Low Lucifer

The break room in the office smelled like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger around you — though no one had ever commented on it. You sat in your usual corner chair, nursing a mug of something dark and room temperature, watching Victor lean against the counter with that particular brand of casual confidence only a man in a perfectly tailored suit could pull off.

"So yeah," Sonar drawled, his bat features somehow managing to look smug despite the lack of traditional human expressions. "I'm seeing someone. Pretty serious, actually."

The room went silent. You took a very careful sip of your definitely-not-blood beverage and kept your expression neutral.

Invisigal actually sat up at that, her interest piqued for once. "Wait, what? You? You're dating someone?"

"That's what I just said, yeah." Sonar's eyes flicked over to her. "She's pretty incredible, not gonna lie. Probably the best thing that's ever happened to me, which is saying something because I once found a twenty-dollar bill in a suit pocket I forgot about."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. He'd told you about that twenty dollars. Multiple times.

"Well who the fuck is it?" Prism leaned forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Do we know her?"

Sonar shrugged, examining his claws with studied nonchalance. "Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not gonna just expose her like that. She values her privacy."

"Oh c'mon," Punch Up pressed. "Give us somethin'. What's she like?"

"She's alright, I guess." The way Sonar said it — completely flat and utterly deadpan — made you want to throw your mug at him. Alright. You were alright. "She's got this whole mysterious thing going on. Very elegant. Kind of old-fashioned in some ways, but in a good way, you know? Like she's got class."

Your undead heart would've skipped a beat if it still beat regularly. Instead, you felt that pleasant flutter in your chest that passed for cardiovascular excitement these days.

"Is she tall? Short? The fuck does she look like?" Flambae questioned, firm in his belief that whoever he was talking about was entirely fake.

"She's gorgeous," Sonar said simply, and the complete sincerity in his voice almost broke your poker face. "Like, legitimately stunning. I'm talking out of my league gorgeous, but somehow she's into this whole situation." He gestured vaguely at himself. "She's got these eyes that are just... yeah. And she's got this smile that could kill a man. And an absolutely amazing rack, like, I'm talking best boobs you've ever seen."

You raised your mug higher to hide the fact that you were definitely smiling now. Kill a man. He was so proud of his stupid vampire puns that no one else caught.

"Okay, so gorgeous and mysterious," Marcus was counting on his fingers now. "Works here, probably. Who in this office fits that description?"

"Could be Mal to be honest, she fits that description." Golem mumbled, only to be thwacked with the blunt end of her claymore. "Ow, unnecessary."

Sonar shook his head. "Not Mal. Good guess though, I respect the attempt."

"Fuck you both, we all know it's not me. I'm offended you thought it was." Malevola's sharp eyes shot daggers at Golem, all the while Prism was losing her shit.

You watched this play out with growing amusement, your fingers drumming silently against your mug.

"What about Punch Up? He seems like he could swing both ways." Malevola shrugged, and as the little man wound up with explatives spilling from his lips she portaled to the other side of the room.

"Oi! Fuck you. Y'know if I did? I wouldn't be into that batshit fucker!"

Hands casually finding his pockets, Sonar blinked at them all. "Wow, I'm offended. But at the same time I value my dick, so I'd never settle for you, man, sorry." His foot hit the vending machine a few times in order to get it to dispense the twinkies he was attempting to buy. "You guys are terrible at this, not gonna lie. It's actually kind of embarrassing."

"Give us a hint then," Invisigal demanded, throwing the napkin holder at the machine, causing a pathetic sputter and the twinkies to come out.

"Alright, fine." Sonar pretended to think about it, peeling back the wrapper with an annoyingly prolonged hum.

"You gonna give us something or just fuckin' stand there and act like you have fuckin' early onset dementia?" Flambae questioned, his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

After taking a long moment to chew his bite of the twinkie he finally nodded, "She's got a very specific dietary preference. Very particular about what she eats and when."

You nearly snorted into your mug, the audacity on this asshole.

"Oh, so she's like, vegan or something?" Coupe asked before her lip raised in disgust. "Vegans are weak."

"Something like that," Sonar agreed, his tone so dry it could've absorbed an ocean. "Very committed to her lifestyle. She doesn't go out much during the day either... works better at night. We're very compatible in that way since I'm nocturnal anyway."

"Night shift! She's on night shift. That narrows it down." Prism snapped her fingers, before high fiving Malevola who's hand immediately extended in congratulations.

