faye

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

You found your boyfriend far more comfortable than you expected, his hands behind his head, eyes closed, and tail swaying lightly, showing he couldn’t care less about missing a class.

“At this rate you’re going to repeat another year, Leona,” you murmured. “Are you still running a fever?”

His ear twitched slightly, and he cracked one eye open to look at you—but when he felt the mattress sink, his eyes widened, his brows furrowing at the audacity of you sitting on the same bed as him.

“Hey, herbivore! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” He didn’t push you, but he immediately got off the bed, leaning against the one right next to it. “Ruggie!” He looked around, searching for the hyena.

“Hm?” You blinked, terribly confused by his reaction. You crossed your arms. “Leona, I just came to check if you’re feeling better—”

“I don’t care,” Leona practically growled, his cheeks warm and his breathing still uneven. “Who do you think you are to—Don’t touch me!” He took a step back when he saw you circle around to get closer to him.

“Listen to me carefully—I don’t flirt, I don’t cheat, and I hate herbivores who don’t know how to respect hierarchy and keep their hands to themselves.” He pointed a finger, looking completely serious about what he was saying, but you only rolled your eyes as you called Ruggie.

“…He did what!? BAHAHAHAH—” The hyena’s laughter was so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

“Just come help me deal with him already,” you cleared your throat. “At least he’s loyal.”

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

You hummed softly to yourself as you walked toward your boyfriend’s dorm, not in much of a hurry, since Jade and Floyd had promised to keep an eye on Azul in case he woke up before you got back from the cafeteria.

The corners of your lips curled into a smile when you saw he was already awake and doing well, despite his flushed cheeks.

“Azul, I brought you a snack,” you said, sitting down on the chair beside his bed, not noticing how stunned he seemed by your arrival.

His eyes slowly widened, following your every movement as you placed the small package on your lap and began opening it carefully.

“…Wh—What are you doing?” he asked slowly.

You looked up. “You didn’t eat earlier. I thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

Azul choked when you lifted the spoon to feed him. His face went from a soft pink flush to a deep red, then turned pale as a ghost.

“NONONO—!” He pressed himself further into the pillows, hands gripping the blanket and covering his mouth as if he were being offered poison. “Th—This is extremely inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate?” You glanced at the twins, but they looked just as confused as you.

“YES!” he insisted, his voice cracking in pure panic. “You cannot simply walk in here and—and attempt to feed me like some sort of— of—”

Floyd grinned, as if he had just found his new entertainment for the rest of the day. “Shrimpy, you’re makin’ him all red.”

Azul’s head whipped toward him instantly. “WHY,” Azul demanded, pointing a shaking finger at Floyd, “are you not removing her from the premises?!”

Jade placed a hand against his cheek. “Remove her, Azul?” He repeated. “Whatever for?”

Azul groaned, feeling tortured by the slowness of the two. “She is attempting to feed me—!” he cried, his voice pitching upward in pure distress. “This is disrespectful.”

“That’s super lovey-dovey, isn’t it?” Floyd laughed, leaning forward. “Must be nice not havin’ to bother using forks and spoons with your own hands… I wanna be fed too!”

“Stop encouraging this behavior!” Azul snapped, clutching the blanket to his chest.

You frowned softly, lifting the spoon a little. “It’s just food,” you said gently. “You’re still dizzy.”

“…No,” he whispered weakly. “No, this cannot be happening…”

Your lips parted in surprise when you saw your boyfriend—normally always so composed—with his eyes filled with tears.

“…Azul?”

His lower lip trembled. “My beautiful, stunning girlfriend will leave me because of you!” he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this would create? Being fed by another person… in my own dorm…! My soulmate, the love of my life, my pearl will leave me thinking that I allowed this!”

You and Jade exchanged looks in complete silence, watching him cry miserably and sniffle. Floyd’s smile, however, only grew when he realized what was going on.

“Yeah, she will!” Floyd cackled. “I’m gonna tell her. ‘Hey, hey—your boyfriend’s lettin’ other people court him!’”

“Floyd!”

“NO!” Azul shouted in despair, burying his face into a pillow as he cried. “I’m going to fry you, you… you damn eel…”

Jade covered his mouth politely.

You sighed, placing the forgotten snack on the table and turning toward him. “…Azul.”

He sniffled dramatically, refusing to look at you. “She’ll leave me…” he muttered weakly.

“Do you think he’ll remember this when the effects wear off?” you asked, looking at Jade, your hands patting your boyfriend’s back.

“Probably not, but I will.” he replied with a smile.

It’s rare for him to say 'I love you' out loud. He prefers to let his love speak through what he does. Most of the time, he believes that should be enough. But on the nights when he thinks you’re already asleep, something in him softens completely. He reaches out, movements careful and unhurried, brushing his fingers gently along your cheek. He leans in and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.” It’s said without expectation, without the need for an answer—just a quiet truth offered into the dark, meant only for you.

He keeps a small box hidden away, tucked somewhere only he ever thinks to look. Inside it are letters addressed to you—unsent, carefully folded, their edges worn from being held and reread. Each one is written with a sincerity he never quite knows how to voice aloud, words spilling onto paper where his heart feels safest. Alongside them are candid photos he took, moments caught in soft light and quiet laughter, each one framed with unfiltered admiration. There are drawings too, sketched absentmindedly in spare moments, lines gentle and imperfect but filled with unmistakable affection. Nothing in the box is meant to be impressive. It isn’t curated for anyone else’s eyes—it’s simply a collection of love treasured in silence.

