𝑲𝒂𝒑𝒚𝒆𝒉~♪

୨ৎ; 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆! —–—–—–——–—–—–——–——–—–—–

Sandrone claims to despise even the slightest noise that dares disrupt her concentration. While immersed in her research, anything other than the scratch of a pen across paper, the sound of her own quiet monologues, or metal clashing against metal is met with swift reprimand.

She spares no effort in preserving the order of her private workspace. The number of people who have been thrown out—or merely caught humming somewhere nearby—has become a tally of countless victims, whether of verbal abuse or physical violence.

So when (Name)'s laboratory was blown apart by Dottore—in what he swore had been nothing more than a minor mishap involving his test subjects—Sandrone being the first to offer them shelter came as quite the shock.

You tried to refuse, fearing for your own life. Yet every rejection was met with an insistence that was almost admirable, never once losing that unmistakably arrogant tone of hers.

Before you realized it, your research materials were already competing for space alongside hers. Caught somewhere between gratitude and terror, (Name) kept their lips tightly sealed, making sure not even their breathing grew loud enough to disturb the young woman's peace.

Once again, however, the universe had another surprise in store.

It was Sandrone who dared to break the silence, displaying a willingness to converse that was genuinely cooperative. She asked about your research, shared details of her own, sought your opinion, and thoughtfully considered every small suggestion you offered.

Little by little, the tension melted away. The room gradually filled with pleasant conversations—sometimes intellectual, sometimes quiet—as familiarity blossomed between the two of you. Before long, the routine became more than merely comfortable; it became something to look forward to.

So now, during yet another of your many tea breaks together, Sandrone watches you.

Hidden behind the rim of her teacup, taking measured sips while quietly delighting in the way (Name) savors every dessert she has brought, all she can do is hope that you recognize the special treatment you've been receiving—and that Dottore continues to procrastinate rebuilding your laboratory.

All of it confined within the silence she has imposed upon her own feelings.

But perhaps...

One day, those feelings will be spoken aloud as well.

☪︎; 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒂! —–—–—–——–—–—–——–—–—–—–—

Columbina has been learning more about how relationships work. Those intricacies—known as friendship, love, trust—have always been a part of her life, but now she gives them special attention, eager to understand them more deeply.

Your presence has been essential throughout the process. Even in her brief or occasionally muddled words, there's something special about exploring this world with you—a quiet excitement that makes her want to understand everything.

(Name) invited her to experience new things: trips, festivals, social gatherings. Columbina stayed close—very close—defying every notion of personal space through each one of them. Looking at you, smiling, her eyelashes fluttering.

That's normal, isn't it? Unfamiliar situations can be anxiety-inducing, so it only makes sense to stay close to someone familiar.

Only, you've long since lost count of how many times she's clung to your side during your monthly trips to the market, leaving barely a few centimeters between your bodies.

Even the most mundane moments are spent with Columbina. At first, it was curiosity that drove her. Now, she insists that everything still feels brand new, no matter how many times she's done it before.

She hums cheerfully as she hops from one paving stone to the next, whispers that the shop around the corner has a better sale, or asks you to decorate the same cake the two of you shared last week.

All of it woven between embraces.

Hugs that linger longer than they should.

Hugs that invite questions.

Hugs that awaken butterflies.

Perhaps things began to change after Columbina saw a couple kissing in one of Nod-Krai's alleyways. She stopped, thought for a moment, remembered you... and somehow saw herself reflected in them.

Ever since then, the two of you have walked hand in hand.

At last, she's begun to understand social conventions.

𝄞; 𝑭𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒂! —–—–—–——–—–—–——–—–—–—–—–—

Furina is a spectacular actress, and there isn't a single soul in all of Fontaine who would dare argue otherwise. Even so, there are certain roles that prove too difficult to play... even for her.

Especially when the role belongs not to the stage, but to life itself—and there is no escaping the leading part.

As her assistant ever since Focalors' long-running performance, and someone whose professional relationship with her gradually blossomed into a treasured friendship, (Name) knows better than anyone how conflicted Furina is about clichés. Some have their undeniable charm; others she's utterly exhausted by after seeing them repeated across countless films and theater productions.

Lately, however, she's been complaining that she's living through one herself. According to her, it's karmic retribution for all the times she mocked fictional characters who froze when faced with the exact same predicament.

You laugh, asking which cliché she's talking about.

Furina throws a dramatic fit instead, declaring that she'll take the answer to her grave.

True to her word, no matter how much you press the matter, she refuses to tell you. She averts her gaze, kicks her feet restlessly, and hides her face, as though the secret itself might spill out if she looked at you for too long.

Deciding that she shouldn't waste all her energy guarding such a mysterious confession, (Name) suggests the two of you spend the day unwinding instead.

Nothing extravagant.

Just something cozy, lazy, and comfortably domestic—the side of the magnificent Furina that never reveals itself, not even behind the curtains.

You prepare a simple meal, one delicious enough to make anyone want seconds—because (Name) knows that, left to her own devices, Furina would happily survive on sweets and instant noodles alone.

Afterward, dressed in matching pajamas, the two of you settle onto the couch and binge the latest releases on TeyvatFlix.

Horror. Action. Comedy. Thrillers. Documentaries. Drama.

Whatever the genre, Furina always has plenty to say. She launches into passionate commentary about the acting, the lighting, the costumes, and every tiny detail her trained eye manages to catch. And whenever she notices you're genuinely listening, her sapphire eyes sparkle with twice the enthusiasm.

Romance, however...

Romance is where she reaches her limit.

A rosy blush blooms across cheeks usually framed by cool shades of blue, and you can't help but notice her stealing one glance after another in your direction, as though there were words lodged in her throat that refused to come out.

Becoming the leading lady of the "in love with her longtime assistant" cliché had never been part of her plans.

And attempting to imitate the heroine on screen by "casually" resting her head against your shoulder halfway through the movie is demanding every ounce of self-control she possesses.

❀; 𝑪𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒂𝒍𝒊! —–—–—–——–—–—–——–—–—–—–—–—

Citlali is terrible at hiding her emotions. No matter how hard she tries to keep them from bleeding into her actions, a trace of sentiment always slips through.

And the fact that (Name) can read some of her thoughts only makes everything infinitely worse.

She simply can't stand how easily certain people grow close to you. Why was that doorman so courteous when he held the door open for you? Why did that waitress give you a complimentary sugar cube? It's completely unfair!

While she's busy agonizing over ways to earn your attention, there are countless people out there with silver tongues and effortless charm, ready to close the distance between themselves and you. Citlali does everything she can to prove that, despite all that, she has far more to offer.

The collection of romance light novels on her bookshelf nearly triples in size, to the point where borrowing anything from another genre becomes difficult. Granny lovingly reads every single page, jotting down ideas for "platonic" dates and chivalrous gestures in the margins, while carefully studying each illustration—letting out shrill little squeals as she imagines the two of you taking the protagonists' place.

She melts inside every time she wears a new outfit just for you. Even though she'd been fishing for compliments from the very beginning, hearing the real thing is worth so much more. Her heart threatens to leap straight out of her chest whenever you tuck a loose strand of her pink hair behind her ear, and the lingering phantom sensation of your fingertip brushing along its curve is enough to leave her dizzy.

And when you insist on walking her home after a day spent together, making sure she gets back safely, Citlali feels as though she's about to faint.

Blame the poor heart hopelessly in love, but she adores the way Natlan's people look at the two of you whenever you're together, how every moment by your side feels just a little more vivid because of it.

There are days when she's so delighted with the outcome—because (Name) held her hand for three seconds longer than usual—that she decides to celebrate with a single drink at the bar.

One glass becomes two.

Then three.

Until her drunken personality consists of nothing but shamelessly bragging to the other drunk patrons.

So whenever you happen to sit beside her, you're greeted by a stream of slurred confessions: complaints about how terribly jealous you make her, pitiful whining over how long it's taking you to notice her advances, rambling reflections on how your teasing leaves her trapped in an endless limbo, unable to tell whether her feelings are returned...

And, above all else, endless flirting about how wonderfully happy she'd make you.

In the end, all (Name) can do is laugh and take care of her, quietly appreciating the situations that telepathy and drunkenness seem determined to create.

Perhaps tomorrow, if Citlali isn't suffering from too terrible a hangover...

And it's been a long time since he found pet names—especially the cutesy or feminine ones—strange. Actually, strange isn't the right word at all. Not with how positively radiant the King becomes at the slightest hint of an affectionate nickname.

The soft, lovely words that roll off (Name)'s tongue, dripping like warm honey into his ears, affect him in ways no one but Lucifer himself could ever understand. It's almost cruel, really—the dilemma you're forcing upon him. Should he let you finish your sentence, savoring every syllable, your accent, that syrupy tone you know he loves? Or should he simply kiss you senseless, tangle his tongue with yours, and find out whether the giddy warmth melting him from the inside out is all in his hopelessly lovestruck head?

"Luci"—one of his personal favorites—is enough to convince him that, had he still been living in Eden, you wouldn't have needed much to tempt him into sin.

A lingering glance. Fingertips brushing along his wrist, nails grazing his skin. One perfectly spoken syllable.

He would've sunk his teeth into whatever apple you held out to him.

The second your voice reaches his ears, no matter how quietly you speak, his head snaps toward you.

It's magnetic.

The sweetest melody.

A gentle buzz that leaves him equally attentive and completely enchanted.

(Name), however, insists she prefers his voice.

And Lucifer, being the embodiment of Pride itself, wears that compliment exceptionally well.

He'll waste every ounce of theatrical talent he possesses pretending to be modest, even as that razor-sharp grin stretches wider and wider across his face.

"My dear, don't be ridiculous," he'll say, coughing politely into his fist before adding,

"...But do go on. Which one of my baritones is your favorite?"

The poor man—not that poor, really—lives for praise.

Not just any compliments, of course.

The elaborate ones. The flowery speeches about how utterly unique he is. The shameless flattery. The kind that feeds his ego until it's positively overflowing.

But yours?

Tell him he's cute.

That's it.

That's enough to leave him dizzy.

Nothing extravagant. Nothing over-the-top. Just simple, honest sincerity.

Luci—the Father of Lies himself—can tell exactly how much truth you're spending just to make him feel special.