It really didn't, considering you worked a hybrid schedule and were sitting right there at two in the afternoon, but you weren't about to point that out.

"She's also been around for a while," Sonar continued, and you shot him a warning look that he absolutely noticed and ignored. "Like, she's got a lot of experience. Very mature. Sophisticated. She's seen some shit, you know what I mean?"

"Older woman," Golem nodded appreciatively. "Nice. I respect that."

You were in your twenties. Technically. If you didn't count the centuries after you stopped aging.

"She's also got this thing where she's really warm..." Sonar paused. "Wait, no, that's not right. She's actually kind of cold. Like her hands are always cold."

"It's probably-.. probably bad... poor circulation," Waterboy finally said sympathetically, he'd been listening the whole time but none of them took note of the fact that he was even there. "My aunt.. she suffers-.. she has that too."

"Yeah, something like that," Sonar repeated in agreement. You were going to kill him, more permanently this time.

The break room door opened and Robert walked in, immediately having clocked the fact that the office was all too quiet, so he had gone looking for the team immediately. "What's going on?"

"Sonar has a girlfriend and won't tell us who," Malevola explained, sounding like she was tattling on him and hoping that Robert would be able to execute his dispatcher status to get some answers.

"No shit." Robert raised an eyebrow before sighing. "She work here?"

"I'm not confirming or denying anything," Sonar said. "But hypothetically, if she did work here, she'd be someone who really understands me. Someone who gets the whole... unconventional appearance thing. Because she's got her own unique situation going on."

"Oh, so she's also got a physical thing?" Tom asked. "Like, is she a hybrid too?"

"You could say she's got some non-human characteristics, yeah," Sonar said, and his eyes flicked to you again. This time you did glare at him, just a little, and you saw his mouth quirk in what passed for a smile. "But she wears it well. Very graceful about the whole thing."

You stood up, deciding this was getting too dangerous. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait, wait," Sarah stopped you. "You've been here the whole time — do you have any guesses about who Sonar's dating?"

You looked at Sonar. Sonar looked at you. The moment stretched just a beat too long.

"No idea," you said smoothly. "He is clearly very secretive about it. She must be special."

"She is," Sonar said, his voice dropping into something softer, more genuine. "She's patient with me, which is saying something because I can be pretty annoying. She thinks my jokes are funny even when they're terrible. Did I mention she has great set of tits."

The break room went quiet. You felt something in your chest — that space where your heart used to beat properly.

"Damn, Sonar," Golem muttered quietly. "You really love her, huh?"

"Yeah," Sonar said simply. "I really do."

You turned away before anyone could see your expression, heading for the door. As you passed Sonar, his hand brushed against yours... just for a second, just enough for him to squeeze your fingers gently. The touch was cool against cool, perfect temperature matches, and you squeezed back.

"She's a lucky woman," Malevola sighed , to which Prism gave her an absolutely bewildered look.

"I'm the lucky one," Sonar said. "Trust me on that."

You were almost out the door when you heard Robertsay, "Did you really just leave your mug with blood left in it?"

You were gone before you could hear Sonar's explanation, but your phone buzzed in your pocket a moment later.

Sonar: Told them it was tomato juice. They believed me. You're welcome.

You: You ar an idot.

Sonar: Yes I am. Wanna bail on Bobby and get some Thai?

You: The sun will. still be up

Sonar: I'll bring an umbrella. I'm romantic like that.

You smiled at your phone, fangs and all, and typed back.

You: You are lucky I. love you .

Sonar: I know. It's literally the best thing that's ever happened to me. Even better than that twenty dollars.

You: You m ust let tha t twenty dollars. go.

Sonar: Never.

You pocketed your phone and headed back to your desk, where you could still hear the muffled sounds of the team trying to figure out Sonar's mystery girlfriend. They'd probably never guess.

Sonar: By the way, you look gorgeous today. That's all. Just wanted you to know.

You: You lok qui t e handsome today. too,

You: I s til, do not under.stand thes e keyboar.ds

Sonar: Good thing I'm great at word puzzles.

Yeah. You were definitely the lucky one.

"THE VAMPIRE!"

"No shot she's dating you."

← BACK. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

"... Good morning," he mumbles, barely audible. Sat stock still like a deer in headlights.