He always insists on carrying your bag, no matter how heavy or light it is. It’s become second nature to him, effortless, as though the weight is never a burden but a quiet way to stay close to you. He walks you back to Ramshackle with the same steady pace he always does, he instinctively slows down his pace so he matches yours, the bag swinging lightly in his grip, your steps falling easily in sync with his. When you finally ask why he goes out of his way to walk you back, he mutters a halfhearted excuse, trying to sound practical. “If I didn’t, you’d probably complain about your feet hurting again,” he says under his breath, brushing it off like it’s nothing. But the faint red tint at the tips of his ears betray him. His words might be casual, even teasing, but the heat creeping across his face tells the truth—he does it for you, because he wants to, because he likes carrying your burdens alongside you.

He acts annoyed when you cling to him, rolling his eyes pretending to grumble, but it’s all just a flimsy mask to hide how much he cares. The moment your fingers brush his skin, your hands find his face, or your lips meet his, he leans in instinctively, a quiet surrender to your touch that he doesn’t want to resist.

He gets uncharacteristically frustrated whenever you skip meals, the mere thought of it gnaws at him. Before you can even protest, a bento of your favorite dish appears on your desk, steam still rising, accompanied by a note in his neat handwriting. ‘Don’t skip meals. It’s bad for your health—Love, Jamil.’ The food is perfectly cooked, every detail carefully attended to, and that’s when you know that he made it himself. He can’t stand the thought of you neglecting yourself, and seeing you do so unsettles him more than he lets on. Each bite you take is a quiet relief for him, a reassurance that you’re cared for, nourished, and noticed in away only he seems to notice.

He’s always prepared in the most suspiciously convenient ways. Extra hair ties snug around his wrist, band-aids tucked neatly into his uniform pocket, and somehow your exact shade and brand of lip gloss ready on hand. And the moment you ask for any of it? He lights up, wearing that smug little grin. He hands it over with WAY too much confidence. “So..aren’t I like the best boyfriend or what?” he says rubbing the back his neck, voice tinted with conceit.

He is so hopelessly whipped for you it’s almost painful to witness. And funny thing is, he owns a shirt that says ‘I love my Girlfriend/Boyfriend’ in big, bold letters. The real kicker? He wears it with pride—chin up, chest out, not a hint of shame in sight. In his mind, it’s practically a badge of honor like damn how was I able to bag such a snack right?

Every time he wraps up a basketball game, he immediately turns to you with those big puppy eyes, practically begging for you to wipe his sweat like he’s so helpless. And when you scold him for it, he laughs leaning in with that smug grin on his face. “What? Am I not allowed to have my girlfriend/boyfriend pamper me?,” he knows how to exactly make you cave, and he uses it to his full advantage.

On topic of being Aces’ personal cheerleader, he absolutely melts when you tie his hair up for him especially when you sneak in those adorable little clips afterward. Who would’ve guessed a loudmouthed basketball player could look that good with pink tiny bow hair clips?

On nights when everything feels too quiet, when the space between you is heavy with the remnants of an argument—he can’t sit still. He paces his dorm room, heart pounding phone in hand, until he finally snaps and bolts straight to Ramshackle. The moment he sees you, he pulls you into his arms, holding on like he’s terrified you’ll fade away if he loosens his grip even a little. “I couldn’t just keep texting you,” he mutters against your shoulder, voice low and shaky. “It’d be lame. I don’t want you crying or anything, let’s talk it out in person.”

He’s an absolute love sick fool. Anytime he notices you have a bad day or it’s clear to him you seem down, he’s already waiting outside your door with a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand. And when you ask him why, he only shrugs and murmurs, “Just because…” He tries so hard to play it cool, but the rosy flush creeping across his cheeks gives him away completely as he shyly offers the bouquet to you.

When the air feels heavy and your body finally gives in, he’s right there beside you, worrying so intensely. He shows up armed with everything you could possibly need. Medicine, damp towels, a thermometer, and any comfort he can think of. He doesn’t care getting sick himself; the thought of you suffering is far worse for him. Rumor has it that once, when your fever was especially bad, he actually teared up. And when you teased him for it, he only muttered, “...It’s not funny—I just don’t want to lose you.”

He loves it when you coddle him, though his pride refuses to admit it out right. Every time you brush his cheek or run your fingers through his hair as he rests his head on your lap, he practically melts into your touch, leaning closer as if he could never get enough. And to be honest? he can’t ever get enough of you.

He has this habit of inserting you into every conversation, effortlessly dropping little compliments about you. “Hm, they do have remarkable talents, even without magic,” he might say, his tone casual but carrying just enough warmth for you to notice. And the moment someone dares point out how soft he gets when it comes to you; He stiffens immediately, voice sharp and defensive. “I am merely acknowledging their dexterity!” he insists. No matter how hard he tries, everyone can see just how fond he truly is of you.

He always insists on having study sessions with you (which are basically just study dates) but it never stays strictly academic for long. Every now and then, he gets a little too needy, glancing up from his notes with those puppy-dog eyes and asking for a kiss or two as a reward for doing well. And once you give him what he wants, he can’t stop there. His voice drops low, almost desperate, as he murmurs, “One more… please?” while his thumb lazily brush over your knuckles, and who are you to deny your boyfriend such a request?

You mention your favorite pastry and flowers once, and before you know it, they start appearing regularly—once a week, sometimes on your desk, sometimes waiting in your room at Ramshackle. Each time, a small note accompanies the treat, written in his impeccable, neat handwriting. It simply reads, ‘Take care of yourself.’ ‘I’m proud of you.’ It’s subtle, quiet, and it’s him—his way of saying ‘I love you’ without actually saying it.