And he loves it.

Oh, how he loves it.

Even if those steadily reddening cheeks didn't give him away, the way he squirms certainly would.

Ask him to sing for you.

You won't have to beg. You may not even finish asking.

The King sings naturally, absentmindedly scattering little melodies and half-finished tunes wherever he goes, unconcerned with whether the lyrics make sense.

Though, when it's for you...

He always makes sure it sounds beautiful.

The rhythm depends on his mood, of course.

Cheerful.

Soft.

Perhaps something that could lull you to sleep.

It hardly matters, because every version is breathtaking.

Loose notes weave themselves into elegant melodies before you even realize it, blooming into sung poetry, carrying you through verses and rhymes until all you can think about is hearing him continue.

It's only fitting that Luci was once an angel.

The Divine's favorite, no less.

Because divine is exactly how his voice sounds.

Sometimes (Name) starts wondering whether she's truly in Hell at all.

Surely it shouldn't be legal for someone to sing like that.

Especially not so gently.

Demons prey on vulnerability, don't they?

They're creatures of temptation.

And yet their king is quietly humming under his breath while coaxing you to rest your head in his lap, already planning to run his fingers through your hair.

Gentle.

Tender.

Vulnerable.

Who would've thought?

Honestly...

Most sinners.

At least the ones staying at the hotel.

Running into the two of you glued together is less a possibility and more an inevitability. Anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby becomes an unwilling witness to your relentless displays of affection.

Exaggeratedly loud kisses.

The kind that sound almost theatrical, where you grab him by the collar and pull him in without warning.

Lucifer only laughs into them, practically melting before eagerly chasing another.

Then there's the flirting.

The embarrassingly youthful kind that one of Hell's founders really shouldn't be capable of.

But Luci makes a point of keeping up with whatever cheesy pickup lines are making girls giggle these days.

After all, impressing you is practically one of his royal duties.

So (Name) gets to watch her impossibly dramatic man enthusiastically throwing out the worst pickup lines imaginable.

Is your dad a baker? No.

Did you fall from Heaven? Obviously not.

Roses are red, violets are blue... Yes. Congratulations. You can identify colors.

You laugh, thoroughly entertained by how earnestly he tries to win you over every single day.

And every time you answer with pickup lines of your own—equally terrible, hopelessly sentimental, and utterly nonsensical—Lucifer has the time of his life.

The hotel's residents, meanwhile, don't stick around for long.

They find the whole thing deeply unsettling.

Little do they know, the physical affection is even worse.

The Fallen Angel needs to have his hands on you. It's an unconscious, almost instinctive urge.

(Name) isn't much better.

She needs her hands on him just as badly, twirling those unruly blond strands around her finger and smiling every time he instinctively leans into the touch.

Walk past him. I dare you. See if you can make it more than a second without a hand settling around your waist, gently pulling you back against him.

Without absentminded fingers hooking around your belt loops.

Without one of Hell's most respected figures casually draping himself over you as though personal space had never existed.

Return the favor.

Trace your thumb along the line of his jaw until it reaches his chin, tilting his face however you please.

Climb into his lap and steal his hat, but never once look away from those crimson eyes.

Pull him into one of the quieter hallways, back him against the wall, and simply...

...hold him.

Wrap your arms around him tightly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

God, the sinners hate it.

They'll happily consume the most depraved pornography the underworld has to offer, burn through entire supplies of drugs, and rack up enough crimes to rewrite the penal code.

Yet somehow, they cannot tolerate the two of you being disgustingly in love.

"Could you two be any more revolting?!"

"Stop touching each other!"

"Quit trying to outdo each other over who's more in love!"

"For fuck's sake, get a room!"

Unfortunately for them, neither (Name) nor Lucifer are particularly merciful.

The bitter, loveless killjoys can go to Hell.

...Well.

More than they already have.

The two of you have no intention of becoming any less of a menace.

Charlie is probably the relationship's biggest supporter.

She was so overjoyed when she found out you and her father were together that she genuinely considered organizing a Valentine's Day event for the hotel.

Knowing her dad's love life wasn't doomed to end in tragedy...

Knowing someone truly kind had found a place in his heart...

Wow.

It was an incredible relief.

Besides, the unwavering support you show both her and her dream of redemption has more than earned you a permanent place among the people she treasures most.

Helping manage the hotel is no easy feat, especially when it involves things like:

Constantly reminding the guests that swearing at one another and attempted murder are strictly against the rules.

Arguing with Alastor over changing the wallpaper in the guest rooms while enduring his stubbornness and that infuriating elegance he hides all his pettiness behind. (Not that there's any genuine hostility between the two of you—but Lucifer absolutely loves watching you bicker with that insufferable bastard. Honestly, he'd be perfectly content grabbing some popcorn, sipping tea, and enjoying the show from the front row.)

Reassuring Charlie that she's doing an amazing job, helping her build trust with the sinners and giving them a place where they can finally feel safe.

The list goes on.

That wonderfully chaotic hotel is full of surprises.

And while solving its endless problems was never supposed to be your responsibility, they've quietly become one of your favorite parts of everyday life.

You like bringing a little balance to all the chaos.

Whether it's for those fleeting moments of peace...

...or simply to see your princess smile.

It's obvious how much your help means to Charlie—not just because it's invaluable, but because it's a genuine act of love.

A project as monumental as redemption demands people you can lean on.

Someone who's always there.

A shoulder to cry on.

Words that lift your spirits back up.

A volunteer who'll happily join every spontaneous musical number without hesitation.

Your presence is all of those things.

Essential.

Comforting.

And endlessly encouraging.

Luci gets emotional.

As a father, bringing comfort and stability to his daughter is of the utmost importance; as a lover, he couldn't be more grateful that (Name) is the keeper of his affection. Because he can see, plain as day, that your place within his family goes far beyond friendship. It is something truly parental.

Charlie asks you for nice places to take Vaggie, looks up to you as the standard she wants to live up to, and makes absolutely no effort to hide the fact that physical touch is her love language.

Seriously, no jokes—he thinks he could cry.

Hug the princess, then invite him into a group hug, and there you have it: the Devil himself fighting back the urge to burst into tears.

Call out "Morningstar," singing it with all the charm you can muster while the two of them are in the same room.

They'll both look at you immediately, patiently waiting to hear what you have to say, wearing matching expressions of pure delight.

It's simply adorable.

But do you know what's even more adorable?

This man's reaction to receiving a bouquet of flowers.

Gather together a delightful mess of dahlias and carnations, with rows of white impatiens peeking through the warmer colors. Wrap them in lavish paper, layering different shades, arranging satin-like folds upon one another, and tying everything together with an oversized ribbon.

Luci has no idea how to hold that sort of gift.

Where to place his hands.

How to breathe in the fragrance deeply enough.

Holding it rather uncertainly, with all the obvious awkwardness of someone completely inexperienced, he shifts it around in his arms, trying to compose himself.

Which proves difficult as well.

His eyes wander back to you, trapped in a bewildering maze of shock and adoration, only to be distracted again when soft petals brush against his cheek and demand his attention—fragile little things, delightfully demanding and desperate to steal the spotlight.

Much like a certain Demon King.

What a grand finale, ladies and gentlemen!

A towering existence brought to its knees by nothing more than a hopeless lover, hopelessly adrift in romance.

And what an even crueler fate before a love so pure—one woven together by nature itself and by hearts that cherish one another.

The tormented soul loses itself to the charm of eccentricity.

If Lucifer was once the Great Deceiver, now all that remains is the posture of a man who wishes he could bless you for such a thoughtful gesture.

So all he can do is smile.

A slightly crooked smile, still caught between theatricality and that overwhelming force that compels him to bare every pointed tooth in dizzying delight.

(Name)'s favorite smile.

And how could you not love it?

When your man isn't trying to be a one-man performance, merely existing in your shared room under the assumption that you're busy with your own affairs, sincerity quietly surfaces.

He fondly watches the flower bouquets piling up around the room, each one more beautiful than the last, as though they're slowly growing into a lavish botanical garden. Idly kicking his feet as he leans against the table and simply admires them; watering them to prove himself a good plant father; talking to them; stroking their petals and looking up their meanings.

Want to see him become even sillier?

Go on and talk about the beautiful bouquet you'll give him on your wedding day.

Luci forgets to breathe, losing himself in that little utopia—a future which, if it were entirely up to him, would be the most fitting reality imaginable.

(Please, give him the damn bouquet on your damn wedding day. He's genuinely daydreaming about it.)

He could "demand" it.

(Beg, actually, though that particular word refuses to leave his mouth.)

In Ancient Latin, no less.

And if you're the kind of person with a thing for Ancient Latin...

Well, congratulations.

You picked the right demon.

(He may have forgotten more than half the vocabulary after falling into Hell, but he'll graciously ignore that tiny detail and do his absolute best to seduce you in a dead language.)

And speaking of eating...

Not even someone guilty of the sin of gluttony would possess so little self-preservation as to willingly chew through the atrocities Lucifer cooks.

They're dreadful.

Satanic.

Harbingers of the apocalypse.

The Health Department's worst nightmare.

As if that weren't bad enough, there's an even greater problem.

The treacherous creature has a pretty face.

And a pink apron.

A pretty face.

And a pink apron.

(Name) is almost certain that more than a few civilizations have fallen because of that combination.

It would've been far too humiliating to write into the history books, so everyone collectively agreed to let it slide.

Unfortunately, the moment Luci looks at you, dressed in that frilly apron and holding a tray carrying what appears to be a brand-new element from the periodic table—one he swears is perfectly edible—

there is no escape.

Before you even have the chance to object, to value your own health for once, your fork is already reaching for a second helping.

Your tongue withers.

Your taste buds cry out for mercy.

Tears pound against your waterline, begging to be set free.

And yet...

You smile, nod, and say,

"It's the best thing I've ever tasted, sweetheart. Thank you."

That single sentence is enough to keep Luci positively radiant for an entire month.

He starts looking up new recipes, or tries to perfect the breakfast pancakes he insists on waking you up with.

So how could you ever insult this sweetheart's cooking?

Your heart couldn't possibly be that cruel.

Not when he looks positively euphoric just from seeing you catch a whiff of his (putrid) meals, fidgeting in anticipation of a positive review.