You don't reply, still eying his hair. The pieces eventually come together, albeit slower than usual thanks to the fog of drowsiness still lingering over your mind. But once they do you flop boneless back onto the bed.

"... Rough game?" Flat on your back, you can make out the 'RESPAWN?' flashing across one of his giant monitors from the edge of your vision.

"Our healer sucks," is all he replies. The event is obviously still fresh in his mind from the way his hair whips and thrashes like Grim's tail when he's especially peeved.

"Uh huh," is all you reply. You’re still reeling with adrenaline from when your heart launched itself into your throat. Maybe you were more traumatized by fire than you thought.

Idia’s attention has gone back to his computer, if the sound of his typing is anything to go by. Probably yelling at this aforementioned healer from the way his keyboard clacks harshly amongst the silence.

You shift, shuffling deeper into the sheets, feeling the brush of the blankets under your skin. Then promptly remember that this is not your bed, but rather Idia’s.

This whole circumstance, much like every other circumstance you’ve been in since arriving to this world, was a series of domino effects. First, it was Azul inviting you to a board game club meeting. Then, you met Idia, and Azul helped you two hit it off by mentioning how you used to game back at home. Which, by the way, you have never once mentioned in the presence of Azul. But if you think about that fact for more than 15 seconds, you’ll just end up scaring yourself. So you choose not to, since you’ve had enough scares to last three lifetimes over at this point in your Overblot fighting career.

As you started getting to know Idia more, you found out that a video game from your home world just so happened to mirror a series he was particularly into. And after some especially enthusiastic encouragements from Ortho, here you were weeks later. On Idia’s bed with an old laptop of his at your side, half open.

In your defense, you didn’t originally intend to fall asleep. It’s just… his bed was comfy, and Ramshackle still has those bum mattresses.

You push up the screen and the light momentarily blinds you. Squinting, you make out your hastily made character stood in an AFK lobby. You also catch a glimpse of the time.

“Geez, it’s late…”

“Yeah.” Looking over the top of the screen, you notice that Idia has only one headphone on, the other pushed back behind his ear. He's still typing at a massively impressive speed. You're sort of starting to pity his party member, no matter how much their healing apparently sucked.

"Did you want me to get out of your hair?" You grimace the second the sentence leaves your mouth. Does what Idia have constitute as hair? Would it be more accurate to call it ‘flames’? Are you… being insensitive to supernatural hair having people??

Idia seems to be oblivious to your inner turmoil. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way, he shrugs his shoulders half heartedly.

“Probs shouldn’t. There’s a curfew, so unless you want to get found by a patrolling ghost, it’s better to just stay here.”

“But…” He turns to you, hearing the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it… are you comfortable with me sleeping in your room?”

He takes the time to consider your words, gnawing on his blue tinted lips as he does. Eventually, he just shrugs again, “doesn’t matter.”

Though you haven’t known Idia long, you can recognize an introvert when you see one. Just as you can recognize the bunching of his shoulders the longer you don’t respond.

“I’ll go then,” you make up your mind and stand, willing the drowsiness from your limbs. “I’m sure I can handle a ghost or two, considering Ramshackle has a handful of them.”

He doesn’t say anything as you shut down his laptop and make your way towards the door. And you don’t really expect him to, until you’re halfway out.

“Wait.”

Looking back, he’s fully facing your retreating form. Headphones around his neck, blue brows furrowed, and lips pursed on the verge of a grimace.

“I—.. I said it was ok, didn’t I? Just stay.”

You blink, partially because you didn’t expect him to be so adamant and also because you think you’re hallucinating the way his cheeks are starting to look pink.

“Where should I sleep though? We can’t share your bed.”

“I’m not going to bed, so you use it.”

“What? The hell you mean you’re not going to bed?”

“Uh, I’m not going to bed. Has your hearing logged off along with your memory? I told you I’d be grinding all night for this event.”

“Yeah but… it’s Thursday.”

“… And?”

You’re starting to sympathize with your parents for all the times they yelled at you for staying up.

“Whatever, just…” he grumbles, swiveling his chair back to his huge expanse of monitors. “Do whatever…”

He’s got another application open on his other monitor, scrolling through some sort of social media forum. Mumbling something under his breath while his hair whips and flicks across his hunched over back.

You guess that he’s expecting you to leave.

So you step back in and close the door, throwing your stuff down where it was and marching back to reclaim your spot on his unfairly comfortable mattress that he doesn’t even deserve, since he apparently hardly sleeps on it.