He’s pacing whenever you’re sick. At first, he complains, voice firm but controlled, “How could you be so idiotic as to let yourself get sick—!?,” all while fussing over you, patting your forehead with a warm cloth and making sure you’re as comfortable as possible. After a while, when he thinks you’ve finally drifted off to sleep, he quietly pulls up a chair and sits beside your bed. Fingers gently entwined with yours, he murmurs softly, voice trembling with the barest hint of vulnerability, “...Take care of yourself, I don’t want to lose you.”

He’s always there to remind you to eat on time, and may the sevens help you if you skip a meal. “Surely you are not so foolish as to forgo a meal?” he asks, voice rising slightly before he quickly catches himself. His tone softens, eyes filled with genuine concern. “I’m just merely… worried,” he continues, voice gentle but firm. “Please, ensure you eat on time. Neglecting meals is detrimental to your health.” Beneath the scolding is a tenderness that’s unmistakable.

He’s a total show-off, especially when exams come around. He throws himself into studying, and the moment results come out and he’s among the top 10, he’s practically sprinting straight to you. Trying to act calm, he sips his afternoon tea with that smug grin of his and says, “I’m on top of the charts, per usual,” But then his eyes flick up at you, voice softening with a hint of desperation, “..Don’t I get my reward now?” And you know what that reward is—he’s expecting a kiss, and he doesn’t even try to hide how much he’s looking forward to it.

He comes off as oblivious, laid-back, almost careless to most people—but with you, it’s different. Somehow, he knows you better than you know yourself. The moment your expression shifts, he notices. He never pushes, never corners you into talking before you’re ready—instead, he offers quiet reminders that you’re allowed to feel, that you’re just as human as anyone else. He shows it in small, thoughtful ways, your favorite sweet snack slipped into your bag, a handmade gift left where you’ll find it later, a flower crown placed gently on your head with a soft smile. It’s never about fixing you—it’s about lifting you, even just a little, until the weight eases and you remember you’re not alone, that he’s there to carry the burden with you.

He’s helplessly, utterly smitten by you—so much so that it catches him off guard every time. On some occasions, you’re just hanging out in his room, doing nothing special at all, yet it feels like everything pauses anyway. Sunlight spills in through the windows, slow and golden, brushing over your face and softening your features until the whole room seems brighter simply because you’re in it. He finds himself staring before he even realizes he’s doing it, heart aching in that quiet, overwhelmed way that comes from loving someone too much to put into words. There’s a thought that drifts through him, unbidden and sincere—What did I ever do to deserve you?—and it settles there, heavy and reverent. Without thinking, he reaches for your hand, fingers threading with yours. He lifts it gently and presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand. It’s tender, almost shy, a small gesture carrying everything he can’t quite say aloud.

You’re always part of his life, woven into it in quiet, constant ways. A polaroid he once took of you stays tucked into his wallet, edges worn soft from being taken out more often than he’ll admit. A photo you gave him as a joke tucked behind his phone case, pressed flat and kept safe like it’s something precious. His lockscreen, his homescreen—both are you. Little reminders he carries everywhere, whether he’s aware of them or not. Even when you’re not physically there, you still are, lingering in the small details of his day. In every place he keeps what matters most, there you are, proof that loving you is something that simply exists as part of him.

He brags about you to anyone who will listen—no shame, no restraint, no attempt to play it cool. Random Scarabia students who didn’t ask? They’re hearing about you. Jamil, trapped in the conversation by proximity? Absolutely hearing about you. The other housewardens? Cornered, subjected, doomed. He’ll whip out a polaroid like it’s undeniable evidence, holding it up with bright eyes and an uncontainable grin. “Aren’t they just the cutest? Aha ha!” There’s something almost infectious about it—the way he talks about you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, like the world should know. To him, loving you isn’t something to keep quiet. It’s something worth announcing, time and time again.

He showers you with gifts constantly, with a kind of enthusiasm that makes it impossible to turn him down. A hairpin you once glanced at in the plaza, your favorite sweets tucked in a small box, or a bouquet of flowers he knows you love—he gives them freely without hesitation, without expecting anything in return. It’s never about showing off, never about status or wealth. Rich or not, he would do it anyway, because seeing you smile is enough. Every small gift is a quiet declaration, a way of saying, I noticed. I care. You matter.

He absolutely loves it when you take the lead, when you overwhelm him with kisses, pressing into him with an energy that’s equal parts playful and affectionate. There’s a sort of thrill in how you smother him, a warmth that makes his chest tighten and his heart stutter just a little. Even when your lipstick leaves bright, stubborn marks across his face, he refuses to erase them. “This is a declaration of your love for me,” he murmurs, voice soft but insistent, eyes wide and impossibly earnest like a helpless puppy. “Why would I ever wipe it off?” And really, who are you to deny him? Only then does he relent when Jamil scolds him, reluctantly wiping away the traces of you lingering on him.

No, that can’t be it. 

You squint your eyes at the figure that loomed over the pristine bed, abandoning the distant palpable throb of your swathed wounds (and the irritated voice of his that sounded so far away, probably scolding you) to place your interest in studying every contour and crevice of his face in lieu. 

Upon closer inspection, you can discern how his eyebrows are knitted together in some way along the lines of concern (yet vexation seems to triumph over it like a bloodied cloth), face scrunching up from that trademark frown he has over there. 

He looks pretty mad (he is fucking furious). 