Unfortunately, you'll have to encourage this hobby.

All for your boyfriend's happiness.

"It's worth it," (Name) thinks.

Because after enduring that particular ordeal, she'll be rewarded with that strangely sweet, domestic moment she shares with Lucifer: brushing your teeth together, sharing the bathroom sink, and feeling your sleepy heads gradually slump against one another.

Your life together could hardly be described as anything other than domestic.

The sort of simple, perhaps even monotonous chores that become charming simply because you do them over and over again with the person you love.

Making the bed, for instance, stops being tedious and becomes something to look forward to—especially when the Devil himself is trying to tempt you back into his arms for just five more minutes.

Or doing the laundry.

It could be done in an instant with the tiniest bit of divine power.

But it's far more enjoyable to breathe in the scent of fabric softener, load the washing machine together while reminiscing about which clothes were worn on which dates, and steal kisses every time the machine finishes its spin cycle.

Cleaning the house—or, rather, certain parts of the hotel.

Somehow, those endless, dust-covered halls end up spotless between bursts of laughter. Time flies with good music playing in the background and an attempt to sweep the floors that inevitably turns into a waltz, dusters and brooms in hand.

Even grocery shopping—a task that's usually so dull—has its own charm.

Crossing items off the shopping list while chatting about nothing in particular, occasionally daring to toss a nice bottle of wine or a few chocolate bars into the cart.

Some sinners don't even bother waiting in line. They simply smash the shop window and run off with whatever they wanted.

Lucifer insists he could be much more refined than that, using a little magic here and there to skip the queue altogether.

If your conscience gets the better of you and you suggest waiting your turn like everyone else, he won't argue.

And everything you bought?

You can snack on it while watching a movie, constantly wavering between actually paying attention and commenting on how that character made such an idiotic decision they deserve to be fed to whatever demon is haunting the basement.

Though, whether you're out at the theater or curled up together at home...

The darkness of a movie is always the perfect excuse to steal a few kisses, isn't it?

And perhaps, if there's enough time, movie night can be followed by a spa day.

People don't seriously think these pretty little faces maintain themselves, do they?

Slip into matching robes—Luci absolutely adores the idea.

He also enjoys it whenever you drag him over to try out your newest face masks and exfoliating scrubs, your fingers gently massaging the products into his skin.

His cheeks are so soft, rosy, and wonderfully squishable that (Name) has to fight off an overwhelming cuteness attack.

And if that little thing smiles at you while letting you pull a headband over his messy blond hair...

Heavens.

You'll be selling your soul to him at a discount.

Your man is also strangely good at doing your nails.

Every week, he's there removing chipped polish and touching up the design. And whenever inspiration strikes, he might come up with something entirely new. Though the classics are lovely too—especially anything with little apples painted on them.

And sleeping!

God, sleeping is wonderful!

Whoever came up with the idea of sleeping was undoubtedly a genius! Sleep should be declared a World Heritage treasure, so it's almost offensive that sloth is considered a deadly sin.

But this is Hell.

So if there were one, two, three sins to indulge in, then surely at least five ought to be part of the curriculum.

Anyway.

Stretching out on a king-sized bed, with the perfect balance between soft and firm, resting your head on goose-feather pillows, and wrapping yourselves in a fluffy blanket is the recipe for perfection.

Now add one pretty little man to the equation and enjoy the blessing.

Stay in bed together, chatting idly while your eyelids threaten to close.

The absentminded caresses traced by a thumb gradually slow to a stop, and the conversation eventually dissolves into nothing but sleepy, incoherent nonsense.

Each of you may begin on your own pillow, but eventually the distinction between my pillow and your pillow stops mattering.

The space between your bodies turns into a delightful mess: arms looped around necks, a leg thrown over someone's waist, a chin resting atop the other's head.

Spooning—his favorite, by the way. Seriously, let him be the little spoon and absolutely smother him with affection—or simply tangled together, one practically lying on top of the other.

The position hardly matters when lazy kisses find their way to each other's foreheads, waking you for only a fleeting second before a muffled laugh escapes, both of you utterly content to indulge in these small, tender displays of care.

Bury your nose against the nape of the other's neck, breathing in the scent of freshly washed clothes, body lotion, and that natural fragrance that belongs to them and no one else.

Luci once overheard a rumor that the Devil smells like sulfur.

Ever since then, smelling nice for you has quietly become one of his life's goals.

Wild rose.

Lavender.

Chamomile.

Feel free to choose his cologne.

After all, who doesn't love a good-smelling man?

But back to nighttime habits.

Because it's impossible to forget those fateful few minutes when one of you wakes before the other and, still lost in the haze of sleep, quietly admires the other's features.

The shape of their face.

Those tiny, familiar movements already committed to memory and treasured.

Everything somehow becomes even more adorable when they're asleep.

Peace softens his features, and there's an immense sense of satisfaction in seeing the person you love so completely wrapped in comfort, free from the worries that keep sleep at bay.

Lucifer's quiet little snores, for instance, are pleasant little sounds, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest draws you in.

Though sleeping isn't always so easy.

Not when your boyfriend's lips act like some sort of magnet, pulling your face toward his for what should've been nothing more than a quick peck, only to become countless kisses scattered across different angles and places.

Sentences interrupted halfway through, turning into make-out sessions.

Loud smacks echoing through the hallway, each of you supposedly headed in opposite directions.

Aiming for foreheads, hands, knuckles, leaving everything stained with lipstick.

Sweet kisses that earn quiet laughter and fill your stomach with butterflies.

Vulgar kisses that hum with obscenity, trailing down his jaw to his collarbone, drawing soft gasps from his lips.

Last—but by no means least—his demonic features.

Good heavens.

Who would've thought the appearance of someone capable of destroying worlds and reducing souls to dust could be so unbelievably enticing?

If beings like that were truly meant to be feared, they shouldn't have made them look so irresistible.

Because you can't quite pinpoint what it is.

But the moment those crimson horns emerge from his temples—smooth, pale, immaculate—and are crowned with gleaming gold, some overwhelming force compels you to pull his head down and press kisses against them.

It's an almost shameful need to worship their rough texture.

Dragging your lips along them, feeling them scrape back with an almost gentle roughness, tracing every curve and every ridge carved into them.

Luci is utterly defeated, in the truest sense of the word.

Stammering.

Blooming into the deepest shades of the sweetest pink.

And overwhelmed by that desperate, all-consuming urge to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you impossibly close...

...and make this moment last forever.

Oh, what a silly man.

As though that were all there was to love about him, and as though he weren't bound to receive so much more.

Deep down, Lucifer knows as much.

Still, he can't help that greedy desire to keep you close with the unwavering persistence of a clingy little spirit haunting your side.

Ease your lover's possessive, anxious thoughts by taking his hand, studying the skin that (Name) had first mistaken for a glove, so dark it seemed almost carved from obsidian.

It is skin, indeed.

As dark as a nightmare, yet carried through feather-light gestures, touching you with a dangerous gentleness.

Dangerous?

How could it be dangerous, when every caress is nothing short of impossibly tender?

Because you're not entirely sure your heart can survive this much affection.

Every lingering touch, every careful stroke, every devoted caress only nurtures within you an almost theatrical longing for this sinner.

And yet...

Who could possibly stop you from admiring that beautiful gradient between white and black?

Who would dare silence you while you study, with the purest attention, the length of his claws and their crimson hue?

As though his sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder weren't enough, those enormous, threatening claws could leave quite a masterpiece across your back.

The mere thought is exhilarating.

Much like a serpent's tongue, his slips across your skin every now and then, sending shivers racing through you.

Luci knows perfectly well the power it holds.

He simply doesn't give a damn about the responsibility that comes with it.

He tastes wonderful.

The ghostly brush of it sends adrenaline coursing through your veins.

And (Name) knows exactly how to play along.

Though she doesn't share the same anatomy, her own tongue—so ordinary, so deceptively simple—somehow proves even worse against his.

The two engage in a petty contest for space and dominion, circling one another with feverish, almost obsessive determination.

The King of Hell has no expectations of winning against you.

Truthfully...

He doesn't even want to.

And his wings?

Oh, his wings.

Beautiful, abundant feathers unfurling from his back in a spectacle all their own, adorning every inch of his being.

They are remnants of Heaven's purity, though partially stained with the colors of sin.

Even so, they could never lose their magnificence.

Not when they're so impossibly soft beneath your fingertips.

So full.

So plentiful.

So wonderfully warm.

Being wrapped in them is an otherworldly experience.

During his embraces, they spread around you until the rest of reality simply disappears, cloaking everything in silky warmth and, every so often, playful tickles.

You could lie against them.

Feel them nudge you whenever Luci is being particularly troublesome—and he will always turn his head away, pretending one of his six wings had absolutely nothing to do with it.

You could even work your fingers through the tiny knots caught between the feathers, patiently undoing them while their owner quietly hums to himself, blissfully lost in the moment.

His tail can't be left out, either!

That slender little thing, carrying the same playful mannerisms as his wings and the same appearance as his horns, plays a very active role in your relationship.

Just as his wings pull you into kisses and affectionate embraces, shielding the two of you behind them, his tail finds its place wrapped around your thigh, trailing its pointed tip up your spine before curling around your wrists, silently asking for affection.

The little squeezes it gives can be gentle, serving only as a quiet reminder of a needy soul—or simply trying to disturb the peace.

But they can also be mischievous, a little rougher than usual, just enough to make you shoot Lucifer a narrow-eyed glare.

The bastard merely answers with that smug expression of his.

Really, there are so many things to admire about Lucifer Morningstar, aren't there?

(Name) managed to come up with 4.028 of them, but there are countless more.

In fact, you could even complain about it: there simply aren't enough words to describe the countless actions and feelings that dance inside your chest whenever your boyfriend is involved.

Then again...

Perhaps it's better that way.

After all, you don't need other sinners setting their greedy little eyes on your future husband.

Although, truthfully, the jealousy is unnecessary.

Hell may grant him as many titles as it pleases.

In the end, Luci—King, Fallen Angel, Tempter—

is your precious little thing.

While they laughed or sighed dramatically, your eyes wandered around the place until they landed on a slender figure who looked like he was praying to go unnoticed. Taciturn, dressed in baggy clothes, long blue hair covering his face, awkward posture.

