Stalker Tango

Riddle Rosehearts

It was during an afternoon tea study session in Heartslabyul. Everything had been calm, organized, quiet. At least, until you dropped your pen, spilling ink all over your notes.

“Oh baszki!” you snapped, Hungarian spilling out of you without warning.

The whole room went silent.

Riddle looked up from his papers, blinking in surprise. “…Pardon? What did you just say?”

You froze, realizing what you’d done. “Uh… nothing.”

“Nothing?” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “That was certainly not nothing. Those words were unlike any language I’ve heard from you before.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “It’s… Hungarian. It slips out sometimes. Especially when I’m mad.”

Riddle tilted his head “Hungarian? So… you’re multilingual?”

“Kind of,” you admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to yell it. Sorry.”

Instead of scolding you, Riddle leaned forward, chin resting on his hand, eyes gleaming with sharp interest. “Say something else.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to hear it again,” he said firmly. “It was… interesting.“ His ears turned red.

Your lips quirked into a smile. “You just like it because you don’t understand it.”

Riddle huffed, but didn’t deny it. “…Perhaps. But I will say this, if you must curse in Hungarian, at least don’t do it during tea.”

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Transition:

Oh baszki! = “Oh fuck!” Literally meaning: “Oh out fuck!”

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Leona Kingscholar

Arguments with Leona were nothing new. They were usually short, sharp, and ended with him flopping down for a nap while you fumed.

But today, he was in a mood.

“Why do you always have to stick your nose into things that don’t concern you?” Leona grumbled, tail swishing irritably.

You crossed your arms. “I was helping. If you’d listened, maybe things would’ve gone smoother.”

“Tch. Helping?” His golden eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair. “More like getting in the way. You don’t know when to quit.”

Your jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

Leona sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “You heard me.” He paused, lips curling into something sharper than usual. “You’re just a pampered herbivore who thinks they’re tougher than they really are.”

Something inside you snapped.

Your hands slammed the table, and before you could stop yourself, Hungarian spilled out of you like a storm.

“TE SZEMÉTLÁDA! HOGY MERÉSZELSZ ÍGY BESZÉLNI VELEM?! Hát ilyet még nem basztam! Azét a lónak a farkának is van egy vége! Te lusta, arrogáns pöcs!”

The words came fast, sharp, and relentless. You cursed him out so passionately.

Leona stared at you, completely thrown off. His ears flicked back, tail stilling. “…What the hell language is that?”

You froze, panting slightly, realizing what just happened. “Uh… Hungarian…”

Then you noticed it, the slow curl of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Hm.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “So the calm little herbivore’s got fangs, huh? Didn’t understand a damn word you said, but… the tone was clear enough.”

You huffed, and rolled your eyes. “You deserved every bit of it.”

Leona chuckled low in his throat. “Maybe. But I gotta admit…” His gaze softened, predatory but amused. “…hearing you snap like that? Kinda hot.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me.” He stretched out on the couch again, smirk still on his face. “Next time, teach me a word or two. If you’re gonna yell at me, at least Im gonna understand it.”

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Transition:

“TE SZEMÉTLÁDA! HOGY MERÉSZELSZ ÍGY BESZÉLNI VELEM?! Hát ilyet még nem basztam! Azét a lónak a farkának is van egy vége! Te lusta, arrogáns pöcs!”

Meaning:

“YOU TRASH CAN! HOW DARE YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT?! I haven’t seen anything like this in my life! (Literal meaning: I have not fucked anything like this before!) Even a horse's dick has an end! You lazy, arrogant dick!”

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Azul Ashengrotto

The rush in the Mostro Lounge was at full swing, and you were weaving between tables with a tray in hand, helping out while Azul handled things at the bar. You’d fallen into a rhythm, balancing plates, delivering drinks, calling back to him when you needed something.

But then your brain blanked.