“Are you even listening to a single word I am saying?” Riddle’s voice finally cuts through the static of your concussion, sharp enough to slice glass. He crosses his arms, the perfect, rigid posture of Heartslabyul’s housewarden contrasting violently with the absolute state of you—rebellious, blood-stained, and thoroughly thrashed from the brawl you definitely started. 

“You broke three school rules, disrupted the peace, and ended up bruised all over. Again, do you possess no concept of self-preservation?”

You merely offer him a lazy, loopy grin, entirely unbothered by the incoming lecture. You lean back into the pillows, wincing slightly as you reach a hand up to tap the tip of his scowling nose. “Love it when you talk dirty, Riddie. Keep going, I think my ears are finally stopped up with dried blood.”

Riddle’s face flushes a dangerous shade of crimson, but he doesn’t slap your hand away; instead, his fingers twitch, dropping his pin-straight stance just enough to carefully catch your wrist—avoiding the bruised knuckles with a gentleness he’d never admitted to. “You are an infuriating and reckless idiot.” 

His words come out clipped and sharp, but his thumb brushes unconsciously over the uninjured patch of skin near your wrist as if reassuring himself that you’re still here—not that well, but alive, nonetheless.

“You’re still grinning, I see,” he notes dryly, though the severity of his glare is somewhat undermined by the fact that he’s still cradling your wrist. “Is there something humorous about the fact that your cheek is currently swollen?” 

“Only that you’re looking at it like you want to kiss it better.” You rasp, the vibration of your own voice sending a dull throb through your jaw. You lean further into his touch, peering teasingly at him through your eyelashes.

Riddle freezes, the crimson colour on his cheeks instantly darkens, threatening to spread all the way to the tips of his ears. For a second, you think you’ve finally pushed him over the edge—that he’s going to cast his signature spell and let you deal with a collar on top of a concussion.

You beam in delight when he simply tightens his grip on you just a fraction, enough to anchor you.

“Do not be absurd,” he huffs, though his voice lacks the usual judicial bite. He momentarily looks away, pointedly staring at the wall beside your bed. “We are in an academic infirmary. Have you no shame? Truly, the impact to your head must have been more severe than the school nurse let on.”

For all his talk of rules and order, his composure is fraying at the edges, worn taut by the sight of your tattered uniform and the sight of your dressed wounds. He looks like he wants to scream and demand you follow the Queen’s laws of safety—but he also looks like he’s one more smartass comment away from collapsing into the chair beside you.

“If you do this again,” he whispers, leaning down until your foreheads almost touch—close enough that you can smell the faint, soothing scent of roses. “I will lock you in the rose maze until you forget what the outside world looks like. Do you understand me?”

“Sounds like a date,” you grin, tilting your head just enough for your forehead to lightly bump against his. It is probably the wrong response to make while the love of your life is actively threatening to imprison you for your own safety, but the way his eye twitches makes it entirely worthwhile.

“You are impossible,” he sighs, but he doesn’t move away.

II. RUGGIE BUCCHI

Q: WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU PUT AN IMMOVABLE OBJECT WITH A(N) (UN)STOPPABLE FORCE ?

“Are you dead?” 

You peel one eye open, your gaze instantly locking on the sight of Ruggie standing over the couch with a grocery bag in one hand and the most deeply unimpressed expression known to mankind. 

Hell, he looks like he has been run over by a Spelldrive team—his uniform is wrinkled, his hyena ears are sagging at a tragic angle, and he is practically dragging his feet as he walks to the center of the room.

From your position on the couch, you don’t even blink, perhaps too busy with the ecstasy of residing in the state of higher consciousness (read: being a chud lounging all day on the couch). Still, who can truly blame you for the godly setup you pulled? Wrapped around a blanket so thick it can survive an arctic winter, your phone propped up lazily against a pillow, playing a video you aren’t even really watching—who would deny themselves the gates of heaven?

“No,” you answer, your voice muffled by the soft blanket pulled up to your nose.

He narrows his eyes. “You haven’t moved over since I left.”

“I rolled over once.”

Ruggie let out his cute, little shishishi laugh at that, though it sounded incredibly dry and ran entirely on the fumes of his remaining energy. He drops the grocery bag onto the coffee table with a heavy plastic rustle, then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a mix of exasperated fondness and profound jealousy.

“Oh, wow, a whole roll,” he scoffs, his tail giving a weak, tired twitch against his leg. “Remind me to throw you a whole parade later. I just spent the last four hours running errands for half of Savanaclaw, hustling around campus, and hauling groceries. My feet feel like they’re about to fall off, and my partner is out here celebrating a complete body rotation.”

“A rotation is a rotation—at least I moved, no?” You counter, stretching like a cat as you do so, and burrow deeper into the blanket instead of showing even the slightest intention of getting up,

“Yeah, yeah, how productive of you,” Ruggie snorts, walking closer until he’s leaning over the back of the couch. His calloused fingers, still a little cool from the evening air outside, reach down to gently brush a strand of hair out of your face before playfully pinching your cheek.

“Come on, scoot over a little—or better yet, give your boyfriend a proper hello before you turn into a literal puddle.”

You don’t find the idea of scooting viable in your comfort zone—moving away requires a level of physical exertion you simply aren’t cleared for today. Instead, you decide to solve the problem using your own unique strategy.

Your hand shoots out from the plush safety of the blanket like a striking python, catching Ruggie completely off guard. Your fingers snag the collar of his rumpled vest, and with one heavy tug, you drag him down to your territory. 

Ruggie, in return, lets out a startled squawk as his center of gravity betrays him, tumbling face-first into the plush expanse of the couch right beside you, his noise burying straight into the soft pillows.