“Zombie Boy,” by Lady Gaga, started playing in the back of (Name)’s mind. Whoever he was—or whatever he was buying from the vending machine—he was eye candy, enough to make your heart skip a few very confused beats.

Abandoning your little group and pushing through the crowd, you made your way over to him. Any knowledge of the proper steps needed to start a decent conversation simply vanished, your excitement too overwhelming. So you settled for tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie:

— Excuse me?

The figure looked at you like he’d just seen a ghost, and you couldn’t help but find it kind of cute. His aversion to social interaction was written all over his face: wide eyes, lips pressed tightly together, body frozen, arm trembling—clearly trying to get out of (Name)’s reach.

— The sticker on your laptop. — You pointed, keeping your voice calm and your smile not too blinding. — I know that game. What did you think of the latest update?

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to process whether he was actually being spoken to or if there had been some kind of mistake. Then, scraps of sound struggled their way out of his throat, turning into incoherent mumbling before forming an actual sentence.

— Th-the update…? Well…

— It sucked, right?

A long silence followed, the boy’s expression shifting into something even more horrified. He blinked at you unevenly, lips pressed shut, now staring directly at you.

Oh God… what if he actually liked that garbage?

It took a while—long enough for (Name) to grow uncomfortable and wish the ground would swallow her whole. She had already started patting the sides of her thighs, hoping she looked normal while internally buffering like an idiot. Would slowly walking away and pretending nothing happened be a good idea?

But then he let out a quiet sigh, calming down from what seemed like an internal conflict. Later, Idia explains it was because he was shocked that a cheerleader even knew about the existence of a video game—and swore.

Looking away again, the boy hunched in on himself, as if trying to make himself smaller. His previously pale cheeks turned a very noticeable shade of pink.

— The whole forum likes it, so… — He tapped his fingers against the laptop, speaking so quietly you wouldn’t hear him if you weren’t close. His mouth was small, pulled tight with shyness, and that only made you more enchanted. — …it’s nice to know… not everyone’s clueless.

You spent a long time talking, in your own weird ways, about how the devs had ruined the game. And along the way, UIDs and usernames were exchanged.

Idia started showing up to college more often after that, so it became easy to interact with him and expand your conversations into other topics. Geeky interests were the starting point for what would eventually become dating—and sharing an apartment.

イデア • シュラウド

• Idia talks about programming classes without holding back on fancy vocabulary, going on about how writing a self-modifying, self-hosting, formally verified compiler is becoming easier and easier. And you just nod and smile, finding his excitement over those demonic things absolutely adorable.

• His sleep schedule improved a lot after meeting you. If you’re heading to bed, he drops whatever he’s doing and immediately follows. The AC on, a soft hum in the background, and gentle fingers massaging your scalp are enough to send him straight to Morpheus. After discovering the concept of cuddling—especially being the little spoon—Idia considers himself a new man.

• He can complain all he wants, but he loves when you mess with his teeth. Pulling his lips back to look at his gums and “pearls,” you admire the sharper edges and run your thumb over the tips. Some are a little crooked—you know it’s because he had braces as a teen but always found new ways to mess them up.

• Friday night is sacred. It’s the one day of the week where you allow yourselves to order the worst fast food known to mankind—greasy burgers or milkshakes with five different kinds of chocolate. You deserve it. College sucks.

• Idia always asks if you’d like to improve any of your grades. He offers his services to hack your professor’s spreadsheet and give you the highest score in class. Sometimes you fear your boyfriend’s skills—but you still consider the offer.

• He shows you pictures of his family’s three dogs, all named Cerberus due to a shocking lack of creativity. He insists he prefers cats, but still smiles at photos and videos of their antics. Detail: “little guys” is an understatement—Idia uses a full-on baby voice for those grown beasts.

• If you’re watching a romance drama, Idia will complain—just to annoy you—about how dramatic and slow the characters are (as if he didn’t take MONTHS to gather the courage to hold your hand). Fire back, ignore him, whatever. A few minutes later, he’ll interrupt again, completely still and focused, saying the protagonist needs to stop being a coward and confess already. He enjoys these shows way more than you do.

• He lets you do his nails—cleaning cuticles, trimming, painting them black (because it makes him feel cool). He’s genuinely grateful for the care, but daily stress makes him chip the polish. He gets so upset about ruining your work with his bad habits.

• Mrs. Shroud absolutely loves you. She’s so happy her eldest son found someone so special! She talks with a huge smile about how much more radiant and handsome he looks since you started dating. You obviously already have her blessing to make him your wife (joke about it near him and watch him blush into oblivion).

• Back to his teenage years—he still has some acne marks and spots he picked at. So when you do your skincare, you like calling him over to join. It’s a cute moment—chatting while trying face masks and drinking questionable energy drink flavors.

• Idia lives to rub his height in your face. Leaning over you or asking if you need something from the top shelf, he always has that smug smile. (Name) curses him, saying that in her next life she’ll be exactly two meters tall and will pin him against a wall like a helpless Victorian lady.

• Shroud spoils you. And when I say “spoils,” I mean absurdly expensive jewelry, action figures that haven’t even been officially announced, and even creating a virtual assistant to help you skip boring tasks.

• If you flirt with any 2D or 3D character from the geek world, Idia gets extremely jealous. Especially when you say you’d get that fictional character pregnant.

• He firmly believes in your art of stealing his hoodies. His face contrasts sharply with his blue hair as he keeps leaving clothes around like seeds.

• He may not like non-processed food much, but his favorite fruit is pomegranate—and he loves sharing it with you. If (Name) accepts one of the seeds he offers, even as a joke, Idia turns completely pink.

• One of the things Shroud loves most is picking you up on his motorcycle. He feels like a cool romance protagonist, leaning against the bike and only taking off his helmet to receive your kisses. Having you riding behind him is pure bliss—your arms around his waist, threatening to slide lower. He’s even willing to teach you how to ride.

• Over time—whether as friends or lovers—you discovered Idia is Greek. And honestly, it shows in how he lets the language slip sometimes. Losing his temper and cursing someone out with “Άντε γαμήσου!”, whispering “Καλό γατάκι…” during peaceful sleep-talking, or saying “Σ’ αγαπώ πάρα πολύ” to you in random, tender moments. (Name) added Greek to her Duolingo list just to understand him. He gets really proud hearing you practice and repeat “το καρότο” (the carrot).

• If you decide to go on a diet and eat healthy monstrosities, Idia will support you. He might forget and bring junk food home once, but he’ll apologize immediately and never do it again. He’ll also try every single one of your recipes—no matter how questionable they look. For someone who survived on instant noodles and energy drinks, this might actually be fatal.

• Going to anime conventions is a frequent thing for you two, as well as doing couple cosplays. From choosing the characters to making the outfits, it’s all incredibly fun.

• Idia is the prodigy of the programming course, always ahead of the other students and lowkey making fun of them for being too slow (not to their faces, obviously). Unfortunately for him, the demand for exceptional lectures is huge, and turning all of them down just isn’t an option. Shroud managed to bargain his way into having most of his classes online, only needing to show up at the college building once or twice (and it was on one of those days that you met), under the threat of dropping out. Since they couldn’t afford to lose their prized genius, the administration allowed it—though they still require his presence every now and then to showcase his brilliant mind. And for someone with social anxiety, it’s absolute hell. Idia has a sharp tongue when talking about things he likes, but having that many eyes on him is definitely unpleasant. He’s never messed up a single lecture, always praised for his conduct and knowledge. But the poor thing always leaves the auditorium completely drained—shoulders slumped, teeth clenched, eyes rolling in disgust. The only thing that can lift his spirits after having his life force sucked dry is (Name), waiting for him at the door with a gorgeous bouquet and plenty of hugs and kisses. Idia might not be the best plant dad, but he loves being cared for like that.

• He’s a complete idiot for pet names. Call him the sappiest things—sweetheart, handsome, baby, whatever—and he’ll complain about how cheesy they are and how weird you are, all while practically kicking his feet like a lovestruck schoolgirl. His dumb little smile is adorable too, those pretty yellow eyes looking away.

• There was a time when Idia’s parents were busy and couldn’t pick up his younger brother, Ortho, from elementary school, so he had to go. You were super excited to meet your brother-in-law, so you tagged along. God, the kid got attached to you in seconds, completely entertained by your endless answers to his endless questions, all followed by cheerful laughter. Idia was in awe that his two favorite people were getting along so well! Ortho gave you his blessing too.

• He calls you “freaky” an alarming amount of times, which you only respond to by laughing and being even worse. That’s because Idia can’t make a single move without (Name) throwing flirty remarks at him or practically undressing him with her eyes. Petting what you call his “slutty hips”—just because they’re too slim—moving his hair away from his neck so you can kiss it and make his pale skin bloom, tracing the bridge of his nose, or giving him unexpected smacks on the ass—which isn’t even that great, but somehow attracts your hand like a magnet. You live to be a menace to your boyfriend’s shyness <3

• His favorite mythology is “Hades and Persephone.” He’s known the story since he was a kid, studied every variation, and can ramble about it with the same excitement he has when explaining the lore of one of his games. And if anyone dares to say it’s not that great or that the Goddess of agriculture could’ve done better, he’s ready to go full biased defender mode.

• After spending a long time fixing his motorcycle, Idia was covered in sweat and grease. When you went to bring him a drink, you found him wiping his forehead with the hem of his tank top, lifting part of the fabric and revealing a new tattoo: flames corroding around an arcane circuit. You already knew he had a barcode tattooed on the back of his neck, hidden by his long hair, but this one had been kept a secret. It ran all the way down his spine, stopping abruptly where his clothes hid the rest. (Name) fell in love with the patterns and the muted colors, asking Idia to stay shirtless longer or wear more tank tops—things that rarely left his wardrobe. Trying to add color to it with markers, leaving little kisses along the shapes, or just tracing it with your fingers became very satisfying activities. And of course, you don’t forget to give the same attention to the barcode. He melts under your touch and refuses to turn down anything that results in affection from you.

As you pound your fists against his back and kick at his shins, he bursts into laughter and starts spinning. Faster, higher, more chaotic. Your vision whirls, and if the Seven really exist, you’re praying for an eighth.

