hello my dudes

Being all sappy and lovey-dovey simply isn't in Jamil's nature. In fact, he finds it kinda cringe!

Over time, Jamil's heart has softened thanks to you. Actually, he had quite a bit to thank you for. Without you, he'd still be stuck in Kalim's shadow playing the loyal servant forever, but now — all because of you — he has the chance to shed that identity that held him back from so long and truly live up to his potential.

Jamil often gets in his own head, especially when it comes to you. He's the son of servants, a practical nobody with nothing but his magic to make up for it. He frequently wonders if he deserves you, if he can one day provide the life you deserve in the future. 

Everything Jamil does, he does with you in mind. It's stressful, but you're worth it. You took a chance on him, so he has to repay you somehow for all the shit he's put you through.

"Sometimes I wonder how I ever managed to live without you." The thought slips past Jamil's lips in the quiet of this night, reverberating off his walls and bouncing back at him as though he's the one being asked the question.

"I dunno, probably wouldn't even know I existed. It's not worth thinkin' about, though. Get some sleep, Jam." Your reply — slightly slurred in your half-asleep state — makes it impossible for Jamil to fall asleep after hearing it.

Jamil holds you closer that night, his mind racing as he starts at the ceiling for what feels like hours on end. A tight, twisting feeling makes it hard to breathe. Jamil can vividly imagine being stuck in his miserable, unfulfilling life if it weren't for you, but what scares him more is the thought that the only gets to hold you like this because of a complete accident.

You're not from this world. You're not meant to be here, and yet you've changed his life so much, all because of pure coincidence. It's there in the darkness of his room with you cuddled up by his side, that Jamil realizes just how lucky he is to have you.

Come morning, you find yourself constricted in Jamil's embrace. You feel like a prey animal wrapped up in a viper's grip, about to be eaten whole, but you couldn't be safer and more content here.

"Babe, I need you to let me go, I gotta pee." Your plea is met with a grumble and Jamil pulling you closer. He's usually up before dawn to help out around the Scarabia dorm, to you're awfully surprised to find him still in bed at this time.

"Stay just a little longer, please." Oh, your heart just about melts right then and there. Your sweet Jamil would rather be buried alive than beg so nicely for your affection and attention.

"I don't wanna piss in your bed, honey."

"Fine, but I want you right back here within two minutes."

Reluctantly, Jamil releases you from his hold. He starts counting down the moment you leave his bed. If you're not back in two minutes, then he's coming to get you himself. Thankfully, it doesn't take you long to use the bathroom, wash your hands, and return to your very needy boyfriend.

"What's got you all clingy this morning?" Jamil groans at the teasing tone of your voice. Still, he wraps you up in his arms and pulls you closer the moment you hit the mattress.

"I'm not clingy." You have to stifle a laugh as Jamil buried his face against the crook of your neck. He can tell you're having a grand ol' time at his expense, so he sleepily enacts his revenge by playfully biting the curve of your neck.

"Hmmm, yes you are. I'm not complaining, though. I'm guessing you wanna stay in bed all morning?" If you didn't know any better, you'd say Jamil started purring the moment your fingers started to thread through his silken hair.

"All day, preferably." The words come out muffled against your neck as Jamil continues to kiss and nose at the sensitive skin. You really have to catch him first thing in the morning more often.

"Your wish is my command."

"You're too good to me."

"Nuh uh."

"Yes huh."

"Whatever. Didn't anyone ever teach you not to argue with your partner?"

"You're the only one arguing right now. Just be quiet and let me hold you."

"Fine, fine. You're lucky I love you."

"Hmm, love you too."

Hopefully Scarabia can function properly without Jamil for the day, because not even the end of the world is gonna get him out of bed.

Jade has discovered many new and wonderful things since arriving on land, but none of them compare to you.

Love wants something Jade was never looking for when he and Floyd rose up from the deepest depths of the Coral Sea. Now that he has it, he's never letting it go. You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to be this eel's partner, so don't be surprised now that you his for life. In fact, you're already a Leech, you just don't even know it yet.

Jade is an introspective eel. Often, his mind drifts to thoughts of your future together — thoughts that are so terribly distracting, but never fail to make him giddy. It's a terrible feeling, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't addicted to it. To think, Jade would have never gotten to experience such delights if he had never left home!

"I don't know how I ever lived life without you, dear. Truly, my life has been changed for the better with you in it." Jade isn't typically so… sappy, not unless he wants something. You're used to your boyfriend's devious ways and honey-coated words, but this is definitely a step-up.

"I'm sure you'd be just fine without me, Jade. I bet you'd still be terrorizing the Coral Sea with Floyd if I weren't around. Actually, you wouldn't even know I exist if I never ended up in this world."

For once, Jade is rendered wordless. For a guy who always has a response for everything, he's surprisingly quiet after that response. 

Until now, Jade had never stopped to take the time and realize just how lucky he is to have you in his life. You're right, if you never stumbled into Twisted Wonderland, he wouldn't be blessed to experience you and your love. Somehow, this thought alone shakes the calm and collected facade that Jade is known for.

You know your dear boyfriend to be subtle with his affections, almost restrictive in a way. Usually, all you get is a few teasing touches and strategicly placed kisses that leave you clingy and wanting for more. Now it's Jade who's clinging. Oh, how the tables have turned.

These days you've found yourself wrapped up in Jade's lanky embrace more often than not. His kisses are sweeter, and his harsh bites have turned into playful nibbles. He's even started cooking food for you without his mushrooms in them! Honestly, you're sure some sort of weird spell or curse has been put on Jade, but he assures you otherwise.

"I promise you I have no ill intentions, darling. Do you really think so little of me?" You've never seen an eel try to make puppy eyes, but you suppose there's a first time for everything. 

"Well, forgive me for being suspicious! You're just not usually so… clingy, ya know?" 

"I am simply expressing my love in a more deliberate manner, my dear. If you prefer, I can return to my usual underhanded tactics. Say the word and I shall, but I must say I quite like lavishing you with my affections."

You respond not with words, but my pulling Jade into a harsh kiss, one that he — much to your shock and awe — answers tenderly. The roles really have been reversed, and you're not sure if you like it or not. 

Jade's usually all teeth and tongue, but now he kisses you with the delicacy of a butterfly. Thankfully, the uncharacteristically soft press of his lips against your own helps you to make up your mind. You can definitely get used to this side of Jade.

Maybe a clingy eel isn't so bad after all.

Vil Schoenheit is not a man who concerns himself with life's what-ifs, but that's changed since you stepped into his life.

Sweet domestic fantasies of a future with you invade Vil's mind more often than he cares to admit. He likes to imagine life with you after NRC; a simple existence where he can spoil you rotten, show you off on red carpets, fall asleep by your side, and wake up to your face each and every morning. 

You've touched Vil's life in a way that's changed him for the better. No longer does he call and vie for some nebulous idea of perfection. You taught Vil that he's perfect the way he is — flaws and all, and for that he's eternally grateful.

"Do you ever think about what life might have been like if we'd never met?" Vil has asked himself this very question countless times before posing it to you, and though he doesn't like to dwell on all of life's possibilities, this is one that seems to have taken permanent residence in his mind.

"Well, you probably would have never even known I'd existed, to be honest. I guess you'd have it pretty easy since you wouldn't have to fret over me all the time." The jovial tone of your reply threatens a frown from Vil, but he quickly reminds himself of all the wrinkles that may result, so instead he presses his lips into a thin line.

That's not exactly the response Vil was looking for, but the fact that your words ring true stirs up some unidentifiable feelings within him.

What would life be like without you? Would Vil still be bitter and vain, constantly hiding his obsessive pursuit of perfection behind a veneer of poise and elegance? He can't believe he was ever that person. You changed Vil irrevocably, and now he can't imagine living without you.

Vil Schoenheit is a man that values his personal freedom, so you can't help but wonder what's up when he suddenly starts hovering. You're used to him lingering and providing you with gentle encouragement and stern, but loving advice, but this is something else entirely. You're definitely not complaining, though.

"You're the one who wanted to watch this movie, Vil, the least you could do is pay attention." Vil lets out an offended huff, but snuggles closer to you despite his irritation. Your fairest queen is practically draped across you, with his head resting on your chest and one of his legs thrown over your hips, essentially trapping you in his loving embrace.

"I've seen this film a million times, love. You're far more interesting anyway." There's an almost lovesick quality to Vil's voice, something soft and sentimental that only slips out during these rare moments. It's quite cute seeing the typically infallible Vil all sweet and lovey-dovey.

"What's up with you? You've been all clingy lately. I'm not complaining, of course, I'm just curious about what brought this on."

"Can't a man be affectionate with his partner without there being a deeper reason behind it?"

You don't even bother to stop yourself from chuckling at Vil's petulant response. He's seriously too cute for his own good; especially when he buries his face against your chest, hiding among the silken fabric of the matching pajama set he bought you. Hopefully, Vil doesn't notice the frantic beating of your heart.

"You're cute when you’re clingy." Your words lose their teasing edge as you lean down to press a kiss against the top of Vil's head. The action earns a pleased hum from him as he squeezes you closer. 