“Whoa—hey! What’s the big idea—” he scrambles to roll over, his sharp elbows digging into the cushions as his reflexes try to kick in so he can push himself up.

He doesn’t even have the chance to finish his words before you throw your arm haphazardly over his chest, effectively anchoring his scrawny frame to the spot, and drag the massive blanket right over his shoulders. Within seconds, you have him completely pinned in place with your body draping over his side.

“Stay,” you mumble, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck, effectively cutting off his escape route. “You’re too loud, Rugs… just sleep.”

Ruggie huffs, his fluffy tail flicking erratically against your shins as he tries to find room to squirm. “I can’t just sleep! I brought the snacks you wanted, and I gotta unload the rest of the groceries!”

He waits for your predictable retort, for you to whine about the snacks or drowsily command him to let the groceries wait for next time—yet, he finds that the snappy comeback never comes. Instead, the only response he gets is the rhythmic, deep rise and fall of your chest against his side, followed by a soft, warm puff of air against his collarbone.

He blinks, shifting his head as much as your vice-like grip allows, only to find your eyes tightly shut, your features entirely smoothed over by the sudden onset of deep sleep.

Ruggie lets out a quiet groan—did you seriously trap him here?

He tries to slowly wiggle his left arm free from your grasp, but the action only warrants your grip to tighten instantly, a sleepy and discontented whine vibrating in your throat as you subconsciously pull him closer. 

For a guy who prides himself on being the quickest and slickest beastman in Savanaclaw, he has found himself stuck and outmaneuvered by someone who hasn’t even touched solid ground since noon. To be frank, he can easily use a bit more force to slide out from under you, but as he looks down at your serene face, the remaining fight in his bones drains right out of his body.

Well, looks like the grocery bag on the table can wait—the snacks aren’t going anywhere, anyway. Ruggie can’t even bring himself to argue further—the couch is incredibly cozy, the heavy blanket is retaining every ounce of your shared body heat, and you smell like clean laundry and absolute comfort. 

With a soft and defeated chuckle, Ruggie lets his head sink back into the mountain of pillows. His twitching ears finally flatten against his messy hair, and his arms slowly creep around your waist, his fingers hooking into your shirt as his heavy eyelids threaten to flutter shut.

“Man… you’re dirty for this,” he whispers into the quiet room. “Total cheat code, I tell you…”

III. JAMIL VIPER

Q: WHAT BREWS UP WHEN “I LIVE MY LIFE LIKE A CARTOON SKIT” BECOMES ENTANGLED WITH “I AM FIVE STEPS AHEAD OF YOU” ?

There is one universal consensus that the universe inherently despises a cocky question, no matter how rhetorical it may be.

To ask “what could go wrong?” is to be bereft of sanity and court the unmitigated wrath of Murphy’s law. It is to take a lit match to the fuse of calamity and act surprised when the explosion arrives ahead of schedule. 

It does not care that you had good intentions, it does not care that your risk assessment was reasonably based on an objective metric, that the variables were accounted for, that the plan was solid, and the execution was clean, and everything should have been fine.

Should, in Murphy’s jurisdiction, is a foreign tongue, unfortunately. 

Fate and destiny (or whatever bureaucratic nightmare the universe uses to govern human life), though technically incongruent with each other, are cut from the same cloth—they are both equally fucking sadists.

Really, you should have known better than to ask yourself, “How hard could baking a cake be?”

The plan, in theory, should be simple—you would be surprising Jamil with a homemade birthday cake before midnight, because store-bought felt impersonal and you had seen enough cooking content online to have developed a deeply theoretical understanding of the process.

You have a recipe pulled up on your phone, and you have the entire Scarabia kitchen yourself, a rare luxury afforded by the fact that the rest of the dorm is fast asleep. 

Truly, no biggie at all.

So, you’re not truly sure where things went wrong for the first time tonight.

You stand in front of the counter, sleeves rolled up to your elbows with flour dusted on your cheeks, all the while you stare at a bowl of what can only be generously called “batter” if one is feeling charitable.

“...Okay,” you try to assure yourself. “That might be fine.”

It… definitely doesn’t look like the picture—if anything, it might be closer to a witch’s cauldron of agony, blasphemy, and everything raggedy—but that’s fine, heat should fix things up.

Allegedly.

Roughly forty minutes later, several things are true simultaneously:

First, the cake is out of the oven.

Second, the cake is not what anyone would describe as a cake. 

To be fair, it is cake-adjacent—structurally committed to the general concept, present in the correct pan, and the resemblance is there, somewhere. No matter if it has sunk in the middle, and that one edge is higher than the other, for reasons that are unknown to you. 

You tilt your head, then tilt it the other way—well, it certainly does not look any better from any other angle. 

The Scarabia kitchen also does not look any better from any other angle—dusted in flour from how you yanked the bag with too much enthusiasm (sending a fine white blizzard over the pristine marble counters, your clothes, and your hair), a pool of vanilla extract lies on the floor, and the oven mitts are slightly singed because you panicked when the timer went off.

“It’s fine,” you whisper to the empty room. “Nothing a bunch of frosting can’t hide.”

You are just about to slap a massive clump of icing directly into the center crater of the cake when the heavy oak doors of the kitchen open with a quiet keen of your impending doom.

Jamil cannot believe his fucking eyes—well, he can, but the sight in front of him leaves them wide with a rare, visceral mix of profound disbelief and immediate threat assessment. He had come to the kitchen for a glass of water; that was it—a simple and rational decision. 