Even after the sound of shoes snapping against the floor draws near and Floyd finally stops, everything is still a blur.

Everything—except for Jade’s sharp smile, far more on edge than usual.

His hand digs into his twin’s shoulder, veins standing out beneath the pressure, knuckles taut. Floyd turns to look at him, clearly annoyed, already going on about “learning to share” and “not being a spoilsport”—as if he were the responsible one between them.

You’re tossed to the ground like a beloved sack of potatoes, and as you try to steady yourself, you’re already plotting how to jump on his back and get even. But Jade steps in first, extending a hand that should feel welcoming, while the other boy fades into the background.

Your gaze flickers between the offer and his usual expression. Trusting him feels impossible, and paranoia screams in your ears that accepting would be the same as getting roped into something illegal.

There’s something suspicious about him—especially in the way it lingers on his lips. They always seem to promise bad news or some flowery twist of words, in a way you can’t quite decipher: a slightly crooked curve hinting at irritation, paired with a subtle pout that tries to appear gentle.

Every time Floyd crushes you, it ends like this. Jade appears like a specter, takes control of the situation, and offers to help.

“Sibling rivalry,” you think. It’s probably worse when your sibling is your exact copy.

And yet, his mannerisms are too tense, too immature to be entirely spontaneous—or entirely planned. It’s confusing, yes. But is it really worth acting kinder just to save one of your relative’s victims?

Maybe it’s the afternoons—the exact moment when your gazes meet. No hurry, no intention, and yet Jade seems almost unhinged when your attention aligns with his.

Those bicolored irises send a chill down your spine. You feel your soul being examined, your sins judged. But looking away feels just as dangerous, so accidental glances stretch into long minutes.

The classroom noise fades into a dull, soothing buzz, and honestly, you hadn’t been paying much attention to begin with. But now you are—focused, trying to understand how, even from across the room, you can see his pupils round out—almost swallowing the yellow hues—and your own reflection inside them.

A coral tint blooms across his cheeks, worthy of his origins. Jade isn’t pale nor particularly flushed, which only makes the blush stand out more. It doesn’t match his ever-composed demeanor, and strangely enough, you can’t recall a single time he wasn’t like this.

He blinks with the flair of a damsel in distress, tucking a darker strand of hair behind his ear, making his earring chime softly. The few seconds he allows himself to look elsewhere—still fluttering his lashes—are, indeed, very few. The merman struggles to look away from you, devouring your figure in one last desperate feast.

You both know it’s not the last. It’s not the first—far from it—that you find yourselves in this stalemate, competing for reasons neither of you fully understands.

You avoid blinking for your own safety. And Jade? Why does he look so utterly possessed?

It’s fascinating—borderline terrifying. Especially when, right after the professor remarks in refined tones that eels keep their mouths open to attract potential partners, you catch a glimpse of small, serrated teeth glinting in the light.

Dwelling on how lethal those teeth might be would only give you new nightmares. Swallowing hard doesn’t stop the fear that he might lunge at you and shake you like a dog with its prey.

Can he smell your fear? If so, then maybe he should make it clearer why all his efforts seem to circle back to trying to appear kind.

Maybe it’s the nights—being welcomed into the Mostro Lounge with obvious privileges: 50% off every order, the best table in the house, and a personal waiter—not exactly, but there is a certain eel who lingers around you throughout the entire shift.

You stop yourself from ordering anything beyond your budget, barely daring to go past a simple glass of ice water. A safe, modest choice that suddenly goes wrong: the longer you stay, the more your table fills up.

Three-tiered cakes with generous frosting, perfectly prepared shrimp cleaned just the way you like, freshly made juices bursting with ripe fruit, and so much more. Coincidentally, all these delicacies are served only by Jade—and charged to his account.

Men in uniform are easy on the eyes—fact. Still, the eel leans over your table, hips tilting as he recites the menu in a soft voice, as though he could offer you private, special services.

Sometimes you feel like snatching the tray from his hands and smacking yourself over the head with it. Brushing those thoughts aside, you settle for the house water.

Other customers notice. And how could they not? One of the infamous Leech brothers insisting on wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of your mouth with an embroidered handkerchief—far superior to the napkins set on the tables—is not exactly an everyday sight.

Then again, maybe it is. Any student must be used to scenes like this by now, so sugary they might as well cause cavities.

You can’t blame them—you don’t do much to dispel the image either. When the flow at the Mostro Lounge slows down, nearing closing time, Jade asks if you’d be willing to wait until his shift ends.

You wait. Customers gradually pay and leave. Floyd waves at you enthusiastically, telling you not to do anything obscene with his brother in the kitchen. Even Azul, the owner, leaves, entrusting the keys to you—because he knows the dorm’s Vice Housewarden won’t forget them if you’re around.

Jade locks the register and tries to loosen his tie, his fingers a little clumsy from wearing gloves. He steps out from behind the counter and pretends to be distracted, checking for any lights left on beyond those in the main hall—conveniently ignoring the fact that you’ve stolen his hat and are wearing it without a shred of ceremony.

You hand him the keys, saying all the closing procedures have been taken care of. With this odd routine repeating so often, you’ve memorized how to check everything: the stove off, dishes washed, chairs stacked.

In a way, you’re doing his job for him. Maybe you should be paid—or perhaps this is your way of thanking him for the meals. It’s hard to tell, just like it’s hard to understand why you don’t make excuses to dismiss Jade and head straight home to the comfort of your own space.

Is it fair to indulge him this much? Helping him undo his tie, even though you’re fully aware he could do it himself—without gloves, with gloves, even with his hands tied. Listening to the lock click shut as he moves to your side, the two of you walking together toward the Mirror Chamber through the empty, dim hallway.

The palm of your hand is brushed once, twice, three times—however many it takes until you give in and let your fingers intertwine with his.

Why is he so persistent about your company?

But surely, it was the invitation to the Coral Sea City. Especially considering it was for a wedding.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: accepting a travel offer or attending a stranger’s marriage.

You and Grim had been sitting on one of the many steps of Ramshackle Dorm, complaining about how life had grown dull and uneventful, when he suddenly appeared.

Once again, carefully crafted words were shaped to bless your ears. Floyd had run into… an issue, one that would prevent him from attending the event and leave Jade in a difficult position.

Not only did the merman hold a role of great importance in the execution of the Trials of Romance, he would also require all the support he could get. Pressing a hand to his chest, feigning a broken heart, lowering his voice into something melancholic—it was all quite convincing.

Most of the explanation went over your demonic cat’s head. The whole conversation might’ve been boring, irrelevant to Grim’s wise, fluffy ears—but the hint of gossip made him perk up:

“Wait! You’re getting married, Jade?!”

He went quiet, pondering for a moment, his kind smile slipping away in the process. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the gears turning in his mind. With a tongue as sharp as his, taking this long to answer wasn’t expected.

Then Jade turns to you, blinking the same way he does during class, before breaking into a foolish smile and quickly trying to hide it, pressing his lips together.

The idea of someone marrying him already unsettled you, regardless of the reason. But watching him sway slightly in his expensive shoes might’ve explained the way your brows arched.

“Oh, no,” Jade replied, not letting even the smallest of your reactions escape him. “Not yet.”

If possible, his face grew even brighter. Children on Christmas morning couldn’t rival his excitement, though he made a clear effort to maintain his composed posture.

His eyes remained consuming, yet seemed to carry accusations all the same. You admit you got lost in the yellow—the glow, the elongated shape. It was deep, almost suffocating, silently begging to be understood.

You didn’t think much of it.

But Georgina Leech did. Because she knew something.

When the twins’ mother learned about the last-minute guests, she reacted with good humor, ready to make everyone comfortable. She didn’t flinch at Riddle’s personality, Rook’s curiosity, Grim’s gluttony, or even the presence of Malleus Draconia.

However, when she recognized you, Georgina froze—as if she had made an unbelievable discovery.

“Stunned” wouldn’t begin to describe it. The silence that fell over the group, everyone trying to make sense of her reaction, was painfully awkward.

Pulling her son’s head down to whisper, her hushed tone still didn’t stop you from overhearing:

“Is that her? The girl from your school?”

“Yes.”

Jade sounded unmistakably proud. And Georgina’s expression reminded you that she was Floyd’s mother too—that infamous, toothy grin full of enthusiasm.

Her mermaid-style dress flowed with precise elegance, and when she stood face-to-face with you, the oppressive height difference made you instinctively want to hunch down, to seem smaller.

She seemed pleased by your discomfort, though her eagerness to socialize was evident. Perhaps beauty and sadism really were genetic traits.

Either way, Georgina took your hand and kissed it. The touch was as light as a butterfly landing, her lipstick leaving a mark on your skin—leaving you both uneasy and flattered.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she sighed, enchanted.

Madame Leech took a liking to you quickly. And when the ceremony outfits arrived, you began to suspect a family conspiracy designed to spoil you.

Jade’s father—who had already provided excellent accommodations and carriage rides—had clearly outdone himself with the attire, staying true to Floyd’s nicknames.

Each piece was more beautiful than the last, draping your friends in perfection and the culture of the city. Fabrics reminiscent of ship sails felt delicate against the skin, gem-studded ornaments spoke of their high value, and even the stitching seemed scented with a faintly citrus fragrance.

A fairytale, without a doubt. Imagining the Leech patriarch as a fairy godmother was a stretch—but you couldn’t deny the quality and dedication delivered within such a short time.

Then came your dress—just as divine, yet carrying unique and anything-but-subtle traits.

The length of it was covered in pearls, varying in size as they cascaded down from the corset into layers of ruffles. Puffy sleeves, exaggerated in just the right way, framed your shoulders in an off-shoulder style. Scarves and veils—translucent or reflecting the cruelest hues of the ocean’s depths—wrapped around your body, nearly trailing along the floor like the tail of a true mermaid.

Earrings, bracelets, and a necklace matched the maritime color palette, but the entire ensemble was a delicate mirror of Jade’s attire.

The same colors, the same type of fabric—and a single ring to complete it, resting bright and resolute on both of your ring fingers.

Georgina was just as enchanted. She covered her mouth as though on the verge of sobbing, insisting that you and Jade stand side by side for a photo.