"I'm not clingy, sweet potato. I'm simply a man in love, one who's realized just how lucky he is to have such a lovely partner by his side." Softly and wistfully, Vil leans onto capture your lips in a kiss. The words of love and affection might not come easily to him, but he can fully convey his devotion to you much easier this way. Neither you nor Vil will ever grow tired of exchanging your feelings through more physical means.

Leona Kingscholar

"Let’s break up."

The words land like a thunderclap in the space between you, sharp and final.

Leona’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but his face—his goddamn face—stays infuriatingly unreadable.

He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze cutting into you like a blade. "Fine, go."

That’s it. That’s all he says.

Something in your chest twists, but you’re too angry, too hurt, to unpack it. So you turn on your heel and storm out.

But the second you step into the hallway, realization slams into you like a freight train.

Your phone.

You left your stupid phone.

Gritting your teeth, you double back, pushing open the door, already bracing yourself for another round of whatever the hell this is.

But what you see when you step inside—

Your breath catches in your throat.

Leona is on his knees, hunched over, his hands tangled in his hair like he’s trying to rip himself apart. His whole body is trembling, muscles locked so tight it looks painful.

Panic surges through you. “Leona—?”

He snaps up at the sound of your voice, eyes wild, glassy with something too raw for him to hide. “Get the hell out,” he growls. But his voice—his always smooth, always unshakable voice—cracks.

And that’s all it takes. The anger, the stubbornness, the fight—gone.

“Shit—Leona, no, I—” You’re moving before you can think, dropping to your knees in front of him, hands reaching for his face. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

He jerks away at first, like he doesn’t want to be touched, but then—then he latches on to you.

His arms wrap around you, crushing, desperate. His face buries into your shoulder, breath shuddering against your skin.

“You crossed a line,” he rasps, voice thick with something broken. “You don’t get to say shit like that.”

Guilt slams into you so hard it leaves you breathless. “I—I know,” you whisper, hands running over his back, trying to soothe, trying to fix this. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just—”

You almost apologize, almost take all the blame, but then—

“…It’s my fault, too,” he murmurs. His grip tightens, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I run my damn mouth. I don’t—” A shaky exhale. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

Your chest aches.

“You are good at this,” you whisper. “You’re trying.”

A humorless chuckle leaves him. “Not hard enough.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, brushing his hair from his face. “Then we try together.”

Leona stares at you, eyes searching, burning with something unreadable. Then, slowly, finally, he nods.

And when he tugs you back into his arms, this time, you don’t let go.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Let’s break up."

The words fall into the space between you, sharp as a blade, final as a slammed door.

Azul freezes. His breath hitches, his fingers twitching like he’s just been struck. For a moment, he stands still—too still—his lips parting soundlessly as if trying to form a rebuttal that won’t come. Then, something shifts in his expression. His hands move behind his back, and when they return, a familiar, glowing parchment materializes between his fingers.

“Now, now,” he says, voice a shade too high, too careful. “Let’s not be rash. We did sign a contract, remember?”

You stare, your anger momentarily thrown off course. “What?”

“Our agreement,” he says swiftly. He rolls the parchment open with shaking fingers, forcing a strained smile onto his face. “When we first started dating, you signed—you willingly signed—a document stating that you were mine. That I was yours. For as long as we both should want.”

You recognize it immediately. The silly, handwritten contract he had drawn up as a joke back when you first got together, all those months ago. The one that had made you laugh when he’d made a show of rolling it out across the table, dipping a fountain pen in ink and asking you to sign it as if you were brokering the deal of a lifetime.

It had been ridiculous. Endearing. Him.

But now, he grips it like a lifeline.

You swallow. “Azul—”

He doesn’t hear you.

“If you’re unhappy, I’ll revise the terms,” he says, pacing now, voice climbing with every word. His hands are trembling, but he’s still holding the parchment, still clutching onto it like it’ll somehow stop this from happening. “A new contract. Fairer. More… accommodating. I will fix this. Just tell me—tell me what to change.”

You’ve seen Azul negotiate before. When he’s in control, he’s smooth, ruthless, unshakable. But this? This isn’t that.

This is him spiraling.

“Azul, stop.” You reach for him, but he steps back, shaking his head as if he’s afraid to listen.

“I— I can’t let this be the final clause,” he mutters, barely even speaking to you anymore, his mind racing ahead of him, already rewriting things, already trying to find a loophole in the heartbreak. “If I— If I just—”

You move before he can finish.

With both hands, you grab onto him, forcing him to still. He jerks in your grasp, but you don’t let go. Instead, you press your forehead to his, forcing him to breathe, to be here.

His breath shudders, the contract slipping from his fingers as his hands come up, grabbing onto your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You can’t leave like this,” he chokes out, voice raw, broken.

You tighten your grip. “I’m not leaving.”

His whole body trembles, and it guts you—this realization that he truly thought you would.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whisper. “Azul, I didn’t mean it.”

For a second, he stays silent. Then, with a shaky exhale, his arms tighten around you, crushing you to him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“I took it too far,” he murmurs. “I— I always take things too far.”

You shake your head, pressing closer. “We both did.”

He hesitates. “…Do you still love me?”

Your heart cracks.

“Of course I do,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “I always will.”

His expression crumples. His grip on you doesn’t loosen, not even for a second. And you don’t let go either—not until his shaking stops, not until the frantic hammering of his heart slows to something steady, something sure.

Not until he knows, without a doubt, that you’re still his.

Kalim Al-Asim

“Let’s break up.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to. Too final. Too cruel.

Kalim stops mid-sentence. The smile he’d been wearing just seconds ago falters, crumbling at the edges. His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just… stares. As if his brain refuses to process the words, as if saying them again might somehow make them make sense.

For the first time in what feels like forever, his endless, sunlit energy dims. His mouth opens, then closes, like he’s trying to process the words, like they don’t make sense in his world where everything is bright and full of love. But then, before you can take it back, he rushes forward.

“Wait—no, no, don’t—I’ll fix this,” he blurts out. “I’ll—I’ll buy you anything you want! A new house! A hundred houses! A vacation! No—wait, we’ll travel the world! I’ll—”

“I can fix this,” he insists, frantic now. “I will fix this.” “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen. A vacation! A house! A palace! You want to travel? I’ll take you anywhere. Everywhere. I’ll—”

“Kalim, stop.”

Your voice is raw, exhausted, but he keeps going, like if he just talks fast enough, if he just offers enough, you won’t slip through his fingers.

“I’ll— I’ll talk to Jamil! He’ll know what to do—he always knows what to do, right?” Kalim laughs, but it’s hollow, empty, shaking on his tongue. “Or maybe I just need to—”

“Kalim,” you snap. “That’s not—”

But then you see him.

Wide, glistening eyes, hands outstretched but trembling, hesitant, like he wants to pull you in but isn’t sure if he deserves to. His chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shaky, uneven. He looks lost.

And just like that, your anger crumbles.

You step forward, and he breaks.

His arms are around you in an instant, crushing, desperate. “Please, I can fix this, just—just tell me what to do,” he murmurs into your shoulder, holding you tight enough to make your ribs ache. “I’ll give you anything.”

“Kalim,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face. He leans into your touch immediately, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His skin is warm, but his cheeks are damp, and the sight of it makes your chest squeeze painfully.

“I don’t want your money,” you say softly. “I don’t want anything but you.”

His breath stutters, and for a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s still afraid to believe it. Then, his hands clutch at your back, his whole body sinking against yours.

“I took it too far,” he mumbles. “I—I wasn’t listening. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this.”

You shake your head. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, Kalim.”

His lips tremble, and then he lets out a breathy, almost nervous laugh. “So… does that mean we can still go on vacation?”

You huff a laugh, brushing away the last of his tears with your thumb. “Ask Jamil first.”

He giggles, warm and relieved, and squeezes you even tighter. “You ask him,” he teases. “He likes you better.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not when Kalim is holding you like this—like he’s afraid to ever let go again.

Vil Schoenheit

“Let’s break up.”

The words fall, sharp and deliberate, hanging in the space between you like shattered glass.

Vil’s eyes narrow immediately, his expression hardening into something cold—something dangerous. “Excuse me?”

You cross your arms, chin tilted up defiantly. You’re both still seething from the argument, and you shouldn’t have said it, but you were mad, and it came out. You almost take it back, almost soften, but then Vil lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Oh, how fitting,” he sneers, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. “Was it fun?” His voice drips venom, but his hands are curled into fists at his sides. “Did you enjoy making me fall? Enjoy making me love you, only to take it back the moment it became inconvenient?”

Your jaw clenches. “That’s not what this is—”

“I never should have trusted you.” His voice wavers just slightly, but his glare is unwavering, eyes burning with something wounded. “I never should have given you my heart.”

That—that stings.

Anger flares up again, rekindled by the sharpness of his words. “Oh, so now I’m just some villain in your grand tragedy?” You scoff, turning on your heel. “Sevens, Vil, you're so damn dramatic—”

But then you see him.

One hand gripping the edge of his dresser, knuckles white, the other trembling at his side. His perfectly controlled posture just a little too stiff, his lips pressed together a little too hard. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Your heart clenches.

You step forward. “Vil—”

His head snaps up. “Leave,” he says, voice tight. “If you meant it, go. I don’t like to waste my time.”

It’s not a challenge. It’s a plea.

You hesitate for less than a second before closing the distance between you, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, his breath unsteady beneath your touch. He doesn’t move—doesn’t pull away—but his lashes flutter, as if fighting against something breaking inside him.