He certainly had not anticipated having to neutralize an assassin that somehow sneaked into the dorm, a rogue arsonist, or Kalim having another one of his ideas.

Yet, looking at the scene before him, any of those options would have been vastly easier to imagine.

“...What,” he says slowly, “are you doing.”

You freeze mid-motion, spatula raised like a blunt weapon. The thick streak of frosting adorning your left cheek and the smudge of flour give you the appearance of a guilty ghost.

“...Nothing?” you offer weakly.

Jamil closes his eyes and takes a deep, grounding breath—it’s the kind that is usually reserved when Kalim suggests hosting an impromptu banquet for three hundred people on a Tuesday night.

When he opens them, the reality of the situation has not changed.

“Nothing?” He repeats, his voice flat and dangerously calm. He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe, his dark eyes sweeping across the disaster zone. 

“If this is ‘nothing’,” Jamil says, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “I would hate to see what you consider an actual incident. Are you attempting to bake, or did something detonate in my kitchen?”

“First of all, it’s our kitchen based on the dorm layout,” you counter, attempting to sound reasonable while holding a spatula dripping with buttercream. “Second of all, I was baking—it just… had a few hiccups.”

A few hiccups are just putting it lightly.

He sighs and walks forward, before stopping right next to you, looking down into the bowl of frosting.

“You didn’t even sift the powdered sugar, did you?” he asks, taking the spatula from your hand with a gentle but firm tug.

He looks at your face, his expression softening slightly. Before you can ask him what he’s doing, he reaches out, his thumb brushing against your cheek to wipe a stray streak of flour. His touch is warm against your skin, a stark contrast to his cool, composed demeanor.

“You have it in your hair too,” he murmurs, a faint and amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I leave you alone for a few hours, and you manage to turn the kitchen into a winter wonderland. What was the goal here anyway?”

“Well,” you mumble, suddenly looking at the flour-covered floor. “It’s almost midnight, and I wanted to make you a birthday cake from scratch. You always cook for everyone else, and I just wanted you to… receive something for once.”

Jamil blinks, his gaze flickering from your face to the unfortunate excuse of the cake on the counter, and then back to the frosting adorning your face. For a brief moment, he simply stares, caught somewhere between exasperation and something far softer. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, and when he finally lets out a sigh, it lacks any real irritation.

“You are unbelievable,” he says, but his tone is entirely laced with fondness. He rolls up his sweater’s sleeves, exposing his forearm with practiced ease before tying his hair up into a simple ponytail. “If you wanted to give me a heart attack for my birthday, you could have just said so. Come here.”

To your absolute delight, he accepts the challenge of the disaster cake.

This time, Jamil takes charge (thank the lord), but he doesn’t push you away from the station. Instead, he steadies and guides your hands, showing you how to properly whip the frosting to salvage the lumps. 

You think he might be explaining the steps slowly for you to understand, but you can only hear glimpses of it when his chest is pressed lightly against your back as he reaches over to guide your grip on the whisk. 

“Slow down,” he murmurs near your ear. “Whisk it with steady and consistent movements, like this.”

For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen is filled with the quiet rhythm of the two of you working in tandem. You manage to accidentally squirt a star of frosting on the back of his hand, and he retaliates by bopping a dot of chocolate onto the tip of your nose. It is messy and utterly uncoordinated on your part, and entirely uncharacteristic of Jamil’s usual perfectionism—but it’s perfect and familiar in every sense.

By the time the clock on the wall begins its chime, the cake has gone through a serious metamorphosis.

It is still fundamentally crooked, considering its resemblance to the leaning Tower of Pisa, but under Jamil’s expert guidance, the crater is filled with a rich chocolate center. The outside is coated in a smooth layer of buttercream, and you have aggressively showered the entire thing in gold star sprinkles to distract any remaining structural anomalies.

Jamil sets down the piping bag, wiping his hands on a towel. “...There.”

You immediately circle the cake, inspecting it from every conceivable angle. “Huh, it actually looks edible now.”

You steal a glance at the clock, a wide smile taking over your lips when it counts all the way to midnight.

“Hold on, don’t touch it yet,” you say quickly, a sudden burst of energy hitting you.

You turn your head and rummage through your pocket, your fingers finally closing around a small, slightly crumpled paper wrapper. With a triumphant little aha!, you pull out a slightly bent candle and a box of matches. 

Jamil raises an eyebrow, watching as you carefully straighten the candle and plant it right into the center of the chocolate crater, burying it deep enough to stand. When that’s done, you pull a match from the box and with one quick flick of the wrist, strike it against the side.

The small and warm flame dances between you, casting a golden glow against the lopsided cake and illuminating the sharp lines of Jamil’s face.

“Go, make a wish.” You smile, nudging the cake a little closer toward him.

He stays there for a moment (enjoying the profound quietness between you two, tucked away while the rest of the dorm sleeps), before he finally tilts his head down toward the lone flickering candle. 

With a soft exhale, he blows out the flame, leaving the two of you in the shadowed warmth of the kitchen. In the dark, the smile he sends your way is small and fleeting, but tender enough that you think you might remember it longer than the cake itself.

You suspect you’ll be thinking about that smile for a while.

“Happy birthday, Jamil.”

Uh-oh!  Your  plans  go  awry  right  in  the  midst  of  your  semester  when  the  headmage  insists  you  all  opt  for  joining  a   club.  You  want  to  lay  low,  but  your  grade  depends  on  your  extracurricular  activities,  so  poor  little  you  has  to  drag  yourself  out  of  your  spot  by  a  random,  murky  tree  and  comply. In  the  distance,  you  hear  Yuu  pick  the  basketball  club,  ever  so  happy  with  their  ragtag  bunch  of  companions. 