Highly suspicious, wasn’t it?

Your thoughts drift away as you return to the present, watching the couple at the altar—soaked from head to toe, yet radiant in those conditions. They had passed the trials, especially the Float of Eternity. Of course they were happy as they exchanged vows, weaving promises of love while holding back from simply grabbing each other.

At that very moment, you should be rooting for their happiness—or moved by the ceremony. Instead, you’re far too focused on Jade’s slow, yet promising, approach.

The guests are overcome with emotion, not even noticing as the merman takes tiny steps closer, until the distance between you is reduced to his elbow brushing your shoulder. The height difference is almost disheartening.

Being an eel capable of capsizing a boat, he’s just as soaked. Some accessories have been removed, and a change of clothes might have been impossible with how the current ones cling to his skin, outlining the exact shape of his slender body.

Your contact only proves the dampness, gradually spreading from him to soak the side of your dress and part of your arm. Honestly, it’s a terrible trap—but you find no reason to object.

You wonder if he’s cold, with all those layers of fabric holding water, or uncomfortable. Before your concerns can even settle, Jade pulls your arm and wraps it around his waist, insisting on the closeness.

His hand glides along your forearm with the rhythm of elegant waltzes, absorbing the softness beneath his calloused fingers. Strangely gentle, masking the fear of coming across as threatening.

His palm curls around your wrist, reminiscent of the times his tail tried to coil around your ankles. The grip is firm, in contrast to the clear submission and the way he seeks your hand.

You press against the bones of his hips, mapping their shape. Water overflows—droplets falling to the floor and against your skin, creating rhythmic and oddly unsettling sounds.

Considering everything you think about Jade Leech, you should push him away—stop him from unraveling the rest of your composure. And yet, you simply accept it when he bends his knees just enough to rest his face in the curve of your neck.

As if by magnetism, your head tilts over his, holding him there in whatever this gesture of affection is supposed to be.

His lashes tickle, the curve of his cheeks betrays a smile, and your thumb slips beneath the fabric, trying to reach him.

You catch glimpses of his hair—likely combed back with his fingers to keep it from covering his eyes—the shape of his nose, and the awkward posture that will surely lead to future aches.

“In sickness and in health…” draws your attention back to the main couple.

Golden rings are exchanged, bridesmaids cry, and the newlyweds kiss—overwhelmed after what must have felt like an endless wait to finally belong to each other. Is this the famed “happily ever after”?

You think you could share one of those with Jade.

In truth, (Name Surname) is a strange one too.

Maybe it’s the shared meals, separated only by tables in restaurants ranging from the most refined to the most questionable.

You watch Jade eat. Small bites, followed by long pauses to chew and swallow. He takes slow sips of his drink, murmuring in contentment as the taste reaches his tongue.

When you raise a brow at him, the merman experiences the jolt of being caught in a cheap lie—so unlike his usual standards. He grabs the napkin, covering his mouth as he lets out a soft, clearly forced cough.

Jade glances between you and his plate, torn between maintaining his table manners—entirely fabricated—or revealing the true capability of his serrated teeth.

You know how a Leech prefers to eat large portions. His fork usually works like a high-speed shovel, and that’s never been a concern to him.

If people were bothered by the fact that Jade could finish a double burger in minutes, then they should be the ones to leave. Yet here he is, eating with the demeanor of an English lord in front of you—recognizing which utensils are for salad and how to properly sip tea.

It’s strange behavior. If you didn’t enjoy watching him indulge in your shared meals—his cheeks full, that deep sigh of someone genuinely delighted by the flavor—you wouldn’t invite him so often.

Eating slowly, to him, must mean the food is no longer at the perfect temperature, the process dragged out unnecessarily. The scene repeats often: Jade is stubborn, determined to appear refined despite the discomfort of changing his habits.

Both of you can play this game of indulgences. Against all of the merman’s performances, you give his shin a kick—bordering on affectionate—beneath the table. Jade always jolts slightly, eyes widening in surprise you can’t quite tell is genuine or acted. You nod toward his plate—a silent plea for him to drop the act.

The most beautiful smile spreads across Jade’s lips, stretching nearly to his ears. His eyes curl into little crescents as he gathers a generous portion onto his fork, needing the knife to keep it from falling, and brings it to his mouth.

His cheeks fill, a satisfied sigh escapes—and you couldn’t be more entertained.

He devours the food, all grace and pleasure. You rest your face in your palm, watching in silence, committing every movement and expression to memory.

His overly polished personality enchants you—especially in moments like this, when it slips just enough to reveal him. It’s subtle, minimal, yet you can’t help the growing smile.

Jade notices the way he’s being admired like a work of art. Every so often, your gazes meet, and something like electricity seems to run faster than blood through your veins. The poor eel lowers his head slightly, trying to hide the visible delight of feeling beautiful.

You read every reaction. Not content with merely making him blush, you nudge his leg under the table again.

Maybe it’s the mushroom conventions.

Yes, it sounds strange—but, surprisingly, there’s nothing criminal about it. It simply involves going back and forth between unusual places to learn about new species or collect samples.

Jade has such an intense fixation on fungi that it’s almost unsettling. And yet, you never refuse the meals made from them, nor stop yourself from gathering new specimens for his collection.

He lights up while showing you the composition of his terrariums—speaking with pride about the fresh soil he collected from the mountains, perfect for proper growth, gently nudging the tiny leaves that enhance the beauty of his mushrooms.

He could go on about these little things for days—and you would listen, asking questions, proving yourself a good audience. Jade smiles foolishly, lowering his voice by a few octaves, pleased that his hobby is taken so seriously.

Even if you’re not part of the Mountain Lovers Club, you agree to the trails he suggests. Walking through nature, climbing uneven terrain, missing the internet—it may not be exactly your thing, but it’s worth it for how grateful Jade seems to be to have you there. Besides, when it’s time to rest, he grills what you’ve gathered along the way and turns it into a feast.

Taking him to those conventions—where people from across Twisted Wonderland gather to express and commercialize their love for fungi and plants in general—also makes for a great outing.

While he socializes with others like him, exchanging cultivation tips, Jade carries all the bags—but asks for something in return: for you to touch him. It’s nothing new, regardless of the occasion, to see the eel doing anything at all with a strand of your hair wrapped around his finger. He even seems more eager to interact that way.

He values your suggestions on decoration and species, even knowing your lack of expertise. If you say that string lights around the jar would make the terrarium prettier, Jade will soon have mushrooms shining brighter than festive ornaments.

He enjoys creating terrariums inspired by friends and family. In his room, there’s a shelf dedicated solely to them: a pot with plants growing in opposite directions yet somehow maintaining a teasing harmony—dedicated to Floyd; another with purple soil and painted circles along the glass, mimicking Azul’s suction cups; and yours—lush, fragrant grass growing, with mushrooms of different colors and sizes arranged in an almost heart-like shape.

Maybe it’s his mystical anatomy, showing you just how different this world is from yours.

Octavinelle has large private water tanks, where students from the sea can return to their origins—transforming into their primary forms and swimming freely without worrying about oxygen.

Jade didn’t use that privilege often, he once told you. He had been focused on learning about the daily life of bipedal creatures, integrating without losing focus.

However, after you casually mention to a friend that you’d love to see a mermaid in action, something clicks in his mind.

It wasn’t your intention to provoke Jade—but since he made a point of listening to the highlight of the conversation, why not take advantage of the perks?

Ignoring human routines, the merman begins returning to his roots, under the excuse of giving you something to marvel at.

You doubt that’s the only reason. Jade is quite the exhibitionist when it comes to you.

He asks you to sit at the edge of the pool, watching carefully as your feet sway playfully in the water.

When he dives in, his figure disappearing into the depths, you search for him across the pool, looking for something—anything—familiar. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Until a pair of hands, large and tinted a deep petroleum blue, slowly emerge and rest open against your knee.

Each finger trails downward, building tension you could compare to horror scenes—monsters gripping the edge of a bed in the dark. But those long claws, as dark as the streak in his hair, only dare to brush lightly against your skin. The sensation is almost illusory—more ticklish than forceful.

Jade lifts himself up, water streaming from his hair without disturbing his immaculate style.

Leech is a beautiful existence. Eccentric, yet captivating. And within a confined space—one clearly ruled and embraced by his nature—he indulges in an inexplicable elegance.

You feel the weight of his body settling onto your knees as he rises closer. The scent of fresh water is striking, contrasting only with the perfume you once complimented—and which has since become his signature.

He tilts his face in different directions, never looking away from you. It feels as though his pupils—now so sharp—need to readjust to your silhouette. It doesn’t take long before they widen again.

“You’ve seen a mermaid. Did I make your dream come true?”

“Honestly, I’m more worried you might drown.”

You remove his hands from your skin, and Jade sinks as if struck down, as though he might actually suffer. What a dramatic eel.

The moment the back of his neck disappears, he resurfaces. His tail moves restlessly, striking deeper water and sending ripples across the surface. He laughs—a rare sound, reserved for special moments. In this form, his teeth are sharper, and his gills expand and contract in happy rhythm.

“Hypnotizing” is the word that floods your mind.

Jade swims with pure elegance, drifting through the pool like a ribbon of silk. His body glimmers in blue stripes, shimmering even when fully submerged.

And whenever he returns to the surface—always bracing himself against some part of you—he tries to coax you into diving in, to join him. His tail, long and thick, coils perfectly around your calves, tempting you.

After hours of floating, teasing you with fins brushing lightly against your feet and leaping high only to crash back down and create small tsunamis, the merman finally settles into your presence.

Jade’s head rests heavily on your thighs. His arms wrap around your legs, pulling them close to his chest, so firmly that you can feel the outline of his muscles.

Curious, your fingers follow the same path—tracing along his ears until reaching the membrane, where the texture feels like brushing against fine veils. He presses his face deeper, savoring the laziness firsthand.

The merman doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to interrupt—and even letting his eyelids fall seems like too much effort. Seven, what comfort.

Jade doesn’t complain—he never will—about the marks traced along his biceps, the way his upper lip is lifted, his gums touched, or his scales—however subtle beneath his smooth skin—being caressed.

He hums, almost like a song. You hope it’s not the infamous “siren’s song,” the one that lures poor sailors into the open sea.