“…I didn’t mean it,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

Vil lets out a breath, shaky and vulnerable, and then suddenly you’re the one being pulled in—his arms wrapping around you too tightly, holding you too close. His grip is unrelenting, crushing, as if trying to fuse you to him so you can’t take it back, so you can’t slip away.

“You are never allowed to say that again,” he whispers, voice raw against your ear. “Not even as a joke. Not even in passing. You are not even allowed to think it.”

Your chest aches at the desperation in his voice. You pull back just enough to see his face, and your stomach twists at the sight of his tears—silent, barely-there, but real.

You reach up, wiping them away with careful fingers. Then, with a small, wry smile, you murmur, “Yes, my queen.”

Vil exhales a tearful, exasperated laugh, shaking his head before pulling you back into his arms.

Idia Shroud

“Let’s break up.”

You say it and turn away, arms crossed, heart pounding. You’re still angry—frustrated from the argument, from everything, from how hard it feels to get through to him sometimes. Maybe you don’t even mean it, maybe you just want him to react, to do something other than shutting down like he always does.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches, and unease curls in your stomach. You swallow, forcing yourself to look back at him—at Idia.

He looks wrecked.

His mouth opens, then closes. His fingers twitch at his sides, knuckles going white. His hair, always shifting between embers and flames, has dimmed—flickering in weak, uneven pulses. When he finally speaks, it’s barely a whisper.

“…Okay.”

Something inside you snaps.

Okay? That’s it?

A sharp, ugly lump lodges in your throat. You suddenly feel worse, so much worse, because—are you not even worth a fight? Did he really give up on you that easily?

“Are you serious?” Your voice shakes, half furious, half devastated. “That’s all you have to say?”

Idia doesn’t respond. His lips are pressed together, and his hands are trembling now, shaking so badly that his arms are practically vibrating. His breathing is off—short, shallow inhales, his shoulders jerking with every breath.

And then it gets worse.

His breath stutters, chest rising too quickly—his entire body curling in on itself as he gasps sharply, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. He grips his hoodie, knuckles pale, hair flickering erratically between dim embers and sudden, crackling blue flames.

Your anger vanishes in an instant.

“Idia—Idia, breathe—”

You rush forward, hands finding his arms, steadying him. He flinches at first, as if expecting you to push him away, but you hold firm, guiding him, grounding him. “Slow down—okay? Just breathe with me.” You exaggerate your own breaths, steady and deep, trying to coax him into following.

It takes a few tries, but eventually, his breathing slows.

“…Sorry,” he croaks, voice hoarse. His head hangs low, hair covering his eyes. “I—I get it. It makes sense. I knew this would happen eventually.”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

“I mean… of course you’d wanna leave.” He lets out a hollow, broken laugh. “I’m—I'm just me. A total shut-in, a socially inept loser—ugh, why am I even saying this, you already know—”

“Idia.” Your voice wobbles, but your grip tightens. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

He gives another weak laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m not blind. I know I’m not—”

You don’t even think. You just move—your fist making weak contact with his arm. Not hard, not meant to hurt, just enough to snap him out of it.

Idia blinks. “Did you just—”

“Shut up.” Your voice shakes as you glare at him. “I’m not leaving. I didn’t mean it.”

His lips part, but no words come out. His eyes are wide, uncertain—still scared.

You exhale shakily before throwing your arms around him, hugging him tight. For a second, he’s stiff, frozen in shock. But then his entire frame shudders, and he clutches onto you like a lifeline—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice barely there.

“Me too,” you murmur, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

Neither of you move for a long time. You just stay, holding each other, feeling the erratic beat of his heart slowly, slowly settle.

Malleus Draconia

"Let's break up."

The moment the words leave your lips, the world shudders.

A crack of thunder splits the sky, raw and angry, rattling the very foundations of the room. Candles flicker and die, plunging the space into restless shadows. The temperature drops—not a slow, creeping cold, but an unnatural, suffocating chill that makes your breath turn to mist.

Malleus stares at you.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks truly lost.

“…What?”

His voice is barely a whisper, yet it carries more weight than the storm raging outside.

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists at his expression. “If we’re just going to keep fighting like this, maybe we should just break up.”

The moment the words settle between you, the room cracks.

A mirror splinters violently across the wall, fissures creeping like veins of frost. The chandelier swings wildly overhead, and outside, the night erupts with restless lightning, green fire dancing along the sky.

“No.”

Malleus breathes the word like an incantation, as if sheer denial can rewrite reality. His magic howls, thick with something frantic, something dangerous.

You clench your fists, holding your ground even as the weight of his magic presses against your skin. “You don’t get to just say no, Malleus.”

He takes a step forward.

Then another.

His pupils are blown wide, glowing emerald rings burning with raw, uncontained emotion. His fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for you or cling to something that’s already slipping through his grasp.

And then—

He falls to his knees.

Not gracefully. Not like a prince.

He drops.

His hands catch the fabric of your clothes, gripping desperately, his breath ragged as he looks up at you—not as the heir of the Valley, not as a dragon fae feared by the world, but as a man who is terrified.

“Stay,” he pleads. “Please, stay.”

Your heart clenches so painfully you can barely breathe.

Malleus Draconia, the untouchable, the immortal, the feared—kneeling before you, holding onto you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I will fix it,” he promises, voice shaking, magic crackling like a living thing. “I will change. I will be better. Just—don’t go. Don’t say that again.”

His grip tightens as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish between one breath and the next. His hands are trembling, his knuckles white.

“I cannot lose you,” he chokes out, his forehead pressing against your stomach, his body curling inward like he’s trying to make himself small. “Not like this. Not over something so stupid. If I have wronged you, tell me how to atone. If I have hurt you, tell me how to make it right.”

His voice breaks.

“Tell me how to keep you.”

Your knees buckle. You sink down to his level, hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing against the feverish glow of his cheeks. His breath hitches under your touch, green eyes wide and wet.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry, I—I took it too far.”

Malleus exhales shakily, leaning into your touch like it’s the only warmth in the world.

“Will you stay?” he asks, his voice so raw, so small.

You nod.

Something inside him cracks. A full-body shudder wracks through him, and then he’s pulling you in—burying himself in your embrace, arms locking around you in a hold so desperate it almost hurts. His forehead presses against your shoulder, his breath unsteady, his magic still trembling at the edges.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words nearly breaking. “More than you could ever know.”

You close your eyes, holding him just as tightly.

“I love you too.”

And as the storm outside begins to quiet, so too does the storm inside him.

Finals season is close, too close, and the stress piled up over the entire year, stacking arguments, controlled and uncontrolled magic, fights, exams, and practical tests on top of each other, has left everyone’s brains practically melted. The unbirthday party of this day, or rather, this night, pushes aside the comfort zone and Riddle’s beloved (though often questioned) rules and simply… lets itself be felt. Even Crowley pretends not to notice that Heartslabyul is far too alive and awake for this hour, that several dorm mirrors glow constantly as students come and go, drifting in and out of the Queen of Hearts’ dorm.

Candles float above the rose gardens and over your head, music makes the walls tremble, and a dessert table stands proud enough to embarrass most royal banquets, most of the sweets provided by Trey and the Octavinelle staff.

The whole place vibrates with that untamable energy, the complete opposite of what once was the most structured and rigid dorm on campus. Now the aura of the lounge and the rose maze hums faintly dangerous, the kind of thing that happens when you gather a crowd of magically inclined, hormone-fueled students buzzing on caffeine and tell them, “Have fun!... responsibly, please.”

You’re not sure who decided that “responsibly” included spiking the punch, but judging by how Ace guards the bowl like a dragon protecting its treasure, wearing a suspiciously smug grin he shares with Cater, it’s no longer just fruit juice and sugar in there.

“Family tradition,” Ace whispers, pouring the contents of a flask into the bowl. Judging by the amber liquid with bright undertones, it’s probably not something that should be on campus.

Deuce trails behind him, muttering something about decency and morning-after regret, while the rest of the crowd already lines up for a taste. Even Jade watches the punch as if he’s about to inspect it in a laboratory. Meanwhile, Kalim dumps, again, maybe for the second or third time? A bag full of sweets and chocolates straight from his homeland onto the dessert table because, in his words, “everything tastes better when chaos is shared.”

You know you should pace yourself, but there’s something about the way the punch glows under the colored lights, mingling with the scent of roses from the maze, the rich, indescribable fillings of chocolates from the Scalding Sands, and the way the air hums with anticipation that makes you feel euphoric just by breathing. One glass becomes two, then three. You lose count of how many times you laugh until your sides ache, or how many times you feel an arm draped around your shoulders.

You see Floyd dragging people into a conga line that ends with someone accidentally knocking over a lamp and Riddle shouting at the next person in sight. Jade and Azul pretend to “sample” desserts, only to linger near the table and overhear the arguments and troubles of potential new unfortunate souls.

A hand grabs your wrist to pull you onto the improvised dance floor: was it Epel? Or maybe it was Ruggie before he taught you that wild Savanaclaw-style drinking song?

You remember Cater snapping an immeasurable amount of photos, surely for Magicam; or perhaps, in the darker corner of your mind, to stockpile enough blackmail material to make even Azul blush.

