heart with love, desire, and strangest of all, hope. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VIGNETTE CONTEXT: A collaborative project between Foothill Town and Night Raven College that aims to promote potential places to visit on Sage’s Island involves asking the birthday student to select an outfit that catches his eye from one of the options provided by the town’s tailor, and showcase a place on the island he would recommend.

You were chosen to film him in his new outfit, presenting the place he chooses and explaining why he likes it. The long-standing pâtisserie, Bonbon Recette, will also have a birthday cake prepared for him.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: It doesn't matter to Floyd whether or not others know you're dating. He will act towards you in front of others however he pleases. However, you two realized that it's fun to confuse people with the way you act around each other. Especially knowing that Floyd likes to mess with people he likes. So, more for the fun of confusing others than anything else, Floyd agreed to keep your relationship a secret for now. Maybe until that stops amusing him.

You finally find Floyd on the Main Street of Night Raven College to talk to him about the birthday video.

“Oh hey, Koebi-chan~. What’s up?” He smiles as soon as he sees you. “Huh, somethin’ about showin’ stuff around the island...? Oh yeah, I guess I heard about that. But I’m more in the mood to shoot hoops right now～ It’d a drag to shoot pics, so I’m good. Pass.”

“What do you mean ‘Pass’?!” You inquire. “This is such a perfect excuse for a date!”

“Hm? Excuse? Why do I need an excuse to go on a date?”

“We've never been on a date...”

“No?” He shrugs. “Maybe because when I want to be with you, I just call you or go find you. Plannin’ dates is boring. I’ll just do whatever I want when I'm with you.”

“Fine...” You sigh. “But about that video, why don’t you just come check out the sewing room at least?”

“Huh... You're insisting that much, means there's something interesting in there, right?” He smiles, curious, and you confirm. “Fine, I’ll go just to check it out. But... If it sucks, I’m gonna squeeze ya.”

“Whoa, that's a ton of clothes!” He exclaims excitedly after you enter the tailor's Sewing Room in Foothill Town. “So I can just pick whatever I like from all this, huh? Oh! Found a crazy flashy shirt! It's covered in sequins all over!”

And so begins his frenzy of grabbing the most gaudy pieces of clothing possible. But thankfully, he ends up abandoning that idea because it has more of a summer vibe than an autumn vibe.

“Most of the other stuff looks pretty autumn-themed. Okay, guess I'll go with that vibe. Hmm, which one should I pick...”

He picks up the pieces he wants, puts them in a pile on one of the tables, and begins to take off his school jacket and unbutton his shirt. You startle and stop him, asking what he was doingn and saying that there was a fitting room right there. After all, that store still had some windows.

“To put on new clothes, I have to take these ones off first, right? What? Are you embarrassed to see me naked here? Hahahaha. I'm a merman, Koebi-chan, we swim around naked. Hahahaha. You landfolks get embarrassed by the weirdest things.”

“Well, yeah, but...”

He approaches you with a smug grin, his shirt already completely unbuttoned, revealing his abs.

“Why are ya so flustered~?” He asks in that low, playful tone that manages to be incredibly sexy. “You want to see, don't you~? I know where you always look at when I’m in my mer-form.”

You don't even realize you've taken a few steps back until you feel the edge of the table behind your thighs.He places his hands on the table, one on each side of you, trapping you and blocking any possible escape.

“Hehehe. I like to play this game with you~.” He attacks the crease of your neck with a kiss that quickly turns into a gentle bite. “Didn’t ya wanna go to the fitting room?” He grabs you by the thighs and lifts you to lead you into the fitting room, closing the curtains behind him.

Floyd didn't feel like changing his clothes, so he had an idea during the make-out session, why don't you take off his clothes and try dressing him in the new ones while he's having fun with you? Watching you squirm from his kisses and bites while you changed his clothes amused him far more than either of you had expected.

In the end, he was wearing a plaid coat with a brown vest and trousers, a white shirt, and around his neck a brown scarf and a pearl necklace. His clothes looked a little shabby and his hair disheveled, but before you could fix everything he stopped you, saying he liked how he looked.

“I'm getting hyped now! The photoshoot might actually be fun. Let's hurry up and head into town!”

“Here we aaare, Foothill Town.” Floyd says. “Mmkay, we’re just gonna wander from here.”

“What about the place we're supposed to feature in today's shoot?” You ask.

“Hmm? I haven’t picked one. I mean, I basically forgot this whole shindig was gonna be a thing, so.”

You try to decide on a place to go by asking Floyd where he usually goes when he comes to Foothill Town, but it's always different places that depend on his mood, that is, if he even leaves his room according to himself.

“All I gotta do is find somethin’ cool to show off, right? Can’t we just start filmin’ once we find somethin’ good enough, then? Let's check out that street over there...”

“Oh, Floyd.” Lilia crosses paths with you. “Kheehee, you're dressed quite fashionably. Doing that photoshoot with (Y/N), I presume?”

“Yup. Though it’s not like we picked out a place yet. What’re you doin here, Devilfish-chan?”

“I'm heading to grab a meal. A flyer I picked up in the plaza caught my interest, you see.”