As  the  twisted  breeze  whistles  past  your  face,  you  find  yourself  at  a  stalemate:  wavering  between  the  clubs  labeled film studies  and  mountain  lovers;  the  only  clubs having  a  single  member.  You  vacillate  between  Vil  and  Jade;  and  from  what  you  can  remember,  neither  of  them  are  much  fun.  Though  it’s  clear  you  don’t  have  to  exert  yourself  over  it  much  longer,  because  when  a random  boy  bumps  by  you,  ink  blots  and  smudges  out  the  ways  of  the  mountains, already deciding your fate for you.

The meeting spot is somewhere behind somewhere, you keep your head down all the while, even as the silence flourishes into thickness, even as the man of your nightmares sits silently at the far end and grins that cathedral of sharp teeth, just shy of crushing your spirit.

“A member?” Suave as he is, you don’t miss the glister of disappointment in his eyes (expecting someone else, someone named Yuu). Jade is far prettier in person, but you don’t dwell on it for long. “How unexpected.”

He does not deign to ask your name, a reason for gratitude, and so your woebegone, mundane routine continues. You find his composed and charming exterior belies his passion for mushrooms beneath, and it becomes a habit of yours to put an end to him prating before he’s left unchecked forevermore. He rewards you with a cool chuckle, streaks of noctilucent teal slanting along with the tilt of his head. It’s all rehearsed, isn’t it? Jade, even when he acknowledges you, couldn’t be any more robotic.

“During my usual trek,” Jade explains, lashes dipping towards a pale cluster of such umbrella-shaped bodies. “I happened to come across these earlier. You’ll find they grow in peculiar places.”

“Everything here grows in peculiar places,” The forest scent floods your nose as you breathe in. “That’s kind of the brand.”

Jade’s smile does not falter. “How delightfully pragmatic.”

You reach out and poke one of the mushrooms. It yields under your finger, the texture oh-so real, even as it springs back. Vaguely recalling a bad ending recalling spores, you add: “Don’t eat that.”

“I hadn’t intended to,” he replies, and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise coursing through his mismatched gaze. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say the reaction was authentic. “Though I appreciate your concern.”

“It’s not concern,” You turn away, and Jade’s stare scorches the fabric of your clothes. Moisture-laden grass squelches beneath the accidentally aggressive tempo of your boots, and you hope he doesn’t store the sound away as emotion. “If you die, I have to find a new club.”

When your ears crane for the sound of his approaching footsteps, you get a soft chuckle in its stead.

“How reassuring. I shall endeavor to remain alive, then.”

And to think he still doesn’t know your name.

That’s how your days go, and that’s all they’ll be limited to. On Tuesday, you take a tour of Main Street again, and find the eel inexorably staring at the visage of the prefect, so vehemently absorbed in his thoughts as they chatter off to someone faceless. You move, and Jade does not, staying true to the script. You almost feel bad, until the bell rings and you’re forced to take another lesson of flight, listening to Vargas yammer and run his mouth. Strangely so, even the teacher is not privy to your name. How delightfully pragmatic. In turn, you find yourself foraking your duties to Jade’s mushroom lineage.

“Evading your club activities?” You flinch awake from your near nap, head lolling to the side. The familiar voice somehow chimes in even as you sink into the shadows. Jade must be passing by, you think, there’s no other reason he’d willingly approach you. “Dare I ask, are you perhaps displeased with me?”

“Nah.” You quirk a brow at him. Displeased? Of what? “Just needed a break.”

“Ah.” The corners of his lips unravel to reveal that pointy smile you hate. “That certainly eases my worries.”

Standing up, you shrug off your drowsiness. But just as you move — snip — your foot catches on the edge of the bench, and you’re sent headfirst into the ground.

“Careful,”

A firm hold seizes your arm. Bleary-eyed, you blink up at Jade in a daze, the sunlight pooling over the panes of his complexion. “I would hate for my only club member to injure themselves.”

“Your only club member would hate that too.”

A small incline of his head.

“How fortunate we are in our alignment.”

He releases you, the pressure ebbs away as his tall stature’s reduced to a tiny little speck in your vision.

On Wednesday, you willingly skip out on the club meeting and decide to hone your flight skills once more. You catch sight of the prefect sauntering off elsewhere, and trailing after them is one more anomaly. Surprisingly so, Jade does not approach you again, a confirmation that he had not indeed sought after you yesterday. It was more so a twist of fate, and you wonder if he’s already occupied in seeking the prefect out.

Nevertheless, you digress. You abide by your flight class regulations. Until, well... something bonks you over the head and you get a concussion.

“Ah—! Wait, wait, are you okay?!”

There’s a face above you now, bright and frantic and entirely too close. Sunlight halos his warm visage, and the red pools cast your own likeness back at you.

“I didn’t see you! You just kind of— appeared— no, that sounds like I’m blaming you, I’m not blaming you— are you hurt?!”

You blink once, wondering if you should offer formalities to your housewarden.

“…You hit me with a broom.”

“Yes! No— I mean— I did, but not on purpose!”

“…That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know!! I’m sorry!”

You soothe his worries, and he seems ever so desperate to call for Jamil and seek the aid of someone more well-versed in... well, whatever this is. He doesn’t know what to do, you tell yourself, and somehow, that’s how you find yourself back at Scarabia as Kalim accompanies you to the building, fussing over you and the growing bruise on your temple.