From the lounge window, you can see Lilia floating over the rose bushes, plucking roses to assemble a suspiciously beautiful bouquet, mixing red and white. A moment later, he sweeps inside and scatters them everywhere, like confetti made of nature itself.

Everything is too bright, too warm, spinning slightly off-axis. Someone brushes your rebellious hair away from your face, their thumb lingering a second too long against your cheek. You feel a body press behind you, bold hands resting on your hips, the brush of lips against your ear whispering words that make your heart race. The party fades into the background, dissolving into murmurs as you slip away with that person down a dim hallway, stumbling over your own feet, more intoxicated by touch than by alcohol.

The small details stay on your mind and on your skin: a door closing behind you, laughter turning into something softer, slower, more dangerous. The taste of something sweet on your lips before being coaxed onto your tongue; the sensation of arms boxing you in, a faint scratch trailing down your back, the way your body arches toward that contact almost automatically. A gasp, a shiver, the delicious ache of desire.

The night dissolves into fragmented images: a moan—yours or theirs—muffled laughter against your collarbone, cool air on overheated skin, need melting into satisfaction. Words are whispered, some too soft to understand, others too bold to repeat in the daylight.

And then… nothing.

Morning arrives with a pounding headache. You can’t even open your eyes because the sun—so warm and ever-present, usually there to comfort and burn in equal measure—is now your natural enemy. Your body feels heavy and sore in places you didn’t even know existed, and trying to move is like trying to shift a boulder. Your legs are jelly, and there’s a sweet, buzzing sensation between them.

╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌

Riddle

It’s the annoying knocking against the door that wakes you, not the pounding in your head, although that is definitely there, and with every knock, knock, knock the pain increases.

You don’t want to get out of bed, but the more the knocking continues, the more your head throbs. You groan in frustration and roll over in bed, every muscle sore, your skin tingling from somewhere deep in your bones. You force yourself to get up, eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight.

Your feet touch the cold, hard floor and, with the muscle memory of a half-asleep zombie, you shuffle forward. You slam your shin hard against a heavy piece of furniture...a piece you don’t remember being there. “Fuck!” you hiss, hopping forward, and your foot lands on something soft and suspiciously like clothing.

…weird.

You keep walking with your eyes closed and reach the door still wrapped in a fog of sleep. You try to find the doorknob, which you’ve opened thousands of times in a dreamlike state, except today it’s strangely difficult to locate. The knocking continues.

You open the door, squinting, and find Trey standing there, perplexed, his eyes trailing down your body before quickly snapping upward toward the ceiling.

Why? Simple… because you’re naked from head to toe.

Wait… this isn’t your dorm, this isn’t your furniture, this isn’t your door…

You’re in one of Heartslabyul’s many gravity-defying hallways.

You look down and notice your nudity and do what any rational person would do… you shriek and slam the door in his face. You step back, tripping over a bundle of red and white clothing scattered together with pieces of your uniform.

The memories hit you like a bucket of cold water: Riddle’s cheeks slightly flushed, already affected by the punch, his lips swollen from kissing you so much, stammering your name in the middle of the crowd.

His nervous, sweaty hands when you led him upstairs to his room during the party, both of you slipping away from the others’ vulture-like gazes. Ace shouting in the background that Riddle was finally going to “get his dick wet” The forbidden thrill when he whispered as you reached his room, “This breaks several rules…” only to pull you closer and kiss you with intensity and nerves.

The way his fingers trembled when he touched you, soft but urgent, as if memorizing every curve, as if you were a new book he was desperate to dive into, his breathing shaky as he undressed you.

The scent of freshly cut roses and strawberries on his skin when you leaned down to kiss him again and again and again, trailing from his sweet, soft lips to his neck, collarbone, and chest.

His eyes widening when you straddled him, brushing your wet folds against his half-hard cock. The back-and-forth motion, rubbing your clit against him, letting your slick coat him and grow harder against you.

“Let me take care of you, Riddle,” you whispered before taking his cock in your hand and guiding it to your entrance, sliding down slowly; his body rigid, unsure where to place his hands, losing control as pleasure pushed him beyond every rule and ounce of self-control.

You remember taking his hands in yours and placing them on your breasts, teaching him how to touch you, massage you, even pinch your nipples. Your movements starting slow, but with every moan, yours and Riddle’s, turning into desperate bounces, feeling your spongy walls tighten around him more and more.

Fragments of his choked voice, nearly pleading, “Don’t stop… don’t… please, don’t stop,” his tone thick with desire and a hint of shame, biting his lips when you moaned too loudly, as if afraid of being heard but unable to ask you to quiet down. Your clit constantly rubbing against his pelvis, making you see stars as you cum around him with Riddle’s name on your lips.

His hands, now free from yours, still uncertainly massaging one breast while the other gripped your thigh, moving you harder and more desperately; his cock finishing inside you after a few more thrusts, filling you with him. “No… I’m not finished with you,” his words dissolving into a soft groan before flipping you onto your back and hovering above you.

His desperate mouth seeking yours, sloppy, clumsy kisses, his body pressed against yours as he started another round, messier, letting his semen spill from your cunt and soak his sheets.

The memory of his face afterward, undone and exhausted, eyes shining with satisfaction; his soft voice whispering against your hair, “I’ve never… felt something so delicious,” gently stroking your cheek with fingers still damp with your slick.

Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest.

Fuck… FUCK!

On the bed, covering his “indecencies,” sits Riddle, hair messy, mouth hanging open as if it might hit the floor. His eyes trail over your body, his face turning red, pale for a second, then red again… much redder.

“You just… opened the door? Like that?” His face matches his hair, arguably even redder.

He clutches the sheets, pulling them up to his chin with both hands, eyes now fixed on the ceiling, on his books, anywhere but your body out of mortification.

You, meanwhile, cover your face with both hands. “I just exposed myself in front of Trey!!… oh fucking hell.”

A muffled sound escapes Riddle’s lips… followed by a small laugh, very unlike him. You peek through your fingers; his blush spreads down his neck, his shoulders trembling slightly with laughter.

He seems… lighter… a little shy.

“You’re not… upset? Oh… well, upset might not be the right word.” If you start rambling, this won’t end well. “…What I mean is… did we do something you’re not happy or comfortable with?”

Please say no, please say no, please!!!

“Upset? No… I don’t think so.” Riddle is so shy he can barely meet your eyes. “Embarrassed, yes. Very… too much.” There’s a small pause that eats at you from the inside. “But I don’t regret anything.”

OH THANK SEVENS!!!

A wave of warmth rushes through you. Despite the humiliation, the chaos, there’s something strangely thrilling about waking up beside Riddle, seeing the strict prefect undone, hair messy, eyes soft just for you. You climb back into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin and settling beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, feeling your pulse pounding in your throat.

“We’ll have to face Trey at some point.”

Riddle smiles and runs a hand over your hip.

“Yes, but perhaps… not yet.”

Floyd

Your head is a mess of fog and sharp pain, your body heavy with sweet exhaustion and tingling vibrations. You’re tangled in something soft; sheets, maybe. All you know is that you’re far too warm and every muscle feels deliciously worn out.

You try to move, but your legs are firmly trapped, wrapped and knotted in the sheets as if you’d fought a kraken in your sleep. You struggle to free yourself, throwing an arm toward the edge of the bed for support. You grab something solid and pull… and suddenly you’re on the floor.

The world spins, your shoulder slams against the ground, and a dead weight collapses on top of you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, too stunned to process the impact and the weight pressing down. A rough, sleepy, almost dangerous, growl reaches your ears, and you freeze. A hand plants itself beside your head, warm breath brushing your cheek.

Floyd is sprawled on top of you, one knee between your thighs, heavy and naked… oh sevens, he’s really naked.

And he is very, very close.

His eyes are half-lidded, sharp teeth peeking through a slowly spreading, wicked smile. “Heeey ~ Shrimpy~”

His husky voice sends a current down your spine, igniting places it shouldn’t. He shifts, pressing you harder into the floor, and you glance down to where his knee presses, realizing you’re just as naked as he is.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

Floyd is on top of me. Floyd is naked. I’M GOING TO DIE.

SHIT!!!

“Hehe, you’re so cute when you’re scared.”

He leans down, rubbing his nose against your cheek, his hair falling over your face. You try to squirm, the sheets still tangled around your legs. “Floyd, get off—”

“Nah, you should’ve stayed in bed, Shrimpy~”

You’re painfully aware of every place your bodies touch: his hot skin, his muscles shifting as he stretches a little more over you, the sweet scent still lingering on his lips.

Your mind spins as blurry, burning memories resurface: Floyd dragging you away from the chaos of the party, his arm over your shoulders. “The party’s boring, let’s make our own.”

His kisses tasting like peppered chocolate, his teeth biting until you gasped, his laughter vibrating as he pushed you against the wall, taking you farther and farther and farther until your body ended up shoved toward a pool.

You resurfaced, gasping for air; Floyd diving in after you, his greedy, skilled hands catching you underwater, leaving you unable to move. His teeth sinking into your thigh, making you moan and writhe.

Floyd not stopping at one bite, peeling your soaked clothes from your skin with clumsy speed; every exposed patch of skin marked: inner thighs, collarbone, lower back, the curves of your ass. “You like it when I bite you, huh? Look at how your body trembles”

You remember his fingers finding your clit easily, his legs spreading yours, keeping you open for him. His lips, teeth, and tongue playing with your neck, sometimes kissing your pulse, other times biting until you whimpered.