He shows the flyer to both of you. It's from a diner right there in Foothill Town. Their big selling point is that their dishes are all magical. Lilia says that it’s a restaurant that was started by a graduate of Night Raven College and It looks like they’re releasing a new menu starting that day.

“Sounds fun! Okay, that’s it, then. I’m pickin’ this diner as our shoot spot.” Floyd decides. “Devilfish-chan, show us to the joint.”

“Kufufu. I shan't merely guide you. I'll help with the filming too.”

You arrive at a chipmunk-themed diner called 'Crisp & Dips'.

“This is the diner you were talking about? Huh, the outside’s pretty neat lookin’. I wonder how it looks on the inside. I can’t wait~. Koebi-chan, time to rev up that camera.”

You all enter and sit at one of the tables to begin the recording.

“Mmkay, so here’s Crisp & Dips, a diner in Foothill Town.” Floyd introduces, still intrigued by the place and with a relaxed smile. “The insides’re based on the story of the “two mischief-loving chipmunks,” or whatever... But aren’t these chipmunk figures waaay too big? Meh, whatever. Anyway, apparently they’re all about their magical dishes. Oh hey, the latte that the table next to us just got has a moving drawing on it. Ahah, look at that duck swimming in the cup! It looks so real! Oh, and now it sank.”

“That’s called the “Ghost Latte” drink.” Lilia explains. “They’re using animation magic on it, apparently.”

“Maybe I’ll order one later, too. Wonder if they can swap it to a cappuccino?”

“Hm. You like cappuccinos, Floyd?”

“Not really. I’m just feelin’ like one right now. Whether I want coffee, tea, or juice, it’s all up to how I’m feelin’ in the moment. Anyway, I guess we should start with their new dishes, huh. Can’t wait to see what comes out.”

When your dishes arrive, Floyd is disappointed to see a normal hamburger steak. However, Lilia reminds Floyd that the restaurant manager told them to try clapping. Floyd did so and the demi-glace sauce covering the hamburger started to swell up until it took the shape of a chipmunk. This revived Floyd's spirits.

“Oho, looks to be some sort of spell that changes shape based on sound.” Lilia concludes. “Fascinating, let’s try some different sounds!”

“Mmkay, then what about this sound?” Floyd snaps his fingers. “Ooh, when I started snapping my fingers, the one chipmunk became two! So what happens if I clang my knife and fork together? Ahah, the chipmunks started fighting. Sauce’s flying everywhere, awesome~”

A little bit of the sauce landed on your cheek making Floyd laugh at you. But before you could clean it up, Floyd kissed you and licked the sauce off your cheek. Still close to your ear, he whispers:

“I tasted good~ I'll try it with other stuffs when we get back to Mostro Lounge. And on other places~” And gives you a quick kiss under your ear, near your jaw and neck.

All this while you were still filming, and he even laughs at your flustered reaction.

“I should try playing some music from my phone next.” Floyd continues, and so he does. “Now they’re dancing on top of the hamburger. Look at 'em grooving.”

“Kheehee, You’re really getting into it. Alrighty then, I'll join in with some rhythm.” Lilia starts clapping along to the music. “Hoi, hoi~”

“Oooh, nice~! I’ll help with keepin’ up the rhythm too.” Floyd says with a wicked grin and starts clapping much faster. “Ahaha, the chipmunks look like they’re panicking now that there’s way too much noise! Next I’ll add a bit of whistling... Oh, snap. They’re starting to blow up like balloons. At this rate, they might explode!”

“If that much swollen sauce bursts, it'll splatter all over the restaurant... ” Lilia exclaims worriedly. “Floyd! Stop for now!”

“Might be too late~” He simply replies with that playful, mischievous smile.

“Ahhh, that dinner was so much fun!” Floyd says, already seated with you and Lilia at one of the tables at Bonbon Recette, where his special birthday cake was. “Did ya see the manager's face when the sauce exploded?”

“He sure was in a tizzy, yes.” Lilia says. “But for him to throw up protection magic immediately shows he truly was a proper alumnus of our school. By the way, (Y/N), is the recording data safe?”

You confirm that everything is okay with the filming.

“Oh yeah, we were taking some kind of promo video, right. Gotta say, good job continuing to record without runnin’ away when the sauce went flyin’ everywhere.” Floyd smirks.

“Kheehee, we could talk forever, but... Why don’t we pause and celebrate today’s birthday boy. Happy Birthday, Floyd.”

“Happy Birthday!” You say.

“Yeah, yeah! Koebi-chan, thanks for your hard work too~” He kisses your cheek before tasting the cake. “Mmm, this cake's really good. There's a big chestnut inside, nice and filling.”

“Ohh, to gulp down a whole special cake in one bite, what a refreshing sight indeed!” Lilia says. “Not that the kiss wasn't heartwarming too. Kufu” He smirks at you.

“Devilfishie-chan, Koebi-chan, aren't you gonna eat?” Floyd continues, with that mischievous grin. “If you don't hurry, there won't be any left~”

Each of you takes a slice of cake.

“I apologize for interfering in your romantic encounter.” Lilia says with his innocent smile. “I'll leave you alone as soon as I finish this slice. This cake truly is delicious.”

“It's fine.” Floyd says. “We didn't have anywhere to go anyway. Thanks for the tip.”