Then again, you doubt it’s possible to fall any further for someone.

But surely, it will be the opportunity—served on a silver platter, allowing your longing to finally bloom.

The moment the ceremony ends, with guests rushing to attack the buffet or congratulate the couple, it will be just you and Jade. Your friends will be distracted by the commotion; only after they’ve eaten their fill and danced enough will they notice your absence.

You’ll look at him—still, still pressed fondly against your side. Acting on instinct, your thumb will press just a little deeper into his covered skin, enough to draw a soft sigh from him and make him lean in, searching for more.

The tip of his nose will drag along your neck, while his cupid’s bow seems to ache to be next. The salty scent of the seaside, lingering in the air, will feel strangely welcome.

And at last, you’ll understand that this feeling isn’t fleeting. Much less something that had gone unnoticed.

Ignorance may have clouded your senses, keeping you from recognizing the truth. If Jade had been inching closer and closer, making such saccharine advances that were hard to decipher, then you hadn’t been far behind.

Jade is not merely this mess of opportunistic thoughts and questionable actions. If there is—and you know there is—a gentle side beneath all those mysteries, it would only be revealed to someone special.

You allow yourself to be bold—overconfident, even—offering yourself as that special person. You want to sink your hands into him, kiss him until he has to search for air, and watch that cunning expression melt into the lovestruck softness of a romance film.

When you offer him a towel to dry off, insisting on walking him back to the hotel room—one his father made sure you would share—the way the soft fabric drags along Jade’s neck will not be accidental.

Even less accidental will be the way you use the towel to pull him closer, crashing your lips against his, dragging your tongue as you explore him.

Leech won’t have time to react—nor the strength to. He’ll melt, trying to keep up as you draw him in, clinging to the ruffles of your dress as if he wants it to last forever.

As he whimpers, asking for more kisses and already dreaming up a confession, you’ll scatter soft pecks across that dangerous face. It will be fun, delicious—a way to express the overwhelming feelings that have been tormenting you both.

In the end, Jade Leech and (Name) are strange individuals.

His reason no longer flows as it once did. His body shows no hesitation. His senses are dense and confused.

He does not understand what is happening, and the lack of control over the situation frightens him just as much as it fascinates him. A polished upbringing and oppressive restrictions, though they surrounded him his entire life, now seem distant and insufficient to stop him. Whether that is good or bad, he does not know.

The mixture of sensations is dreadful, shifting in imprecise waves. The feeling of shame is slowly dissolved by others even more overwhelming, replaced by delight—but also by the fear of accepting this change as part of his nature.

The dorm leader is not to blame. Certainly not. Because if his routine had remained monotonous, inflexible, and full of rules, there would be no worries.

The problem is that (Name) is a creature scarcely human. They may share the same appearance and thoughts, but Riddle is certain there is little of that supposed fragile humanity. If it were otherwise, his mind would be sound instead of hypnotized.

Where magic is lacking, something sinful takes its place and dominates. It tears apart sensitivity and fosters a promiscuous desire, strong enough to be considered a drug. And the redhead fears he is addicted.

You are a perverse existence. And your instincts act only under the command of that perversity.

Rosehearts notices this in the way (Name)’s tongue moistens the skin of his stomach, trailing upward to reach his ribs, sucking a darker freckle along the way, threatening to reach his chest.

The trail of saliva makes his skin glisten, along with sweat and a vivid crimson flush. There is a clash of temperatures, confusing him. The tongue traces him softly, yet pulls such absurd sounds from him. And the saliva, turning cold from the air conditioning, contrasts with his body, which feels on the verge of combustion.

As if that were not enough, wherever (Name)’s hands roam—squeezing, caressing, consuming—an even fiercer flame arises. Riddle loses awareness of everything around him, leaving only you, reducing him to this mess. Though he has no doubt he will lose his mind if you do not stop massaging the sides of his thighs so gently.

Seven, he cannot even believe he spread his legs so willingly. The mere thought tightens something in his groin.

Devastating. The boy whimpers, yet does not even try to pull away. His fingers clutch the sheets with such force, and his feet do the same, sinking into the mattress.

And yet—could it be the way you trace his freckles? He has never seen anyone adore such small, nearly translucent marks that scatter across him in such abundance.

Some people hate having freckles; others cherish them as one of their most beautiful traits. Riddle never took a stance—he did not care, had no time to, and simply accepted them as part of his appearance.

Until (Name) began to touch them, tracing over each tiny spot with a ghostly touch, as if afraid they would disappear if handled too roughly. Forming heart-shaped patterns, admiring the way they spread across his slender body, more abundant on his shoulders than his calves.

Until (Name) began to kiss them, lingering in slow affection so each one received the same amount of care. Lips drag across his skin, sending shivers to such obscene places. The redhead rolls his eyes at the softness, the quiet smacks, the eager tongue—always restraining itself, and failing, from devouring him whole.

And so, Rosehearts begins to feel beautiful—praiseworthy, even. Like an abstract painting, worthy of love through the attentive perspective of a devoted artist, so passionate they find inspiration in the smallest details.

But there are moments when he ceases to embody this muse and instead becomes a dirty secret—one he refuses to reveal.

Do you do this on purpose? Or simply out of a desperate desire to erase the distance, joining bodies in heat and thirst? The impression, however, seems innocent, and Riddle fears he is misinterpreting it—that, in the end, he is the promiscuous mind behind everything.

Because he cannot restrain himself when pressed into the bed. Sensitive, lying face down, with (Name) above him, pushing him into the mattress.

His poor ears, so used to reprimands, are greeted by new words filled with precious meaning. It sounds like honey, like opera, like prayer—and the boy desperately longs for the praise to continue in that low, muffled tone.

(Name) says, rubbing their cheek against his freckled back and falling in love with the pattern, that they will paint fine, beautiful lines. They will connect each spot and form constellations, shining like stars upon his skin.

Riddle should handle it well, savoring the poetic license and being its target. But heavens—the timbre of that voice, the words so carefully woven, all with the sole purpose of making him feel special. He gets lost in this domestic tenderness, reflecting on how profane it is to see it with malice.

The warm breath accompanying those words and the fingers playing with the unruly hairs at the nape of his neck, combined with everything else driving him delirious, only send more shocks through him. Like electricity, striking his nerves and fueling his arousal.

He is grateful that (Name) does not even imagine his glans—soft, peach-shaped—leaking thick drops of pre-cum. Growing hard and overwhelmed simply from being loved sincerely.

And truly, there are moments when the emotion is too much. Rosehearts is sensitive, a virgin, and nervous with any bold or romantic touch. He nearly cried during your first kiss—and he cries every time the overstimulation becomes too much.

It is so embarrassing! The infamous Riddle Rosehearts, dorm leader of Heartslabyul, representative of the Queen of Hearts, strict devotee to rules, babbling nonsense while sobbing. Who would expect such a low state from him?!

Whenever he feels his eyes welling up, about to reveal the intense storm of emotions stimulating him, he hides his face in his arms and bites his lower lip. As much as he can, the redhead suppresses the needy sounds and childish expression—furrowed brows and a pouting lower lip. He does not want (Name) to see him in such a vulnerable state, so far from the composed, powerful image he strives for.

The boy cries a lot—the kind that starts and takes time to stop, leaving wet trails along his plump, flushed cheeks. It is humiliating, to say the least, how immature he seems.

At least, that is Riddle’s perspective. Because (Name) thinks very differently.

His tearful face is simply enchanting. It tests their self-control, makes them want to bend him over the nearest surface and make him feel so good he starts crying out of happiness.

Their boyfriend already looks like a beautiful Victorian doll, but those long lashes, wet and heavy with endless tears, give him such a gentle charm. Not that of something fragile and helpless, but of someone who feels deeply and makes every emotion seem beautiful and complex.

You love his swollen, trembling red lips, his voice breaking into loud sobs, his hands struggling against you to hide his shame, and his small, sniffling nose.

It is delirium, temptation, and motivation. (Name) cannot resist the charm—and does not even want to try. Their lips grow wet as they kiss his warm cheeks, moving up to lick away the tears that bless their tongue with a salty taste, leaving soft pecks on his fluttering eyelids.

And because the crying comes from pure happiness, it only makes things worse. Far from his ideals and utterly absurd—but the redhead loves receiving such careful attention, as if he needed to be comforted. That explains why he keeps tugging at (Name)’s hair, guiding them to give him more and more.

Yet Riddle keeps crying. You have more work to do. The kisses never end.

“You have a hungry mouth,” he dares to think such impure thoughts. But if (Name) keeps trying to take every inch of his small body, it is not untrue.

Rosehearts once held the shallow belief that he would grow bigger. The reflection in the mirror, however, proves otherwise. His gym uniform, bought in larger sizes, only fuels mockery.

He is not athletic, he did not grow taller, and his appearance is delicate. A recipe for disaster—and further encouragement for perversion.

The boy’s chest can hardly be called a chest at all. With barely any definition and freckles scattered around, there is nothing particularly worthy of attention.

The problem is that (Name) would build a cult around that poor, unremarkable chest, as if it were the most adorable thing in the world.

You cannot look away when his nipples stiffen from the cold, peeking beneath a slightly transparent white button-up shirt—leaving little to the imagination. Nor can you stop salivating at the thought of the taste of his warm, fragrant skin. Strangely enough, roses and sweat make a perfect combination when it comes to the redhead.

His areolas are small, sensitive circles tinted in a peachy pink that deepens toward the tips. Said tips are so flat and thin, as if shy to reveal their full potential.

Because, heavens, Riddle’s chest has plenty of potential. It may seem simple, though to your eyes, it is the same as glimpsing a lady’s ankle in Victorian England.

Every time he unbuttons his shirt, it is torture. Exposing a neck usually covered, with well-defined lines and an Adam’s apple barely forming—you could paint it in countless shades of hickeys, bringing color to his porcelain pallor. Lower still, reaching the collarbone, the bones stand out beneath thin skin extending to the shoulders, adding to his doll-like appearance. And when the final buttons are undone, unaware of the hungry gazes staining his pure existence, (Name) would love to sink their teeth into those soft nipples.