The water and reflected light leaving your breasts on display, capturing your nipples in his mouth while he slid two fingers inside your cunt; just as you were about to cum, he stopped you with a hand at your throat while his fingers kept thrusting hard and fast. “Not yet, Shrimpy. I want to see you cry for it”

Floyd’s hips slamming into you the second he penetrated you, not letting you adjust properly. Sometimes he thrust so hard water splashed everywhere, other times he’d stop abruptly just to watch you, toying with your bruised nipples until you begged. “Floyd! Please… k-keep going!”

“Ask me better, Shrimpy, or I’ll twist your nipples until you cum from overstimulation,” resuming his movements painfully slow until tears ran down your face, mixing with the pool water; your pleas growing louder, shouting dirtier obscenities without shame.

“Please, please! Floyd!! Faster, I need you to move your cock faster! Deeper—play with my nipples if you want, but MOVE!” your hips grinding with his, trying to rub your clit against him; his hands gripping your hips hard and moving you with incredible strength.

The orgasm hitting like a blow, trembling from sheer excess; him not stopping, riding the wave with you, spreading your legs wider and thrusting deeper, his fingers playing with your clit before slipping two—maybe three—inside your wet cunt.

At some point in the night, ending up in his room, droplets of water trailing down your body while Floyd made you sit on him, lifting your hips easily, squeezing your thighs, your ass, smacking it; making you bounce on his cock at his rhythm, occasionally changing speed, laughing if you cried or moaned too loudly. “Does it hurt or do you like it, my little Shrimpy? I won’t spill inside until I break you.”

Back in the present, his smile sharpens even more—if that’s possible—while he studies your face from above. “You look dizzy, little Shrimpy.”

You squirm, half terrified, half something entirely different while his knee remains between your legs. You try to slide away across the floor, but Floyd won’t have it; he pins your hands on either side of your head, sliding his knee higher until it rests against your wet lips.

“You’re very tasty, hehe~ So messy, so mine… maybe we should stay like this all day.”

Your heart pounds, adrenaline buzzing, but your body shudders at his words, your wetness dampening his leg.

“Floyd…”

“Aww, don’t get shy now. Let me hear you beg again…”

Vil

You wake wrapped in a cocoon of silk, the light filtering in soft and golden through elegant curtains that definitely do not belong to your dorm room. There’s a sweet scent, like wild violets and expensive perfume… very expensive. Everything feels like a dream—the sheets perfectly folded, the sunlight gleaming over the wood, the sound of someone humming in the distance, a steady, low melody that is both comforting and majestic.

And the moment you move, that perfection collapses, because your entire body aches in the most deliciously possible… and mortifying way.

You shift a little more, settling into those noticeably expensive and sinfully soft sheets, and notice warm skin against other warm skin… yours; fingers tracing your hip and sliding up along your sides, the sensation relaxing yet faintly ticklish.

You open one eye and Vil gives you the softest smile you’ve ever seen him offer anyone. Radiant even in the morning, his hair spread across the pillow like a golden cloud, every perfect inch of him serene beneath the pleasant (and detestable to the eyes) sunlight.

Your heart nearly stops… how did a mere mortal like you achieve this? How did you end up in Vil Schoenheit’s bed?

“Good morning, Liebling.” Can someone’s voice truly sound velvety at this hour? Apparently his can. “Did you sleep well?”

You try to speak, but all that escapes your dry, over-kissed lips is an embarrassed sound. His, meanwhile, remain immaculate, curving further into a private smile just for you. He sits up and the sheets fall enough to gift you the sight of the delicate lines of his chest and shoulders.

Even after a wild party, he looks almost untouched, glowing under the soft light. You, on the other hand, feel disheveled, painfully aware of your state: smeared makeup, tangled hair, and a bewildered expression.

Vil brushes a strand from your face. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, darling. In fact…” He leans closer, stroking your cheek with his fingertips. “You’re dazzling like this… honest, real.”

Your cheeks burn as fragments of the previous night spiral back: his long, slender hands guiding you away from the chaos into a secluded room, the world fading as he tucked a rebellious strand behind your ear. “May I?” His kiss, light at first like the touch of a feather, then deepening until you melted in his arms.

You remember his skilled hands exploring every part of you, undoing button after button, exposing you freely before him. His fingers making you feel beautiful and desired, even as you stammered and trembled beneath their heat. His lips mapping every inch of revealed skin, describing what he found beautiful in each place.

The intensity of his focus, his eyes locked on yours while he drew every sound from your lips, making you feel like the center of his universe; his tongue on your neck, descending to your chest, tracing you with slow, controlled movements, his hand on your throat to keep you still as he circled a nipple with his tongue and captured it between his lips.

“Don’t move… I want to see you perfect, even undone,” his authoritative voice in a soft whisper as he moved lower and lower, across your stomach and abdomen until reaching your obscenely wet cunt, giving it a lick that left his mouth slick and stained.

The way he held your hips while thrusting into you from behind, in front of his massive mirror. You felt his cock sliding into you again and again and again, his hips striking your ass, admiring how it bounced against him. One hand pinning both of yours behind your back, the other gripping your hair, pulling your head back so you could see yourself in the reflection.

Your moans filling the room as he began to fuck you harder, your body pressed tighter to the mirror, your breasts bouncing with each thrust, barely holding yourself upright, tears filling your eyes as you met his gaze in the glass.

The ease with which he turned you, lifting one leg over his hip, pressing your ass against the mirror—surely leaving a sweat mark—and pushing harder and deeper. “You are a beautiful mess.”

The way he denied you over and over, promising that when he finally allowed you at the end of the night it would be the strongest, most powerful thing you’d ever feel. And it was; one final burst and the orgasm exploded between you, making you tremble from head to toe for several seconds while you felt him finish inside your tight walls, drawing even more spasms from you.

You remember how Vil cleaned you with care, combing your hair with his fingers. “You are the most beautiful of all sins.”

Intense doesn’t even come close to describing the blush that so beautifully paints not only your cheeks but your entire body.

“Are you regretting it?” The softness of the question strikes your heart like an arrow, squeezing so tightly it almost hurts.

“No! No, no… not at all.”

Ahhhh, how could anyone regret sharing sheets with Vil?

“It’s just that… how? Why?” You don’t finish the sentence, but the questions linger: how did you manage this? Why you among so many other marvels?

Vil lifts your chin with his finger and makes you look at him, no trace of harshness in his expression, only tenderness. “Is it so hard to believe that I desired you as well?”

Direct and sincere.

Vil leans in and kisses your lips slowly and sensually, then your cheeks and your bare shoulders. He draws you closer, his hand resting on your lower back, his perfume flooding your senses once more.

Wild violets, mixed with chocolate, sweat, and sex. “I want you like this, without filters.”

Vil rises to put on his splendid silk robe, intent on bringing something fresh for you both to eat and something for your headache, leaving you alone for a moment tangled in his sheets and his bed…

Was the bed always this big?

Rook

You open your eyes slowly, breathing in the sweet scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, the room dimly lit enough that you can open your eyes a bit more without your head hurting too much.

The sheets cover you like a soft mantle, brushing against sore muscles you didn’t even know could ache. Out of the corner of your eye you notice a patch of blond hair very close.

…That same patch is staring at you.

Intently.

Rook is lying beside you, propped on his elbows, eyes shining in the faint morning light, wearing a wide smile that is as beautiful as it is slightly unsettling. One hand rests on your abdomen, his thumb tracing distracted circles over marked skin.

Naked skin, to be clear.

You look where he’s touching you, look at his bare arm, and follow upward… higher and higher…

Rook is naked too.

“Bonjour, mon trésor…” His voice this early still sounds just as melodic and bright… though a little reverent and husky.

“What a spectacle, the dawn upon your bare skin. Ah, what art we created, what music your cries composed.”

“My… my cries?”

“Oui! A splendid ballad after such a feverish hunt.”

You jolt, and the ache between your legs makes your memory return in flashes: walking through Heartslabyul’s rose maze when you felt a presence behind you, tall, dense, and very, very hungry; Rook’s breath against your neck, his hands barely brushing your throat and waist. A hunter about to chase his prey.

“Mon petite proie, let me hunt you properly” The game of hunter and mouse through the immaculate rose bushes, past mirrors and through the exquisite halls of Pomefiore, until Rook caught you, pinning you against the wall and devouring your mouth.

His lips on your neck, his hands on your hips, unbuttoning your shirt, your pants, leaving a trail of clothing on the floor until reaching his room. How those clothes reached his bedroom floor unseen by other students? You couldn’t care less, not when his fingers slipped inside your cunt to curl and strike your sensitive spot.

His tongue licking and moving in small circles over your clit, fingers curving, sliding out and back in, in a delicious rhythm. Your own hand in his golden hair, pulling him closer. “Keep going… yes, yes, like that, don’t stop” Rook moaned hearing you so needy for him.

His expert fingers never leaving your pussy, carrying you to pleasure again and again and again. Maybe he made you cum three times, or was it five? Maybe he drew micro-orgasms from you with only his fingers and tongue.