Just as Lilia had said he would, as soon as he finished eating he stood up to say goodbye and leave. But not before giving Floyd a hint to ask the employees about a special promotion for couples they were running.

Floyd got curious and went to ask about it while you were eating another slice of cake. When he returned, he had that mischievous smile on his face.

“Koebi-chaaan~” He sees you automatically giving him a suspicious look, which amuses him even more.

After waiting a little bit, without Floyd telling you what he was planning, one of the waiters approaches you to say that everything is ready in the next room and asks you and Floyd to follow him. The waiter opens the door and Floyd enters first, observing the room around him.

It was small with a quite chic decor, but strangely there was only one thing in that room: a table. The only chairs were miniature ones on top of that table, as well as miniatures of a round table and a sofa. 

“Oww... It’s so boreing... It doesn't look like anything interesting is gonna happen here.” Floyd says, and turns to the waiter with that serious and threatening gaze. “This better be as fun as you said it would.”

“I-I-I guarantee it will, s-sir.” The poor waiter said in pleading. “P-please just w-wait until I bring the dessert.”

“We will.” You say in a soothing tone, leaning on Floyd's arm, as if calming a dog about to attack.

The waiter looks at you with relief before leaving.

“Is this about that thing for couples that Lilia talked about?” You ask.

“Yeah. From what that guy said, it seemed fun. But if not...” He smiles with his sharp teeth. “I can figure out another way to make him entertain us.”

“Just give him a chance. I'm sure you won't need to resort to squeezing anyone.”

“Oww, not even you~?”

“It depends on the type of 'squeezing' we're talking about.”

Floyd laughs. This was enough time for the waiter to return with a small Mont Blanc and place it on the table. Nothing else, no cutlery, no napkins, nothing, just the dessert. Immediately afterwards the waiter hurried out of the room and closed the door, leaving you two alone in there. Ambient jazz music also began to play from the small speakers in the corners of the room.

Upon seeing that little cake, Floyd’s mischievous smile returned.

“Hey, Koebi-chan. Try this~.” He asks of you with a very sudden, good-humored attitude.

You immediately become suspicious.

“Aww, come on~ It's my birthday. Shouldn't you fulfil all my wishes?”

“If you're going to treat me like a servant, then you can eat that and have fun by yourself.” You get annoyed by all that arrogance, cross your arms, and turn your back to him.

“Hmmm...” He thinks silently for a second. “Okay! But you're gonna have to catch me.”

“Wait, what?”

He runs his finger through the cake's cream and licks it. The next second he shrinks right in front of you and you reach out to catch him before he falls to the ground. He was the size of a doll, just a little bigger than your hands, and he looked as comfortable as in an egg-shaped chair.

“HAHAHAHAHA. Nice catch, Koebi-chan~! I knew I could count on ya~.”

“Floyd! What the heck?! What happened?”

“I shrunk.” He responds with a mocking smile. “That's what the cake does. It was made with a shrinking potion. Relax, it only lasts about an hour or so. Hey, put me on the table, now I should be the right size to lie down on that couch.”

You do as he said and place him on the table. Just as he said, now he's the right size for that miniature furniture on the table. He lies down on the sofa, as carelessly as someone who has just returned home.

“Com’ooon~ Join meee~” He asks you lazily. “It's boring alone.”

You look at him and, being Floyd's partner, of course you can be mean too. You realize the advantage you have at the moment, with your regular size. You grab him by one of his ankles and lift him upside down until he's in front of your face.

“HEY! What're you doin'?!” Little Floyd inquires.

“You want to have fun, right?” You ask with a mischievous smile.

You throw him into the air, hearing him scream, and then catch him again in your hands.

“So? What did you think?”

“You little...” He looks at you with that frighteningly serious look, and bites your finger. Even with small teeth, they're still sharp. But then immediately breaks into a huge grin and laughs. “That was awesome! Again! Throw me again!”

“What? You liked it? Then why did you bite me?”

“To put you in your place~” He smirks. “Now. Again! Hahahaha!”

You do that two or three more times, until he finally gets tired and you put him back down on the table. Only then do you run your finger through the Mont Blanc cream, sit down at the table, and lick your finger. You shrink as fast as Floyd did and to a similar size. But he's still taller than you again.

“I'm tired.” Floyd yawns. “Come here.”

He picks you up by the thighs to put you over his shoulder and carries you like a sack of potatoes to the sofa where he lays you down. He then positions himself on top of you.

“That was fun.” He says with an amused smile, until it transforms into a seductive smirk. “Good little shrimp~” He kisses your lips with surprisingly tenderness for a while, until he lightly bites your lower lip. “Do you know what mood I'm in right now~?”

“You seem to be in a good one.” You say. “More specific than that is almost always a surprise.”

“Hehehe~” His eyes darken as he looks into yours, but his smile remains. “I'm in the mood for some bites~”

He attacks your neck with kisses before he starts leaving his marks. More than the ones he had already left in the store's fitting room.