“Azul, can you hand me the… uh…” You frowned, gesturing at the shelf behind him. The name completely slipped your mind. Without thinking, you blurted “A kis kancsó, ott, a polcon!”

Azul froze. “…The what?”

You blinked, realizing what you’d said. “Oh, uh, sorry. Hungarian. I meant… uh… the… little thing. The jug? The small pitcher? With the handle?”

Azul set the glass down, peering at you. “You just… slipped into another language so casually.”

“Yeah…” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “It happens when I forget a word. Hungarian is my first language, so sometimes my brain fills in the gaps before I can stop it.”

Azul’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not in irritation, in intrigue. “I see… fascinating. I couldn’t understand a single syllable, but the cadence was… charming.”

He handed you the small pitcher you’d been reaching for, his fingers brushing yours. “Though I must say, hearing you struggle to explain yourself was equally endearing. Sweet, in surprising way.”

Your face heated. “My struggling is not sweet, and don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Oh, but it is a big deal,” Azul interrupted smoothly, his grin widening. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me, my pearl. How many times have you cursed me out without me knowing?”

Your eyes widened. “Whaaat…? Pffft… I would neeeever…!”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered denial. “Mhm. I’ll have to keep a sharper ear from now on. It could be useful to know when my beloved is insulting me under their breath.”

You groaned. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much.”

Azul smirked. “And yet, you keep speaking beautifully around me. Keep it up, won’t you?”

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Transition:

“A kis kancsó, ott, a polcon!” = “The pitcher, there, on the self!”

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Jamil Viper

Cooking with Jamil was… an exercise in patience.

He was good. You couldn’t deny that. The way he handled ingredients like it came as naturally to him as breathing. But he couldn’t resist… could not resist… correcting you every step of the way.

“Cut smaller.”

“Too much oil.”

“Stir faster.”

It didn’t matter what you did, he was right there with a correction. By the tenth “adjustment,” you were grinding your teeth.

Finally, when he leaned over your shoulder to “fix” the way you were holding the spoon, you muttered under your breath, low and frustrated

“Hogy akkadna a torkodon…”

It was quiet. Very quiet. You thought you’d gotten away with it.

Until Jamil stilled.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes narrowing. “…What did you just say?”

Your stomach dropped. “…Nothing.”

His gaze sharpened. “That was not nothing. I heard you. It wasn’t in English… but you definitely said something.”

You tried to wave it off, cheeks warming. “It’s just… Hungarian. I was venting, okay? Forget it.”

But Jamil didn’t let it go. He leaned closer, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re hiding something from me. What did it mean?”

You froze. “…Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

You sighed, mumbling, “It basically means… ‘may it get stuck in your throat.’”

There was a beat of silence.

“So. You’re wishing me ill in another language now?”

Your face burned hotter. “You were correcting me nonstop! I just…slipped.”

“Mm.” He tapped the spoon against the pot thoughtfully. “How… bold of you. To curse me to my face, even if I didn’t understand it.” His eyes glinted as he added, “You do realize this means I’ll be paying much closer attention to your muttering from now on.”

You groanedl. “You’re impossible.”

Jamil chuckled lowly, turning back to the stove. “Maybe. But don’t think you’re off the hook. I’ll make you confess every word next time.”

Kalim Al-Asim

You were helping Kalim move some boxes around the Scarabia when it happened. You misjudged the step, stubbed your toe hard against the wooden corner, and before you could stop yourself, the pain ripped a sharp curse out of you

“KURVA ÉLET!”

The echo of your voice bounced around the lounge. You immediately clutched your toe, groaning.

Kalim blinked, then beamed as if you’d just discovered gold. “Whoa! What was that? That sounded so cool!”

You froze. “…What?”

“That thing you said! ‘Kurva élet!’” he repeated cheerfully, mimicking you perfectly. “What does it mean?”

Your soul left your body. There was no way you could tell him the truth. So you lied. Quickly. “It, uh… it means… ‘Oh gosh, that hurt!’”