You remember being arranged on your side, one leg lifted and draped over his shoulder, him savoring the feel of your thigh, your abdomen, your belly. Rook sliding slowly, the tip of his cock opening you inch by inch, your spongy walls already soaked yet tightening deliciously around him.

“Mon trésor, you are the perfect image of desire… let me admire your beauty as I make you mine,” the beginning of a slow, unhurried rhythm, admiring how your body moved with each thrust of his hips; your hand over his where he held your leg, your breasts moving freely, your eyes meeting his as the frenzy gradually intensified.

The way Rook moaned as much as, or more than you, describing how beautiful and “alive” you looked while sinking inside you, his thumb pressing against your clit so your walls would tighten more around him.

Your back against his chest when he made you kneel before him, one hand on your hip, the other moving your hair aside to kiss your spine before penetrating you from behind again. Your ass moving with each thrust, deliciously round and perfect for his hands. “Let me hear my muse scream”

The strong orgasm around his cock, held firmly, Rook deep inside you, restraining himself from finishing at that very moment; he wanted to enjoy you more, if possible, for the rest of the night; moving again once your wave ended, harder and deeper, using your breasts as leverage.

The heat of his semen when he spilled inside you, biting your neck and shoulders. “I want to adore you more, ma chérie, until I lose myself completely in your body”

A second, third, even a fourth round, all ending the same way: with Rook deep inside you, his seed spilled within and sliding down beneath your legs to the sheets.

The lascivious memories still swirl in your mind as you glance down at your body; a map of devotion, dotted with small bruises (surely from his fingers gripping you tightly while thrusting), bite marks, and the occasional hickey.

And also a lipstick mark on your thigh and hip.

Oh. Shit.

“Rook… did we… actually fuck?”

“Oui, ma chérie.” His laugh purrs beside your ear.

You try to cover yourself with the sheets, but Rook is already kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone again. Slowly he finds your fingers, intertwining them with his.

“Never have I contemplated a beauty so sublime, so wild beneath me, crying out my name with every climax”

His breath brushes your skin and you shiver, a strange mix of vertigo and desire coiling in your abdomen. Rook pulls you even closer, his thigh sliding between yours. His kisses are more reverent, almost devout.

“I wish to hunt you again, every night, mon trésor,” he promises, fierce and determined, before pressing his lips to yours.

Malleus

The air is dense, the scent of rain and something sweetly electric wrapping around you. The headache feels like a minor nuisance at the back of your skull, as if the world itself were lulling you to calm down and keep resting. Immersed in that blessing, you let yourself float, feeling the aftershocks still running through your bones, the lazy ache in your thighs.

You shift between impossibly fine sheets… very elegant to the touch… cool and soft…

Okay, you’re not in your dorm

You open one eye, then the other. Dark, baroque furniture greets you. Definitely… this is not your bed.

You look down to where you feel a heavy weight, inhumanly heavy, resting over your abdomen. Long fingers, nails slightly elongated and black, belonging to Malleus’ arm and shoulder behind you.

His hair is messy and wild over that same bare shoulder, barely pushed back to reveal the scales on his forehead. Your gaze trails lower; his chest is bare, and the sheets cover just enough over both hips. Carefully, you lift them slightly and steal a furtive glance beneath, heart racing.

Ditto, you’re naked and so is he…

You blink.

That… can’t be.

You lower the sheets for a moment, close and open your eyes a few times. You lift them again and that, or rather those, are still there.

Between Malleus’ thighs, framed by the sculpted, pale lines of his hips, rest two semi-thick, awakened cocks against his abdomen. You stare at them, unable to process.

Holy shit. He has two…

HE HAS TWO AND THEY’RE HUGE!

Is this another dragon fae trait?

A nervous little sound slips from you, barely a small whimper, honestly a bit embarrassing, and Malleus’ eyes open slightly, narrowing, a nearly mischievous smile curving his lips. “Is something the matter, my treasure?”

My treasure…

The mental fog clears and the images of last night strike you like lightning: Malleus whispering things in your ear in the middle of the crowd that had nothing to do with the party, words you didn’t even know he knew, sweet and scandalously explicit. His large, calloused hand over yours as he guided you through the halls of Diasomnia to his own room.

Both hands roaming over your body, his claws tracing lines along your hips and waist. His figure over yours made you feel so much smaller, so tiny that when he placed a leg between yours he lifted you from the floor effortlessly. His palms on your hips as he rocked you over his thigh, your covered cunt already beginning to soak.

The way he prepared you with his fingers, long and cool, sinking deep, moving in and out, curling to find your most sensitive spot and stimulate it quickly and firmly. Your legs spread, one of his hands holding one up so you couldn’t close them while he ran his tongue over your clit.

That same forked tongue sliding along your wet folds, curling as if it had a life of its own, much longer than any human’s. The combination of his wet length and fingers made you cum with his face buried between your legs, your hand gripping his hair to make him suck harder.

And still he continued; opening you more and more, one orgasm after another after another until you could no longer feel your legs.

You remember the first time you touched one of his cocks: so large, fully awake, thick and ready to enter your small cunt. You couldn’t even close your hand around it, stroking and pumping with difficulty. His groan when you tried to go faster, using both hands, the second cock free and resting against your thigh.

“So small and yet willing to take me whole, even while trembling” his words filled with adoration but tinged with filth. His large hands spreading your legs and the tip of one cock brushing your pussy.

The way he folded you in half, placing your legs over his shoulders and impaling you deep, inch by inch. You were so, so full you could barely breathe, his chest so close to yours. “I want you to see… I want you to see how deeply you take me”

His movements confident and sensual at first, slicking his cock with each thrust, your cunt spasming as you felt the ridges rubbing against your spongy walls.

The second pushing in slower, making you scream in pleasure, completely open, dripping and barely able to move or form words. “T’ much… Fuck! That’s too much, Malleus!”

“Like this, my treasure, let me fill you,” Malleus thrusting deep, both cocks striking everywhere, the exquisite pressure and stretch sending shocks through your abdomen. You could only moan and cry his name over and over.

Malleus pressing you into the mattress to take him even deeper, placing you in a mating press that made the angle deliciously intense. His tips kissing your cervix, you could swear you felt them push past when he delivered a devastating thrust that made you cum instantly.

The sensation of overwhelming heat and overflow when he spilled his seed inside you, both cocks pouring semen in uncontrolled, inhuman amounts, sliding from your pussy and pooling on the bed.

Being fucked not only in bed but lifted against the wall, your legs barely wrapped around him as he held you effortlessly, slamming you harder into the cold stone with each thrust. Your breasts pressed against his chest, hands gripping his shoulders, gaze unfocused.

“No one will fill you like I do, my treasure,” he whispered in your ear, finishing for who knows what time. “I won’t stop until you’re completely full.”

Where the hell did he learn all that?

You blame Lilia. Yes, definitely him.

Slowly, very slowly, you sit up, lascivious thoughts still circling in your mind, unable to process. You pull the sheet up to your chest.

Malleus extends a hand and strokes your back, a shiver running down your spine. “Did you sleep well?” You can only nod, your cheeks ready to ignite.

I don’t know how I’m going to sleep again after this.

“My little one, you seem somewhat… distracted. Do you feel unwell?”

Damn it, this man is going to make me explode!!

“Malleus… you…” how do you even say this? “You… you have… two.” You even lift two fingers for emphasis...

THIS MAN HAS TWO HUGE COCKS THAT REARRANGED YOUR INSIDES.

“Ah, so that is what occupies your mind.” He strokes your cheek with his thumb. He shifts, letting the sheet fall from his hips, fully revealing his magnificence; impossible not to look.

“I hope I did not cause you harm, though I could feel you enjoyed it all night. And again, just before dawn.”

He leans down and brushes your mouth, soft at first, then deeper, more demanding; his tongue teasing, tasting, swallowing a moan before it escapes.

“Are you in need of anything? Water, a bath, tea to ease your soreness?”

You cling to him, still clutching the sheet to your chest, the scent of his body intoxicatingly close. “I need… a minute… maybe two.”

He releases a playful chuckle. “Take all the time you need, my treasure. I am very patient. And very, very eager.”

He wraps you in his arms, pulling you against his chest; for now you simply breathe, letting him hold you… until you feel his lengths pressing against your stomach.

Lilia

The hammering of your heart against your chest is what wakes you. Your body aches with a dull sensation in every muscle, your head feels ready to explode, and there’s a vague sense of having survived a natural disaster… or perhaps having caused one. Your skin tingles, sensitive and overstimulated, as if you’d been struck by lightning and put back together...more than once.

The sheets smell of night-blooming flowers and something sweet and smoky that makes you dizzy, too luxurious and heavy yet somehow light at the same time. You try to move, but a warm, inhumanly strong weight holds you with predatory ease.

Something brushes your leg—skin, warm and sensitive.

A foot? A leg?

You feel a hand, nails, grazing your inner thigh; it tickles until you sense where it’s headed, up, up and up, almost reaching your pulsing, expectant center.

Your eyes snap open, the world still blurry, the faint light slipping through the curtains making you squeeze them shut again as you inhale sharply against the pain.

“Oh, you’re awake already~ Good morning, darling.”

When you open them again, Lilia’s crimson eyes gleam in the dimness, a wide and dangerously playful smile on his face.

You jolt upright halfway...on a bed that isn’t yours, in a room that isn’t yours, and in nonexistent clothing.