There was always some sort of strange overlap of customs from your world to this one. Halloween seemed to have survived more or less intact (even if it was a bit more, uh, extreme than the subtle evening of giving out treats and dressing as ghosts that you remembered). Winter Holidays were still very much a Thing, even if all other connotations had been stripped from them. Moreover, it was like someone had taken your familiar Earthen calendar and just sort of… mirrored it. Distorted it a bit. Just a lil’ bit more chaos than would have been socially acceptable back home.

So when you made a sly little joke about stocking up on discount chocolates after the Valentine’s Day rush and no one laughed—not even a little chortle, or an irritable eyeroll—you initially thought it was maybe to do with the irrationality of Sam’s Shop ever having a sale to begin with. You had not assumed that, you know, there was no Valentine’s Day at all.

“It’s an important holiday, then? Where you’re from?” Azul mused, busy scribbling endless, chicken scratch, notes in the margins of some form that was probably very important.

“I mean, not really,” you frowned, tossing your Mostro-Branded apron onto its hook. “Maybe. Yes? I don’t really know, actually.”

He hummed and moved to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Well, whatever it is, I’m always looking for new events to host at the Lounge. What exactly is it?”

“It’s a sort of special day for couples. Romance. Lovey-dovey nonsense,” you shrugged, and watched Azul’s finger slip off the slick metal frame of his glasses and nearly take his eye out. You waved off his obvious disgust with a dramatic sigh (I mean, why else would he be so stiff and red?). “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s ridiculous.”

“I—I never said that!” he spluttered, and then paused to cough into his fist and clear his throat. “It just—I just wasn’t expecting something like that to…”

“Exist?”

He grinned, wry. His cheeks were still a bit too pink. “Precisely.”

“You would have loved my world,” you said. “Very capitalistic. Lots of cash-grab holidays like that.”

Azul laughed.

“I’m sure I would be fond of any place you came from.” He paused, and his expression puckered up a bit miserably—like he really hadn’t intended to express such a sentiment aloud. But he managed to smooth the sharp line of his frown back into that usual, smarmy, smirk of his easily enough. “But either way! Tell me more!” he grinned, reaching forward to grab a stack of blank paper and a fresh pen. “I’d love to hear all about it.”

.

.

The next day you were supposed to help the Drama Club start building some stage scenery for their newest play. It was proper grunt work, which was perhaps the only sort of work you were actually qualified for. And Vil always made sure that there were plenty of disgustingly healthy but still quite tasty snacks available for the help to munch on. The food spread alone would have been worth the trip, but on top of that, Vil had made you promise. Practically a blood oath, binding you and your meager free time to the shitty supply closet in the corner of the Auditorium. And as sour as he could be sometimes, you really could never say no to him when he always looked so heart meltingly fond whenever you did agree to while away the hours at his side. That lovely face and even lovelier smile of his were fucking lethal. A war crime, surely, to use it against someone as plain and susceptible to bribery as you were.

But today you were now an idiot on a mission—an idiot determined to spread the joy of a trashy holiday that really probably shouldn’t exist in the first place, let alone in a world where people worshipped storybook villains as veritable deities. And you’d already bought all the molds, and the trays, and you really didn’t have a lot of spare pocket money to begin with, so letting this investment go to waste would not only be a shame, but a terrible business investment.

“What do you mean you’re not coming,” Vil sneered, glaring down his perfectly straight nose at you.

“I really am sorry,” you said, mostly genuine. “But I have something I need to do this afternoon.”

“You’ve made other plans?” he frowned, something a little too unsettled to fit with his usual regality twisting across his expression.

“I have to get ready for Valentine’s Day,” you explained, and his brow tugged down further. Though that earlier twinge of panic seemed to have vanished at least. You pointedly shook your grocery bag full of goodies. “I’m going to make chocolates for everyone.”

“Chocolates?” Vil echoed, confused.

You nodded. “It’s a tradition back home. You give stuff like candy and flowers to the people you care about. Normally it’s a holiday for couples, or whatever. But. Well…”

The ‘I Am Fully Aware That I’m Single as a Pringle, Please Just Let Me Have This One Thing’ was left unsaid, but it hung in the air around your head like a very persistent storm cloud nonetheless. Vil, magnanimously, seemed perfectly happy to ignore the Woe Is Me implications spewing from your mouth. Instead, he leaned forward until he was dipping precariously close into your personal space. His amethyst eyes had lit with blatant interest at your ramblings, and he hummed low in his throat.

“Is that so?” he mused, gaze lidded and warm. “That sounds… intriguing.”

You nodded past the heady scent of his cologne fogging your head. What was it with attractive people, huh? It was so unfair. You don’t get to look and smell good. Pick a lane. Save some dignity for the rest of us.

“So, I promise I’ll help another day. I just have a feeling making chocolates is going to wind up being a lot harder than I think it will.”

Because that’s how it always went in your stupid slice-of-life shows. The poor, harried, protagonist thinking they’re doing a good deed—painstakingly constructing their own, special, homemade goodies for all their important people. Making them with love. And then having it all blow up in their face like a goddamn, cocoa flavored, nuke. Nope. Not you, motherfucker. Your chocolates were going to be divine. You were going to take every, tropey, precaution in the book. And that of course included allotting yourself ample time to make mistakes your masterpiece.

“Of course,” Vil grinned. “How could I possibly begrudge you for wanting to spend your time on something so heartfelt?”