Kalim’s eyes sparkled. “Really?! That’s awesome! ‘Kurva élet!’” He tried it again, laughing. “It sounds way more intense than just saying ‘ow!’”

You were in the middle of nervously laughing along when a shadow fell over you both.

“…What exactly are you teaching him?”

You stiffened. Jamil stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.

Kalim lit up. “Jamil! Look what I learned! Kurva élet!”

Jamil’s eye twitched. “…And what, exactly, does that mean?”

You swallowed, glancing between them. “Uh… well, I told him it’s just like saying ‘ouch’…”

“It’s not,” Jamil cut in smoothly, his tone deadly calm. “Even without knowing the language, I can tell it’s not. You slipped, didn’t you?”

Your face burned. “…Maybe.”

“Spit it out.”

With a wince, you admitted softly, “It… basically means ‘fucking life.’… more specifically ‘bitch life’…”

Kalim gasped. “Wait, what?! No way! I’ve been saying it over and over…”

Jamil pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “Unbelievable. You!” he pointed at you, “should know better than to let something like that slip around him. And you!” he pointed at Kalim, who was sheepishly scratching the back of his head, “are banned from repeating anything until you know what it means.”

Kalim pouted. “Aw, come on, Jamil! It sounded cool!”

“Cool doesn’t mean appropriate,” Jamil snapped, dragging him by the wrist.

You sighed, “kurva élet…” muttering under your breath again.

Jamil’s eye twitched. “…I heard that!”

Vil Schoenheit

You were sitting in the Pomefiore lounge, flipping through a magazine, when you heard it.

“Kurva Schoenheit senpai!”

Your head snapped up. Epel stood across the room, scowling at Vil with all the righteous fury of a country boy who thought he’d finally stand up for himself.

Vil, for his part, didn’t even flinch. He simply turned, one brow arching in that slow, dangerous way that made your stomach drop.

“…Epel.” His tone was sharp. “What, exactly, did you just call me?”

“Uh…” Epel hesitated, realizing he may have bitten off more than he could chew. “It’s… uh… just somethin’ I picked up!”

Vil’s gaze flicked from Epel… to you.

“Sweet potato.”

Your magazine slipped out of your hands. “…Yes?”

Vil began walking toward you, every step controlled, every movement elegant… and yet, you could feel the storm brewing. “Do you, by chance, know anything about why Epel is suddenly spouting words in a language I’ve never heard before? And why those words… carry the tone of an insult?”

Your blood went cold. You managed a weak laugh. “Haha, well, funny story…”

“Y/N.” Vil’s voice dropped, firm, commanding. “Do not test me.”

You froze. Wide eyed. Nervous. Because you remembered the moment you’d jokingly taught Epel those Hungarian words after he’d complained about people nagging him. Kurva. Seggfej. You thought he’d only say them under his breath, in private. You hadn’t counted on him hurling them straight at your boyfriend.

“…It’s… um. Hungarian,” you admitted meekly.

Vil’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. “Kurva… means, uh… whore. And seggfej… means… asshole.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Epel was staring at the floor.

Vil closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, clearly restraining himself. Then his gaze snapped back to you, sharp enough to cut glass.

“So.” His voice was smooth, calm… too calm. “You taught him how to call me a whore and an asshole. In another language. Did you think I would never find out?”

You shrank in your seat. “…I didn’t think he’d use it on you.”

Vil’s lips curved into a perfect, poisonous smile. “Oh, darling. You are in so much trouble.”

He turned on his heel, he gestured for Epel to follow. “And you,” he snapped at the boy, “will never use those words again unless you want dish duty until graduation.”

As he swept out of the room, he cast one last look at you over his shoulder.

“Y/N, we’ll be having a conversation later.”

You slumped back, groaning. Yeah. You were in big trouble.

Idia Shroud

The room was dim, the glow of Idia’s monitors lighting up his pale features. You were sitting on his bed, scrolling through your phone but occasionally sneaking glances at his game. He was mid match, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Gunfire rattled through the speakers. Shouts of teammates filled the comms.