Wrong pillow, wrong bed, dark decor, naked…

NAKED!

You look down, your body scandalously covered in marks: hickeys, finger bruises, scratches…

Is that a bite on your thigh?

Another one almost beside your pussy?

Lilia shifts, just as naked as you, resting on his side with his chin in his hand, eyes sparkling with amusement; as if the night hadn’t left him tired or hungover in the way mortals usually are.

He looks… energized.

“What… did we do last night?” your voice comes out hoarse, mouth stiff.

“I think the correct question is what didn’t we do last night, little one.”

…what?

“You don’t remember?” His hand is only an inch away from your wet folds and his body barely brushing yours.

Memories arrive in bursts: Lilia hovering over you, playing with your hair before descending to grab your hand and pull you away from the party, his laughter making your whole body vibrate. The heat of his mouth on your neck, his fangs grazing your pulse and a small bite on your collarbone.

His hands everywhere: soft and careful yet wild and playful, always one step ahead, drawing small moans and sighs from you each time his fingertips traced your bare skin.

The vertigo of being lifted as if you weighed nothing and tossed onto the bed. His laugh at your little yelp when you were airborne for a second before he captured your lips again in a passionate, hard, deep kiss; his tongue playing with yours while his hands roamed your sides.

The glint in his eyes when he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other stimulated your clit, slow circular motions as he watched your face reflect pleasure and hunger for more. His laugh against your neck when he slid a finger between your wet pussy. “You’re so soaked and I barely touched you.”

A muffled gasp when he pushed in a second finger, then a third, his thumb following to claim your clit, sometimes pressing, other times moving fast and cruel or slow and careless. Your legs trembling, wanting to cum, but Lilia not letting you until your fluids stained the sheet and left your thighs slick and sticky.

His cock, hard from watching you writhe and hearing your sweet moans, sliding between your breasts, his hands squeezing them firmly so he could glide and feel their softness envelop him; the tip brushing your lips. “Come on, little one, open for me.” Lilia gripping your head to tilt you forward so your lips barely kissed and sucked him.

You remember the heat of his semen when it shot onto your face, other streams into your open mouth, landing on your tongue; droplets splattered over your breasts, Lilia spreading them with his hands, coating your skin before pushing his fingers back into your already oversensitive cunt.

You remember how he gripped both your thighs, placing them over his hips to thrust into you again and again and again, his cock reaching deeper than you thought possible, your spongy walls tightening around him. His hand between your legs to keep stimulating you until you cum around him.

The force with which he flipped you over, belly down, lifting your ass and penetrating you again, your face pressed into the pillow; Lilia going so deep and fast it felt like he was stealing the air from your lungs.

The moment he spilled inside you, but it wasn’t enough. Lilia kept fucking you, your walls making obscene sounds, both your fluids running down your open legs. He didn’t take you once or twice or three times—he took you on every surface that could hold you: the bed, the desk, against the window, on the floor.

“So small… and yet you take me so well. Want more, sweetness? Want me to fill you so completely you’ll feel me for days?” His words grew dirtier with each new round. Your cunt no longer just wet and oversensitive but red and raw from overuse, every touch making you scream, tears in your eyes as you experienced what must have been the tenth orgasm of the night.

The end: your body exhausted, trembling, covered in marks, tongue sore, legs spread and your pussy burning from delicious abuse. Lilia licking your tears and sweat with fierce tenderness. “You’d better rest, little one, because you’ve become my favorite dessert… and I very much intend to have seconds.”

Holy hell

It’s like you ascended and saw God in person.

You pull the sheets to your chin, completely red from head to toe. Lilia’s smile widens, fangs fully on display. “Embarrassed now, my little one? After everything last night… how adorable~”

This old man really knows how to move.

“You were insatiable. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much fun.” He moves closer, his fingers playing with your wet lips.

“Did you… actually… fuck me like that?”

A sincere laugh escapes him and he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth; when his fangs brush your neck again, an electric tremor runs down your spine.

What better moment to slide his fingers back inside you, hm?

“Don’t pout, darling, I’m not done savoring you yet~”

It goes without saying that, for Lilia, the morning sun simply means round… two?

Leona Kingscholar

After the breakup, Leona made it his personal mission to convince the entire world—Ruggie, his dorm, the mirror in his room, the literal wildlife outside—that he did not care.

He went around saying things like, "Tch. Good riddance," and "Like I got time to babysit someone who cries over movies," even though no one had brought you up. He slept more. Talked less. Got moodier, which no one thought was possible until he started growling at actual potted plants for existing near his nap spots.

Whenever Ruggie so much as hinted at your name—usually while dancing around some scheduling conflict or trying to explain why Leona's mood had tanked again—he'd get cut off mid-word.

"I wasn't even talking about them!" Ruggie would complain.

"Then stop thinking about them so loud," Leona snapped, face buried in the crook of his arm like the concept of you physically hurt his eyes.

But of course, the moment your name stopped being brought up, that became a problem too.

He started acting restless. Less asleep all the time and more awake and clearly trying to look like he's not looking around for someone. He'd frown when someone laughed in the hallway, then look annoyed when it wasn't you. He started showing up to classes he normally skipped, sitting in the back with his legs stretched out and arms crossed like he was doing the entire school a favor just by existing in the room.

And then the things started appearing.

First, it was his jacket—left casually across the back of your desk chair, like maybe gravity had just pulled it there on accident. Then his spellbook, shoved between your textbooks in a way that definitely required premeditated effort. Then a sandwich. An entire sandwich, wrapped up and labeled "Not Yours."

He denied all of it, obviously.

"Must've been Ruggie," he said, regarding the jacket that literally smelled like him.

When confronted about the book: "I don't even read, what're you talking about."

As for the sandwich? "You're imagining things. I didn't make that for you."

By that point, no one believed him—not even himself.

The final blow came in the form of a confrontation you hadn't expected. Late evening, when you were walking back to your dorm from the library. You were alone, or you thought you were, until you turned the corner and found him there—half in shadow, arms crossed, gaze trained somewhere just over your shoulder.

He didn't say hello.

Didn't say anything actually.

Just let the silence stretch until it started fraying at the edges, and then muttered, voice low and rough:

"You still want this, don't you?"

You stared at him. He didn't flinch, but you could tell he wanted to. He held himself like someone who didn't expect the answer to be yes, but still desperately needed to hear it before he gave up entirely.

And you realized somewhere between the jacket, the sandwich, and the way his voice cracked at the end of the sentence—that for all his snarling and attitude, he never stopped loving you.

He just didn't know how to ask you to stay without sounding like he might actually need you.

Which, of course, he did. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

But the next time he leaves something behind, you think you might return it in person. Maybe even stay awhile.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul handled the breakup the only way he knew how: with spreadsheets, surveillance footage, and a truly unhealthy amount of denial.

He claimed to be fine, of course. Said it with a straight face while color-coding inventory spreadsheets and inputting customer satisfaction data at four in the morning like a man unburdened by heartbreak. But when the tweels found the Lounge security footage paused—again—on a scene of you laughing near the bar, they stopped asking.

He'd memorized the timestamp.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it.

Azul had always been prone to spiraling in a unique way. After the breakup, that tendency mutated into something truly concerning. He didn't cry. He didn't wallow. Instead, he opened a blank document and began calculating. How many hours you'd spent together. How often you laughed in his presence. What the average rate of eye contact was in happy couples versus yours. There were charts. Graphs. Some kind of weighted affection index.

Unfortunately, Jade opened the file looking for the March sales report and instead found a document titled:

"Projected Probability of Them Still Loving Me (v6)."

He would not let him live it down.

"Idea," Floyd said. "You wanna run those numbers again but include the variable where you're super pathetic lately?"

Even Jade raised an eyebrow. "The correlation between desperation and appeal might not be as linear as you'd hope."

Azul tried to brush them off. He even lied (very badly) about what the spreadsheet was for ("Just… tax optimization. Personal hobby. Totally normal."), but the damage was done. The eels were smug. He was mortified. And worst of all, he still couldn't stop thinking about you.

So he pivoted.

If direct emotional vulnerability had failed him, perhaps passive-aggressive marketing would do the trick.

You started receiving coupons. Neatly folded, hand-delivered, no return address—but you recognized the ink. And the handwriting. And the aggressively formal tone that somehow still managed to sound like begging.

"One (1) free drink of your choice at the Mostro Lounge. Offer valid for exes statistically proven to be an optimal match."

Another read:

"Your preferred drink has been discontinued. Kidding. Please come back."

And your personal favorite:

"A reminder that our pairing was 94.3% ideal. Come back. For research."

You didn't respond. He didn't expect you to. But every week, a new coupon showed up—some increasingly ridiculous, some borderline romantic, all of them signed with that same flourish he used when pretending he wasn't panicking.

You weren't sure if it was pathetic or endearing. Probably both. The coupons had piled up in a drawer now, next to a coaster you never returned and a little napkin with a sketch he once made of you during a slow night.

You told yourself it was nostalgia. Curiosity. Scientific inquiry, if anything.

And one slow afternoon, you found yourself digging through the drawer, smoothing out the least crumpled coupon, and thinking—just for a moment—that you might stop by.

For research. Obviously.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim took the breakup as well as someone who had never actually took a negative emotion in his life to heart could. Which was to say: terribly.