“Thank you,” you blurted, relived. Because at least he got it. Azul had been so ridiculously insistent that you should prepare all your Valentine’s Day wishes as a team. Which was not the point. He’d spent hours last night trying to wheedle his way into your plans—with endless platitudes about ‘business partners always being there for each other,’ and ‘how would he know if he was celebrating to your standards if he wasn’t given a model to work off of first?’ Utter bullshit. He’d probably just wanted free labor.

“Tomorrow, then?” Vil beamed and you nodded.

“Tomorrow,” you confirmed.

“Well, then,” he hummed. “I better get to work as well. I suppose the scenery can wait.”

You nodded in farewell and began the trek back to Ramshackle and its marginally functional kitchens. You hadn’t realized Vil was taking on any new projects, but if it was enough to have him putting off the Club’s activities as well then it must have been pretty important. Maybe he’d get you tickets to it whenever he finished—whatever it was. If there were tickets? How did any of the things he did actually work? Hell if you knew.

.

.

Making chocolates was, in fact, a laughably easy endeavor. And you found yourself cursing every goddamn Shoujo Bullshit Manga under the sun for leading you to think otherwise. The hardest part of the entire thing was fighting off Grim and his wandering paws.

You made up some basic truffles which were, again, stupidly simple. Just some messily chopped chocolate, cream, and a little splash of vanilla to make it Special. Once those were shaped into messy blobs, you dipped them into some more melted chocolate and bam. That was it. That was literally it. You felt like a genius—sitting there mushing up balls of cocoa like high-end playdough.

By 6PM, you had all your little darlings tucked into the refrigerator to harden, all the gauzy, red, boxes lined up on your counter and ready to be filled, and Grim had been placated with an offering of all your dirty mixing bowls. The tiny, demonic, beast was passed out at the dingy kitchen table—one of said bowls wedged onto his head like an astronaut’s helmet. Hopefully it was just a food coma and not, like, an actual coma-coma. Real cats couldn’t eat chocolate, but Grim never really seemed real at all. So hopefully he’d be fine.

You wiped down your cooking space once, twice. Paced up and down the narrow hallway until you were wearing away the already threadbare rugs, and spent way too long just standing in front of the fridge—staring in on your chocolates like a psychotic kidnapper scoping out their next victims.

Eventually you realized that you maybe needed to do something with your evening that wasn’t just creeping on your confections, and set out into the frosty, night, air for a stroll.

Which is, of course, where you ran into your familiar, horned, friend—staring up into the starry sky in a wistful manner that darkened his pale complexion into something nearly ominous. He always looked a bit like that, like something unearthly and detached from the rest of the world.

“Tsunotarou!” you chirped happily, and that adrift-at-sea expression of his melted right off his face.

“Child of Man,” he greeted, inclining his head politely. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this evening.” His brow furrowed, almost confused. “Is it not too cold for you?”

Your breath was, in fact, fogging in front of your face. And you couldn’t really feel your toes anymore. But the electric anticipation of tomorrow was keeping you warm enough. Even if only in spirit.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you waved him off. And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you leaned forward on your tippytoes and blurted out, “Happy Almost Valentine’s Day!”

“Valentine’s Day?” Malleus repeated back at you, looking like you’d just handed him an unsolvable differential equation.

“It’s a holiday from back home,” you explained for the umpteenth time that day. “And normally I’m not too fussed about it, but this year I’m really excited to give everyone their chocolates!” You grinned. “And you too, of course. I have to make sure I give them to all my important people.”

The furrow between his brows vanished, but the blatant, gaping, confusion remained. He looked like you’d nearly startled him into an early grave.

“I am one of your most important people?” he asked, slow as a tortoise making its way up an incline.

You nodded cheerfully, still bellied by your earlier culinary successes and excellent mood. “Of course you are! We’re friends, aren’t we? And besides. Valentine’s Day is for showing people how much you care about them.”

“What an interesting concept,” he mused, bringing a finger up to tap at his chin. “To think your world had such a heartfelt tradition—it’s quite a lovely surprise.”

You laughed. “If you think the chocolates are special, you should see what some couples do for each other. Rooms full of flowers, fancy date nights—I’m just managing the bare minimum.”

“Couples?” he echoed, and you felt the first teeny, hot, thread of chagrin work its way past your enthusiasm.

“Well, normally Valentine’s Day focuses on, like, romantic things,” you said, averting your gaze just in time to miss the tension lance through his shoulders. “But it can be for all sorts of affection!” you hastily added.

“Is that so…” the Prince hummed. He lifted his pensive gaze once more and stared you down with that weighted intensity that you’d only just recently learned how not to buckle beneath. “And you wish to celebrate this day. With me?”

“…you don’t mind, do you?” you asked, hesitant.

“Of course not, Child of Man,” he beamed, his lips curling up into a smile that put all his too-sharp teeth on display. “But you’ll have to excuse me now, I’m afraid. It seems I have some preparations to undertake this evening.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes,” Malleus said. “You will.”

.

.