“Bro, did you just steal my kill?” one voice barked.

“Man, he’s totally cheating, no way someone has aim that clean!” another whined.

And then came the worst of it. “Figures. Bet this guy’s bitchless too.”

You glanced at Idia. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even twitch. Just kept playing, lips pressed in a thin line. You knew this was normal for him, trolls, toxic teammates trying to get a rise out of him. He’d learned to ignore it.

But you? Oh, your blood was boiling.

You leaned forward, close enough to the mic that your voice would come through crystal clear. In a low, dangerous growl, you spat.

“Nőjön gitár a hasadba és a rák pengesse! Te életképtelen fasz!”

The entire lobby went dead silent. Not a single voice spoke after that.

You sat back, crossing your arms with a satisfied huff. That’d shut them up.

When you finally glanced at Idia, his eyes were huge, hair tips sparking faint neon blue. He slowly turning to gape at you like you’d just summoned an demon into his room.

“…Wh—what the hell was that?” he whispered.

You blinked innocently. “What?”

“That. That spell you just cast through my mic. I swear, my teammates looked like they just got hit with a debuff IRL.”

You snorted. “Oh, that? I was just telling them to, uh… grow a guitar in their stomach and have cancer strum it. And then I added that they’re a useless dicks.”

Idia’s jaw dropped. His hair flared brighter, sparks flicking like a fire about to catch. “Wh—what the—?! Y-you can’t just!” He cut himself off, throwing his hands up. “No, you know what? That was actually terrifying. They totally shut up! You’re, like, OP in Hungarian, wtf??”

You grinned, proud. “See? Works better than reporting them.”

Idia stared at you, completely stunned. Then he groaned, tugging at his hoodie strings as if trying to hide his blush. “…Can’t believe my partner just verbally nuked my entire team… I-I don’t know if I should be horrified or… kinda into it…”

The match timer pinged “Victory” flashing across his screen. Idia still hadn’t moved, peeking at you from behind his hair.

“J-just… don’t ever aim that at me, okay?” he muttered.

You leaned closer, smirking. “Depends. Don’t let me catch you ignoring me for a game too long.”

His hair immediately whooshed into a neon flame. “Y/N!!”

Malleus Draconia

The woods were quiet that night, only the faint rustle of leaves in the summer breeze can be heard. Fireflies blinked gently around you, and you were sitting on a blanket while Malleus rested beside you.

He wasn’t talking much, he rarely did when the world was peaceful. Instead, he watched the fireflies with a calm expression, his sharp profile lit by moonlight. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted to you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, “I’ve long known that English is not your first tongue.”

You tilted your head curiously. “That’s true.”

His lips curved in the faintest smile. “Would you indulge me, then? Teach me something in your language?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you want to know?”

He studied you for a long moment, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and careful, like the words meant more.

“How does one say ‘I love you’… in Hungarian?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Heat rose to your face. Still, you swallowed, forcing yourself to answer. “It’s… Szeretlek.”

Malleus repeated it under his breath, testing the sound. “Sze-ret-lek…” The syllables rolled over his tongue with surprising ease, his accent lending them a strange elegance.

And before you could gather your thoughts, his hand came up to cup your cheek, and he leaned in, slow, asking without words. Then his lips pressed against yours, warm and steady under the glow of fireflies.

When he pulled back, just a breath apart, his gaze locked onto yours, intense enough to make your chest tighten.

“Szeretlek” he murmured again the words like a vow.

Your whole body went warm. You had taught him a simple phrase, but in his mouth it became something more, a promise, a spell, a confession that wrapped around you like the night air.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You really know how to make one word sound like promise, you know that?”

Malleus smiled, tender and sure. “It is a promise, my love. My love for you is undying.”

The fireflies blinked around you, and in that moment, it felt like the entire world was glowing with him.