He cried. A lot. At first, it was appropriate—private tears, sniffles in the dorm room, a distant gaze over his drink. But then it started happening at other times. Like during an ad for laundry detergent where the happy couple folded towels together. Or during a weather report where the forecast mentioned rain, which, apparently, you once said made you sleepy. Or during absolutely nothing at all, except that the sun was setting "a little too much like that one day you held his hand, remember?"

He insisted he was fine.

"Totally fine!" he chirped, voice three octaves higher than normal, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. "Breakups happen all the time, right? We're both growing and learning! It's healthy!"

No one believed him.

Jamil looked like he was considering reporting you to the disciplinary committee just to end Kalim's reign of emotionally unhinged sunshine. Even Grim asked if someone should "turn him off and back on again."

But Kalim doubled down. If he couldn't be fine naturally, he'd brute-force his way into happiness. Which, in his mind, meant: throwing parties. So many parties. For no reason. His calendar suddenly became a horror show of "themed celebration nights" and "spontaneous joy hours," all of which were weirdly tailored around your favorite things.

"Here!" he said brightly, handing out goodie bags. "Everyone gets this specific brand of chocolates and stickers! Because those are just objectively fun! Not because anyone used to love them or anything!"

It was transparent. Alarmingly so.

Even when he gave someone a little clay charm that looked exactly like the one you wore on your bag, Kalim waved it off with a too-wide smile. "Just spreading the joy! It's important to stay positive, right?"

Everyone knew it was a cry for help. The kind that sounded like party poppers and glitter and repressed sobbing in the school gardens.

The turning point came on a quiet afternoon when he showed up at your door holding a tiny cupcake. It had a frosting heart on it. His hands shook slightly.

"I know this is weird," he said, already teary. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. I just—"

He swallowed, voice cracking like something inside him was giving up the act for good.

"Even if you don't love me again," he said, "can we still be something?"

You looked at him—his earnest eyes, his trembling lower lip—and you felt something soft and painfully familiar unfurl in your chest.

Because Kalim didn't know how to lie to the people he loved. Not well. Not really. He was all impulse and heart, the kind of boy who loved too loud and too fast and never quite knew how to stop once he started.

And maybe you weren't ready to be what you were. Not yet.

But looking at him, at the little cupcake with the slightly smudged heart and the the way he was holding it like he might shatter if you didn't take it—

How could you say no?

You took the cupcake. And maybe his hand, too. Just for a moment. Just to see if something could still bloom.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil did not mourn the breakup. Mourning was for people who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. For people who let emotion smudge their mascara. He was not one of those people.

At least, not publicly.

He was flawless. Unbothered. The exact picture of someone thriving post-relationship, thank you very much. His interviews were polished. His smiles were poised. His posture was impeccable. If anyone noticed that his usual acerbic wit had gone curiously blunt, no one said anything.

They wouldn't dare.

Privately, though, when the cameras were off and the spotlight blinked out, Vil cracked in very small ways.

He started using your favorite perfume. A subtle layer, never enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him feel like you were still somewhere in the room. Like maybe if he breathed in deep enough, he could hold onto something.

He flipped through magazines during lunch breaks, claiming it was for "market research." But every time he lingered on a movie review or a lifestyle spread, it was with the faint, ridiculous hope that you'd read it too. That your fingers might have touched the same paper. That your eyes caught the same line he was rereading for the fifth time.

He knew it was foolish. But Vil had always been prone to beautiful illusions. It was sort of his thing.

The unraveling came, ironically, in the most public of places: a toothpaste commercial.

He was halfway through filming, mid-speech about the importance of a radiant smile, when something in the script triggered a memory—something you once said about how his laugh.

He kept talking.

Kept improvising.

Went off-script entirely.

The crew let him go for a minute—Vil was known for his "emotional depth," after all—but when he hit the line "even the most polished smile can still ache when it remembers someone who made it feel real," the director had to call cut.

"Vil," they said gently. "It's a toothpaste commercial."

He didn't speak for the rest of the shoot. Just touched up his own makeup in silence, eyes a little glassy.

It took him another week to knock on your door.

He showed up in a soft sweater, smelling faintly of something familiar, holding his own hands like he didn't know what else to do with them.

He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask for forever. Just quietly, cautiously:

"Would you like to try again?"

And you thought—looking at him, at the person who once swore he'd never show up like this for anyone, at the vulnerability hiding under all that polish—

Maybe this time, you could make it work.

Idia Shroud

Idia handled the breakup the way he handled most things in life: with a complete and total digital meltdown, buried under forty layers of denial and an emotionally scorched Discord server.

He didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't even leave passive-aggressive emoji reactions on your old posts like a normal ex with unresolved feelings. He simply… disappeared.

Vanished like a ghost into his room, into his code, into the vast and uncaring expanse of the internet, where feelings didn't exist unless they were typed in all caps or conveyed through a crying anime girl gif.

And for a while, it was total radio silence.

Until you logged into that game.

The shared one. The one you used to play together after class, where the two of you ran a little shop in a pixelated fantasy village and spent an embarrassing amount of time farming digital potatoes.

Your shop was still there.

But now there was… a shrine.

Your character's pixel art face, recreated painstakingly in custom tiles and surrounded by in-game flowers, torches, and glowing pink mood crystals that did not exist in the vanilla version of the game.

He'd modded it.

There was a sign in the middle that just said:

"Here Lies Happiness (RIP)"

You stared at it for a long time. Then, just to confirm the ridiculous suspicion building in your chest, you checked the nearby player list.

Sure enough, his username had changed too:

"SadBoy420"

Online. Loitering.

You didn't message him immediately. Mostly because you weren't sure what to say to someone who had quite literally built a shrine to your relationship in a farming sim. But still—you lingered. Logged in more often. Left offerings of rare items near the shrine like it was some strange, silent conversation.

Idia never spoke to you directly, but you noticed the shrine changed a little every day. One day it had a sign that said "I'm Fine." The next, it was replaced with a drawing of your characters fishing together. One morning it was just a massive, pixel-art rendition of the word "SORRY" in bold letters with a sad face emoji.

Outside the game, his silence continued.

But Ortho?

Ortho was not subtle.

"Did you know my brother has been listening to the voicemails you left him on loop for the past 72 hours?" he chirped once in the cafeteria. "Not that he's, like, sad or anything! Just nostalgic. Definitely not crying."

Later: "He made your favorite NPC in our custom server the town mayor! Isn't that cute? I mean, objectively, not emotionally, haha."

Eventually, you got the call.

Your phone lit up with his name and you answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Uh—hey," Idia said, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't, like, mean to call. Or—I did, but. Crap. Okay. Hi."

You waited.

He took a breath.

"I was just wondering," he said, "if you maybe wanted to talk again. Or, y'know. Game. No pressure or anything. It's fine if you're, like, over it and I'm just like a pathetic ghost haunting your social life, haha, classic tragic NPC vibes—"

"Yes," you said, before he could spiral into apologizing for existing.

He paused. Long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then, quietly—hopeful, almost disbelieving:

"Wait. Really?"

You smiled, even if he couldn't see it.

"Yeah," you said. "Log in."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus did not understand how something so radiant could simply… end.

He didn't throw a dramatic tantrum after the breakup. He didn't disappear in a swirl of thunderclouds or curse the moon or anything out of a tragic love story.

He didn't so much as frown in public, because the full gravity of the breakup hadn't quite hit him yet. Instead, it settled in stranger places—quiet things, strange habits.

Like how he started speaking to the plush bat you gave him on his last birthday as though it were you. Not in a creepy way, more like someone who didn't know what to do with the empty space you left behind.

He asked it questions. Told it how his day went. Laughed, sometimes, as if it had told him a joke—low and fond, the kind of laugh only you had ever coaxed out of him. And when he sat beneath the stars, plush cradled carefully in his lap, he whispered to it with a gentleness reserved only for the lost.

The gargoyles? They weren't even sentient, but even they seemed exhausted. Every night he stood in front of them, musing out loud about the way you smiled or how you always called him weird little nicknames. One of them lost a nose—maybe unrelated.

Lilia, bless him, said nothing for a long while. He simply watched as Malleus wilted, quietly and beautifully, like a flower sealed in ice. But one evening, after Malleus asked in the softest voice, "Do humans ever come back when they leave?", Lilia did not answer. He only wrapped his arms around his ward and held him close.

At some point, he started writing letters. Not to send, just… to say things. Things he didn't know how to tell you, or hadn't said enough when he could. Some were serious. Some were barely legible thoughts written in the middle of the night. But he kept them all, folded neatly in a box that lived under his bed.

And then, of course, Silver found the box.

Silver, ever helpful and half-asleep, assumed it was mail Malleus meant to send and delivered the whole thing to your dorm like it was completely normal to get a hand-bound novel of unsent love letters dropped off on a random day.

You read them all.

You didn't say anything at first. You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. But that night, you left your window open—just a little.

And sure enough, just past midnight, Malleus appeared outside your dorm. Just… standing there. Looking up.

He didn't ask to come in. He didn't even call your name. He just waited. Like maybe you'd hear the quiet, and somehow understand.

And when you finally stepped outside, he looked at you like he'd been waiting centuries.

"May I court you again?" he asked softly. "From the beginning."

And really… how could you say no?