It was officially Valentine’s Day, and you were ready to begin your mission of forcing your sweets onto every, single, one of your reluctant friends. Let them be pissy and tsundere. You weren’t afraid to weep and proclaim your undying, shounen-talk-no-jutsu, levels of friendship. Okay. Maybe you were a little. But these grouchy bastards had very easily become your grouchy bastards, and so help you God, they would suffer under your affection and they would like it.

There were plenty of small boxes—all nice, neat, corners with little bows perched on top. But you had also prepared a singular, larger, tray. It was cleaner cut than the rest, with bold, contrasting, colors and a simple elegance. You stared it down with a strange sort of disquiet brewing in your gut. Maybe you were being presumptuous. Goodness knows you’d more than dealt with the searing, emotionally destructive, consequences of that before. But all the same…

You squared your shoulders and spent a moment convincing yourself that your spine was quite sturdy—a proper, titanium, support system—and then popped the Big Box into the bag with the others.

Your first stop was Heartslabyul, and you burst through the ornate, crimson, doors like a manic home invader.

“I come bearing gifts,” you proclaimed, merrily doling out the boxes to your favorite idiot duo. You set three more aside, with little labels for Riddle, Trey, and Cater respectively. Normally you wouldn’t trust a dorm full of teenage boys not to devour any scrap of unattended food in sight, but Riddle had long since struck the fear of God into these poor lads. So you figured it’d be safe.

Deuce’s face lit up and he accepted the chocolate with near starry-eyed enthusiasm.

“Are these your holiday presents? Like the Santa Claus?” he asked, looking very much like a bouncy golden retriever preparing itself for congratulatory head pats.

You leaned forward with an indulgent huff to give him his pats. “No. But close enough.”

You pawned off three boxes on Ruggie when he tried to duck past you in the hallway—one for him, one for Leona, and one extra as payment for making him do your dirty work of playing delivery boy to Mister Grump in the first place. You slipped Jack his on the way into Trein’s morning lecture, and managed to press a box into Jamil’s hands before he slunk off to the library. Kalim cheered so loudly when you handed him one that your ears started to ring.

And then trouble arrived in the form of two, slippery, eels draping themselves across your shoulders. Normally the destructive duo seemed to act on their own prerogative, but on this fortuitous morning their Lord and Master was surprisingly not too far behind.

“Shrimpy!~” Floyd trilled, dragging you into a one-armed hug that was really more of a slightly-less-aggressive headlock than anything else. “Azul says you came up with this stupid holiday! And he made us work all day yesterdayto put together stuff for the Lounge! It’s not fair!”

Your legs shook under the weight of the new tumor that had made its home on your back.

“Now, Floyd,” Jade chirped. All finely manicured cruelty. “If you’re to blame anyone for going overboard with this entire situation, you ought to lay the fault on our fearless leader.” His bi-colored eyes flashed, amused. “Isn’t that right, Azul?”

Said ‘fearless leader’ looked like he was sucking on a lemon. He glared bitterly at his subordinate, seeming to share an entire, silent, argument with him, before turning back on you with a heavy sigh and the barest hint of angry flush in his cheeks.

“Prefect,” he grinned past his obvious discomfort, all sparkling, white, teeth. “I have to thank you for sharing so much information about this ‘Valentine’s Day’ of yours. It’s such a unique event, and it seems like our preparations at the Lounge are already being received incredibly well.”

“That’s good,” you nodded, trying and failing to shrug the Leech off your shoulders. “I’m glad I could help.”

Azul hummed under his breath, his eyes darting away for a moment. His glasses reflected the muted light of the hall in an odd way—making it difficult to read his expression. He cleared his throat and when he looked back up at you, the tips of his ears had gone pink.

“You’re more than welcome to come by, of course,” he beamed, suave as could be.

“I mean,” you blinked. “I would hope so. I work there.”

Floyd let out a bark of laughter and Jade snickered into his glove. The pleasant pink tinting Azul’s skin was heating to a near sunburned red. He looked down and coughed into his fist.

“Yes…” he mumbled. “I—I’m aware. But what I meant is… What I meant—” He frowned. It was a tight, pouty, little thing that scrunched up his entire face. That mottled red had spread to the bridge of his nose.

“I do believe what Azul is trying to say,” Jade stepped in, clearly taking some sort of pity on his tongue-tied friend. Or perhaps pity was the wrong word for it, seeing how smug he looked, “is that he would like to invite you to the event personally. As an honored guest, not an employee.”

“Oh,” you blinked, startled. Then hesitated, cautious on instinct. There was always some sort of catch to the Octomer’s kindness. “I don’t know if I could afford whatever fancy thing you’ve thrown together.”

“You wouldn’t be paying for it,” Azul assured you, some of that sickly flush having finally started to recede from his cheeks. You hoped he was feeling alright. “You’ve contributed more than enough for the day. It would be on the house.”

Jade loudly cleared his throat and Azul huffed, eyes sliding away yet again.

“I would be paying,” he finally mumbled. And then, even quieter, “As I believe is the custom.”

Just as you were about to thank him for his startling bought of generosity (and also ask after his health, because between the weird, pink, tinge to his skin and the aforementioned generosity, clearly somethingwas out of sorts with him), you noticed a sneaky hand working its way into your bag of goodies, and you immediately were on the defensive.

“Hey!” you snapped, spinning out of Floyd’s stranglehold. “You only get one!”