And if the redhead notices, he will try to cover himself again. Try to mutter scolding words about his lover’s lust. Try to pretend he does not enjoy being pushed onto the bed, with (Name)’s lips stealing the air from his lungs as they begin to kiss the outline of his areolas.

The skin there is thinner, more sensitive, suffering under firm suction. It looks strange—a desperate pull where the nipple blends into the rest of his chest, the tip of a tongue daring to brush against untouched places just to make Rosehearts moan.

Riddle grows more incoherent by the second. His hands waver between pulling closer or pushing away, unable to obey a mind corrupted by pleasure and self-condemnation.

No biology book ever taught him that male chests could be so susceptible to ecstasy. No one wrote about how they could be stimulated and cherished in such a way that would leave him feeling helpless—and feminine.

How many biological rules have been broken? Did those rules even exist? Should there not be a rule that (Name) must let him climax while his chest is being sucked?

“You have a hungry mouth,” he insists on the thought.

“Use it wisely,” he doubts that is what he truly wants.

The sensation of teeth tormenting one of the buds, rubbing it against the other in unbearable friction, sends a wicked rush of dopamine through his veins and up to his head—his eyes rolling back, his mouth open as he cries out and whimpers. The tongue, sometimes joining in out of an obsessive need to touch him, takes advantage of that trap between teeth to toy with the swollen nub in slow, dragging motions.

In the brief moments when (Name) lets go to breathe—because his lover always forgets to breathe when they are together—the warm air hits, making his nipple stiffen again. The stimulation feels like a delicious numbness, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing against his sea island cotton underwear.

Such refined fabric wasted by his premature release. How disgraceful.

Even apart, Riddle can still feel the memory of that mouth—the warm, erotic trap refusing to let him go, bringing tears to his waterline. A nervous need blooms within him, his newly discovered clinginess urging (Name) to return and take the other bud, neglected and jealous.

You must be fair. So of course, without resistance, the other nipple is claimed.

The redhead feels it being pulled, sucked, drained under (Name)’s ministrations. In response, he can only dig his nails into your back, scratching harsh, vivid red lines into your skin.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, there is nothing simple or unremarkable left. They could be described as something out of a pornstar—if Riddle even knew such things existed.

They shine in a bruised color, completely ruined and throbbing. No longer flat, now swollen into firm peaks. The peach tone replaced by a vivid red, bordering on indecent. Perhaps it is the bite marks, the blooming purple bruises, the saliva highlighting everything further.

And depending on (Name)’s satisfaction, his nipples suffer under curious fingers ready to pinch.

Such bold actions. So wicked. The dorm leader should punish you for driving him to such degradation.

Ah—and he does. Though it backfires.

Really, who is unhinged enough to get aroused by a signature spell? (Apparently, both of you.)

Rosehearts never considered other uses for his spell. It was the peak of his pride as a mage—efficient, functioning exactly as needed.

It existed only to control rebels and their many forms of disorder, preventing the collapse of his harmonious rules.

Yet those functions do not apply to (Name). Instead of repelling your indiscipline, it seems to draw it closer and closer.

Until there is no distance between your bodies.

When the redhead realizes, he is already panting desperately. One hand tangled in your hair with little care, the other gripping the space between collar and lock.

The sound of metal clinking mixes with obscene noises, and Riddle finds himself forced to wrap his legs around your head, trying to crush your skull with his slender thighs.

His self-control is a distant memory. Controlling how tightly he grips, scratches, pulls—it all feels impossible. Lost in ecstasy, he can only dig deeper, cry louder. And when his hand slips from the collar, he does not hesitate before pulling again, even harder.

The sudden force makes (Name) choke—though perhaps the boy’s cock deep in their throat was already doing that. You salivate, see your lover’s hand reddened from gripping so tightly, and cannot help but look at him with adoration.

The taste of his skin is a mix of poorly spread lotion and sweat—a warm, sinful ambrosia that reduces you to addiction.

Looking up, he seems like the embodiment of omniscient, libidinous power. Like a deity, he does not need to speak to keep you on your knees, your tongue dragging along his length, lingering in slow movements, tracing faint veins or a daring freckle near his neatly trimmed, flushed pubis.

Or your lips abandoning the shaft only to suck the head harder, leaving it swollen, flushed, dripping more pre-cum as your hand massages his soft, freckled balls.

Rosehearts is reduced to something inconsolable. Cutting moans with sobs, arching his back into a beautiful curve, hips offering themselves to you, clumsily seeking friction he cannot achieve alone.

You must hold his waist, guide his thrusts, let him rub against the roof of your mouth; you must hold his hand, feel him squeeze as the tension in his core threatens to snap; you must massage his calves, strained from the pressure of his knees against your head, his toes curling and kicking the air.

He always had a strong voice—commanding, meant to be obeyed. Deep, authoritative, intimidating.

But the sounds he makes now? Seven—there is nothing eloquent about them. They are sharp, tearful, utterly unlike his composed speech. He begs for things he is ashamed of—more kisses, the feel of your palm—yet they escape him anyway, raw and strained, scratching his throat enough that he will need lemon tea for days.

The redhead hates this side of himself, trying his hardest to remain logical and authoritative. It is almost dreadful how vocal he sounds, echoing through the four walls like a mocking reminder of his promiscuous state.

Rosehearts feels like scolding you, reprimanding you for making him stutter and gasp so disgracefully! Even though he has perfectly rehearsed the speech in his mind, his tongue feels numb and his vocal cords seem addicted to that single sound. He cannot utter anything proper before another moan is torn from him, his fingers roughly tugging at your hair.

Everything feels like jelly—dense, without resistance. Each of his senses is heightened to an extreme: trembling touch, blurred vision, the lingering taste of (Name)’s gum, the scent of floral perfume mixed with sex, and his cursed hearing filtering nothing but the wet sounds of your tongue moving against him.

He swears he finds it indecent, improper, disgusting. He swears that, at first, he tried to stop you—rambling about hygiene and manners, struggling futilely to lift his hips from your face, feeling your breath against him while trying to cover himself with flushed hands.

(Name) simply agreed. “Alright, dear, no problem.” No insistence, not even a pout of disappointment. And, contradictorily, that frustrated him in such an offensive, repulsive way that he looked down at you—at those eyes watching him with patience and love—with a mix of resentment and surprise.

What had he become? Why did he want you to take back every word?

They stayed like that for a long moment, staring at each other, Riddle making no move to get off your face, nor to stop kneeling, his thighs poised to close around your head.

When you smiled at him—an obvious provocation, challenging him to truly pull away—Riddle understood two things: how much he hated your wicked attitude, and more importantly, how much he hated the power it had over him.

He did not take a stand, but resisted little when he felt your hands wrapping around his hips, massaging the bone and sliding lower. The pressure on his knees, already aching from holding his weight, slowly eased, stirring a conflicting feeling somewhere between dread and anticipation.

The sensation of a breath against such a sensitive place makes him flinch, a terrifying electricity running through his veins. The redhead bites his lower lip, stifling a desperate whimper that threatens to escape and place him in an even more compromising position.

He glares at (Name), perfectly at ease between his slender thighs, as if there were no better place to be. Being himself, even while feeling your nose brushing him, your lips smiling softly against him, and a hand stroking his leg in light caresses, Riddle cannot stop worrying—about being too heavy, doing something wrong, not being good enough.

But when he feels your wet tongue, gently teasing him—bold, unbelieving, almost absurd, yet patient as it urges him to grow used to it—his countless doubts suddenly shrink into the overwhelming task of enduring this unbearable sensation. His focus narrows to the sudden stimulation, the sticky warmth of saliva, and the cruel shivers that climb from his toes to the tips of his red hair, striking him like sparks against his aching need.

Rosehearts feels your lips, full and insistent, trailing hungry kisses, never satisfied. The suction, alternating with careless licks, creates muffled, wet sounds against his flushed skin, which only looks more abused with each rougher grip.

Sweat drips down, mixing with the haze that leaves him dazed and indecent, using what little breath he has left to moan incoherently. He tries to cover his mouth, pressing his face into his palm, digging his fingers in so he does not dare let those sounds escape—to the open air, or worse, to (Name)’s attentive ears. It is cruel, leaving marks on his soft cheeks, but he only wishes to spare himself the humiliation, even as he secretly melts under the heat pooling between his legs.

But his lover shows no mercy. Taking his wrist with deceptive gentleness—so unlike the relentless rhythm of their movements—you pull his hand away. One hand keeps him from silencing himself, fingers threading through his as he squeezes back when the tension inside him threatens to burst; the other guides his hips, teaching him how to move, slow and clumsy at first, yet allowing you to savor the way he learns, the way his body yields, the way Riddle falls apart.

Great Seven… Queen of Hearts… how had he allowed himself to fall into such disorder and indulgence?!

Rosehearts tries to understand these mysteries of life—especially how the one who made him arch his back, cry, scream, and fall apart could still be so gentle with him.

Afterward, his tyrannical mind is drowned in a sluggish haze, dulling his ability to think.

He dislikes the idea of dependency, even more the thought of vulnerability. And yet, when (Name) returns with a tray of his favorite snacks, water in his finest cup, and a damp cloth to clean him, he cannot help but feel that perhaps the situation is not so unfavorable.

Sometimes he stays lying in bed, comfortably sinking into piles of soft pillows, forcing you to take care of him. Sometimes, out of stubborn pride, he sits up—trembling, visibly exhausted—and insists on helping.

But regardless, it always ends the same way: the infamous Riddle Rosehearts resting against your chest. His breathing steadies, the soreness fades into a pleasant numbness, and your fingers playing with the ends of his red hair help quiet his lingering unrest.

He will, without a doubt, scold you—complain about the indecency, about the positions you forced him into, about your overwhelming desire. And all (Name) can do is admire him, cheeks still flushed, delivering such a long lecture while unconsciously leaning into your touch, curling closer against you.

And no matter how much he sighs and insists he is utterly exasperated, he would never dare fall asleep without giving you one last set of kisses. Different from those shared before—yet carrying the same passion. Soft, sweet, enough to bring a small smile to his swollen, cherry-colored lips.

(Name) is, without a doubt, a perverse existence. But even if Riddle remains a fanatic of rules and order, it does not mean there is not a small, equally perverse part within him.

After all, love is a force that manifests in many ways—strange, beautiful, and unexpected.