Kalim hands you tea, atypical of him even in the absence of his other companion. The padded seats have you all warm and comfortable, and soon enough, you find yourself lost in a one-sided conversation entirely (deprived of something as normal as this for a long, long time).

“You look kind of familiar,” He smiles and your shoulders loosen. “Have we met before?”

“You’re my housewarden.”

“Ohh! That’s why!” The touch of happiness is not scrubbed off his face, even at the tip of your bluntness. It’s a pretty smile, you think.

“Yup..”

“Yes!” He mimics. “I’m Kalim Al-Asim! Oh— wait, I should’ve started with that, sorry— what’s your name?”

You freeze.

A simple, harmless, entirely normal question, yet you find yourself prodding for its reason all the more.

“…Why?”

He blinks.

“Why…? Because I just hit you with a broom.”

“That’s not usually when people ask.”

“Well, I feel like I should know who I’m apologizing to! That’s just polite!”

‧₊˚ ┊ Do vampires exist in Twisted Wonderland? Maybe, maybe not. For the sake of this story, let's all pretend that vampires — like merfolk and fae — are simply another part of this magical world.

‧₊˚ ┊ Being a bat fae has often led Lilia to be mistaken for a vampire. Before meeting you some hundred odd years ago, he used to be quite offended by the comparison. I mean, him? A ravenous bloodsucker? Perish the thought! Admittedly, Lilia was quite ignorant in his youth — if you consider around five centuries old to be young — but then you walked into his life and changed his opinion on vampires for good!

‧₊˚ ┊ You first met Lilia in the years in between Malleus hatching and Silver being found. At the time, he was something of a lost soul, wandering the world in search of something he couldn't quite name. Thankfully, he found exactly what he was looking for in you!

‧₊˚ ┊ Your relationship was something of a whirlwind romance. Lilia was guarded at first. He'd grown accustomed to loving and losing and was cautious of ever having to endure such a thing again. Still, he fell for you hard and fast.

‧₊˚ ┊ The nature of your being, of course, brought Lilia pause in the beginning. You were used to it, the hesitation and thinly veiled fear, but unlike so many others that turned tail and ran once they realized what you were, Lilia stayed. He put aside his preconceived notions about vampires and got to know you for who you were and, by the Seven is he glad that he did.

‧₊˚ ┊ Within about a month of knowing one another, you moved into a quaint little cottage in Briar Valley. For a century or so, you lived in this domestic bliss. Malleus would drop by on occasion, having snuck out of the castle to come and visit Lilia. The first time the young prince met you he was enamored. He asked you a million questions about what it's like to be a vampire with the curious bluntness only a child could possess.

‧₊˚ ┊ Then came Silver, your sweet baby boy. Both you and Lilia took to parenting quite quickly, which was certainly helped by how easy of a baby your dear son was. You'd talked of having children before, but neither of you were in much of a rush. With Lilia being a fae and you a vampire, there were many years on this earth ahead of you, so neither of you saw the need to rush. The Fates, however, decided otherwise, and you couldn't be happier that they did.

‧₊˚ ┊ Silver knew the truth of your condition, so to speak, from a young age. Neither you nor Lilia saw the need to hide such things from your son, and, for the boy's part, he took it quite well. Silver, being the caring little thing he is, would always come running to you if he got a cut or pricked his finger to present you with his blood like it were a gift. You, of course, couldn't bring yourself to ever drink from him and after a few times of this occurring, he gave up on trying to keep you fed. Thankfully, Lilia was around to make sure you were getting all the blood you could ever need.

‧₊˚ ┊ It took quite a lot of convincing from Lilia to get you to drink from him, and even after years and years of doing so, you still felt a pang in your heart every time you sunk your teeth into his pretty porcelain skin. Even though he told you time and time again that he enjoyed being fed on, a part of you still felt bad about using him to satiate your hunger. Being the adoring partner he is, Lilia assures you every time you have any doubts that he is completely willing and happy to have you feed on him for the rest of eternity.

‧₊˚ ┊ Sebek, was very confused the first time he saw the puncture marks from where you'd bitten him. Lilia made no effort to hide them since both you and Sliver were accustomed to seeing them, but such things were not the norm for the young half-fae that found himself in your care. Because he thought you were harming his mentor, Sebek initially had a rather sour opinion of you.

‧₊˚ ┊ It wasn't as easy for you to bond with Sebek as it was with Silver. The process was slow and arduous, but eventually he came to hold you in rather high regard. I mean, if someone as strong and capable as Lilia loves you, then you must be a truly good person. Eventually, Sebek started to fight Silver for your favor and attention. Admittedly, it was quite cute, but you fear this little competition might have kicked off the longstanding rivalry between the two boys.

‧₊˚ ┊ Said rivalry lasted for many more years, from childhood all the way until they both went off to study at NRC. You were quite saddened when Lilia and Malleus left, but your heart broke when Silver — your sweet boy — went off to study with them a year later. Sebek followed one year after that, leaving you at home with an empty nest.

‧₊˚ ┊ Of course, your body would rush home to you during school breaks, but the time always felt far too fleeting. While you were proud of the men they were becoming, a part of you wanted them to stay young and reliant on you forever.

‧₊˚ ┊ Naturally, you began to pester Lilia for a child to occupy your lonely days without them. You weren't getting any younger and neither was your lovely partner, so it was now or never. The boys were constantly asking when you both would finally tie the knot — which you'd yet to do after all these centuries — and Silver made it no secret that he wanted to be a big brother.