“Then I want the really big one!” he demanded, making grabby motions at it.

“No!” you squeaked, and clutched it protectively to your chest. The trio looked at you with varying degrees of surprise and you cleared your throat awkwardly. “This one—This one is special.”

“Oh?” Jade cooed, eyes flickering back towards Azul, who seemed determined to look absolutely anywhere else. “Is it now?”

“Awww,” Floyd whined. “That’s no fair! Who’s it for, anyways?!”

You gripped the box tighter and now it was your turn to stiffly avert your eyes down to the ugly carpet. “It’s not—I’m not—” you cleared your throat and forced the jitter from your voice. “I’m not ready to give it to him yet.”

The silence that followed was absolutely the worst thing you’d experienced in a long, long, time. Overblots and all. You could practically hear your blood pounding in your ears. You were just about to turn and beat a hasty retreat when a familiar, snappish, voice called your name from the other side of the corridor.

“There you are, potato,” Vil huffed, coming to stand at your side and bodily inserting himself between you and your tormentors. He met Azul’s petulant sneer with a frankly terrifying one of his own. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed you’d be eating lunch with me today.”

You remembered no such thing, but if it got you out of this verbal minefield of a conversation, you were more than willing to take the claim at face value.

“Apologies,” Azul cut in with all his usual, mafioso, flair. “But the Prefect will be taking their afternoon meal at the Mostro Lounge today.”

“Is that so?” Vil hummed, sounding positively venomous.

“Unless you think you can make an offer good enough to sway them otherwise,” Azul chirped, equally as unpleasant.

Vil laughed—cold and sharp as crystal. It was the most elegant display of blatant irritation you’d ever seen.

“Of course you’d only consider this entire situation on a transactional basis,” he drawled, entirely unimpressed. Azul flinched and his expression screwed up into something near petulant. “I would expect no less. Are you planning to lock them into a contact too, hmm? Sign away everything in formal, sterile, terms?” Vil crossed his arms, and you were reminded sharply once more how very, very lucky you were to not be on his bad side (even if you hadn’t realized before all this that Azul apparently was on said bad side. You had no idea they disliked each other so terribly). “I really hadn’t expected you to have a single, romantic, bone in your body, and yet somehow I’m still disappointed to be proved so entirely correct.”

Azul looked ready to explode, and even though Jade and Floyd and melted back into the shadows at the start of this entire encounter, the pair of them were starting to look a bit murderous too—like sharks lazily circling the dark, ocean, depths.  

“Don’t you think you deserve better?” Vil asserted, turning back to face you with a soft cant of the head. You blinked back in shock.

“Uh,” you gaped, absolutely fucking lost.

And then, like a beacon of unrivaled, black-drenched, hope, you spotted Malleus making his way down the hallway. He was flanked by his trio of housemates-cum-pseudo-bodyguards. Normally you tried to leave him alone when his rabid, green-haired, guard dog was yipping at his heels, and on top of that, the idea of using your classmates’ ingrained fear of the Fae Prince to your own advantage upset your rather staunch sensibilities. But this was an emergency.

“Tsunotarou!” you called, and it absolutely sounded like the cry for help it was.

He perked up immediately and you watched him nearly crash to a standstill. And then his sharp, neon, gaze locked on the dueling Housewardens circling you like a pair of snapping wolves, and his merry expression shuttered into something positively glacial. Which was—Fuck. I mean. Come on. What the fuck was going on today—

“Child of Man,” he droned, crossing the short distance with all the grace of the near-mythical, arcane, master that he was. His posture was more collected and regal than you’d ever seen it, and he loomed all the taller for it.

Azul and Vil had gone tense at your side, one certainly more so than other. The Octomer looked incredibly unsettled at Malleus’s sudden arrival, but Vil just looked angrier. It was the sort of unpleasantness that bloomed whenever someone challenged him or his competencies over and over—inevitably pushing the normally composed beauty into an indignant rage.

“Happy Day of Valentine’s,” Malleus continued, slotting himself firmly into the veritable territory dispute going down. “Are you quite alright?”

No, you wanted to wail. No! I’m so confused! I have no idea what’s going on! I just wanted to give my friends chocolates!

But you never managed to get those words or any others past your lips, because Sebek Zigvolt shot to his master’s side with all the speed of the lightning for which he was so named, and immediately began to scream.

“HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT THE YOUNG MASTER’S AFTERNOON ROUTINE!” he shrieked at the top of his very impressive lungs.

You weren’t sure if he was howling at you (very likely) or just anyone who wasn’t Malleus, but Jade took the opportunity to slink forward from the shadows with a sharp tut-tut.

“Perhaps none of you deserve the Prefect’s special attentions,” he piped in, sounding very much like someone intentionally throwing a cannister of gasoline onto an already roaring fire. “Or any chocolates at all—let alone the ones set aside for someone special.”

At this, silence once more rang through the corridor and you wanted to throttle that stupid eel.

“There is a special box?” Malleus asked first, brow shooting up as his expression tugged with… something.

“I—I mean, I made all of yours special!” you defended, holding the wrapped treasure tightly to your chest. “But… I guess. Yes. There’s one that’s a little bigger than the others.”

At this, all three Housewardens exchanged pointed looks.

Jade smiled serenely once more, and then continued his absolute massacre upon your person.

“Yes, indeed,” he nodded. “And our dearest Prefect only just mentioned that—hmm. How did you word it? Ah. That’s right. ‘I’m not ready to give it to him yet.’”

The trio tensed. All looking absolutely ready to pounce. At—at what, you had no idea.

“Perhaps,” the wretch mused, “it would be best for you all to temper your rage until the victor is decided, hmm?” He paused to tap at his chin for a moment, and then his lips split into a mean, jagged, grin. “Afterwards? Well, I suppose that whole cheery sentiment about ‘love and war’ still holds true.”

You gulped, feeling startlingly like Jade had just tried to serve you up on a silver platter.

But when neither Azul, Vil, or Malleus made any further moves to murder each other… well. As sacrificial as it all felt, at least it must have worked.

The rest of the day passed in a tense sort of fugue. You certainly hadn’t expected your attempts at bringing some holiday cheer to Night Raven to go so… Uh…

But either way, you managed to survive through the rest of the afternoon, and before you knew it, all that remained of all your tireless efforts and good will was the Special Box. The big one. The one that you’d put together with extra care and hopes for better things. You glared down at it for a moment, feeling sweat starting to bead over your palms. But you couldn’t chicken out now. Not after you’d come so far! Everyone was acting so strange, and it was all so weird. And as much as that unfamiliarity had your teeth on edge and your hackles raised, you didn’t want to regret not giving out the last of your well-made sweets.

Well, here goes nothing, you frowned. You took a deep breath, willed yourself to be brave, and smiled your biggest smile.

“Here,” you beamed, more than a little shy and still a bit horrified by whatever pissing match had been going down earlier in the day, and finally offered the grandest of your chocolate boxes to the man standing opposite you.

Divus Crewel accepted your offering daintily, plucking at the crisp, sharp, wrapping with his crimson gloves. He arched one of his thin brows at you and you fought the nervous heat rising in your cheeks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you blurted. “I know it’s not a thing here, but I thought it’d be nice.”

The second eyebrow joined the first—practically jumping all the way up into his fringe.

“I appreciate the gesture. Though from what I understand of all the garish advertising I’ve seen for Mostro Lounge’s new event, I assumed this was a holiday for romantic overtures,” he intoned, wry.

You spluttered and waved your hands furiously. “I mean! Normally! Yes! But also…” You trailed off, fighting the urge to fidget. “If you don’t have a—a, well, someone, then Valentine’s is just a nice excuse to give something to people you care about.” You averted your gaze and lost the battle to twist your fingers into your jacket sleeves. “My family used to give me chocolates every year. So. I thought I could… Well…” you trailed off on a grumble, embarrassed.

Crewel sighed and popped the lid off the box. He plucked two truffles from their casing—keeping one for himself and handing you the other.

“Well, then. A very happy Valentine’s to you, Prefect,” he droned and popped the chocolate into his mouth with a thoughtful hum.

You lit up like a Christmas tree and happily gobbled up your own treat. So distracted were you by the one-two-punch combo of the delicious sugar and even sweeter taste of your Professor’s approval that you almost entirely missed the pointed glare he shot over your shoulder.

“I appreciate your regard,” he said, loud. Sharp. And like he wasn’t talking to you at all. “And while I’m certain that if you do pick a ‘someone’ for yourself to celebrate with in the following years, they’ll have to work very hard to be worthy of such a gift, hmm?” His lip curled unpleasantly, in direct contrast to the indulgent warmth that had been tugging at his expression only a moment before. “I could hardly allow you to waste such a thoughtful gesture on someone unworthy.”

The Octavinelle Housewarden had the decency to look at least a little panicked—his face going pale and gaunt from where he was shrinking into his high collar. There was a frantic look about him, like he was trying to weigh the cost-benefit ratio of going up against his professor in his head, and realizing that he was stupidly, willfully, walking right into a lose-lose situation. And that, sadly—miserably—he was going to keep doing just that. The other two, however, looked entirely undeterred. Schoenheit curled his lip right back at him, more than ready to duke it out here and now, and Crewel fought the urge to remind the blonde that he was the adult in this situation, thank you very much. The adult who could very well revoke the Warden’s access to his Alchemy Labs as it suited him. The very alchemy labs that he knew Vil had been using to concoct all kinds of new, personalized, gifts for you. Draconia simply looked on with that unnervingly ancient, green, leer of his. Like he was staring down a particularly fascinating game. The Fae Prince was the most unsettling of the trio, if only because that while Crewel was more than confident enough in his abilities to subdue his other wayward students, fighting off an Immortal, All Powerful, Dragon was going to require at least a little bit of prep work.

Divus Crewel sighed, and it rattled all the way out from the marrow of his bones.

“Come, then,” he rumbled, directing you to follow him back into his office. “It’s not chocolates, but I probably have some of those ridiculous cookies of yours lying around somewhere.” Which he did. Boxes upon boxes of them. Tucked away special for whenever you came to visit. Not that he’d ever willingly admit that, even under the pain of death.

Your eyes went wide and warm as you positively beamed.