Flopping right back where you were, he’s already turned his head to stare, incredulously.

“What?” You say, “you told me to do whatever. So here I am, doing whatever.”

“… Right.” His hair has fallen still around his shoulders, and remains there as you settle in.

It’s not long before you feel the pull of sleep once more as Idia gets into a new game, headphones back over his ears, knees under his chin.

“Tell your healer not to suck this time,” you think you tell him as you succumb to the pull. “So you don’t yell and wake me again.”

You’re not sure if he hears you nor if he responds, because you’re already asleep.

But then you’re not. You’re up, semi-lucid but not panicked. Gently, you rouse to the sounds of shuffling. First to one side of the room, then the other. Then towards you, towards the bed. A weight gets lifted off the edge. Idia’s laptop. He must be putting it away.

You’re scooting back before you consciously decide to. Leaving room for another body, if it wishes to take it.

Things have gone quiet and you’re falling under again.

On the edges of consciousness, the bed slowly dips. You smile as a faint warmth licks and flutters near your arms. Like hesitant flames.

He thinks every day about how he's always one-upped by someone else. When he first got into NRC, Leona didn't think that he would be a 20-year-old third-year who could care less about graduating. He thought he would soar, finally getting out from the shadow his older brother cast over him. He didn't.

Meeting Malleus was Leona's greatest downfall, second only to being born. The first, second, and third time they dueled, Leona still somewhat believed in himself. After that, he only fought because of the bitterness he had.

He wishes he was as strong as Malleus;

Malleus doesn't understand Leona. He doesn't understand how someone could fight for themselves for so long. He's confused at how people could still want to be around him, despite being irritable all the time. He's jaundiced by how people can bear his attitude, and how people aren't as scared of him than they are of him. He's bitter that those same people will grow and laugh with him.

He still remembers their first encounter like it was yesterday. He was still seventeen, and yet Leona was not. Looking upon his young features for the first time, he was confused by how someone so young looking was so strong. Fighting him was slightly amusing for Malleus; he's dealt with worse, and yet found this entertaining. It wasn't a bad fight, it was decently matched, but he would end up winning. He always did.

The next year, when he looked at Leona for more than a minute, he noticed the differences. The hair length, the crease in his brow, the frown grazing his lips, the entourage that followed him. And the year after that, the cortège this time with even more people. When the year after that hit, and Malleus was still there, but so was Leona, he was confused. He had spark, or at the very least a drive. He'd overhear the talk and concern from teachers about Leona. The humanity was lost on him.

He wishes he was as human as Leona.

I

As a species, fae had a tendency to dedicate their time to what they perceived as truly valuable. Due to their long lifespans they had begun to appreciate the fleeting beauty of the world surrounding them. While some trees don’t even reach maturity during a fae’s lifespan, the full bloom of a flower lasts but a second when in contrast to their long-lasting existence. For this reason fae are the most avoidant when it comes to wasting their time, especially the younger generations who’ve begun to be influenced by the world outside of Briar Valley.

The way in which this manifests towards other’s is in receiving an abundance of attention. Prolonged periods of time spent either with, or admiring the object of one’s attention would be such a manifestation of affection. In Malleus’ case, this meant he’d spent a long time longingly gazing at you like the lovesick fool he was. Making eye contact as often as possible, which was often accompanied by slow blinking motions, to hopefully indicate how reluctant he was to tear his gaze away from you, even to do something as necessary as blink. Unfortunately for him, you’d remain clueless to his intentions. Unknowingly to him though, you had picked up on the slow blinks. But had mistakenly likened them to a reptile, assuming them to be the consequence of his draconic lineage as he was the only one to posses it. However those blinks should have been likened to the ones of a cat showing its affection (as they truly were a consequence of his infatuation).

II

Due to their past as recluses, the capabilities of the fae are often surrounded by misconceptions. One such misconception (which Lilia’s many pranks and quite a few of Sebek’s outbursts have managed to disprove) is the notion that the fae cannot lie. There are various other odd stories regarding the fae. One such story being the one regarding the effects of fae food on non-fae. Due to its high magical potential, eating fae food uninvited can have dire consequences (it is important to note however, that eating Lilia's cooking has horrific results simply due to his abysmal cooking skills rather than any affecting fae magic)

It came as a surprise when Malleus begun inviting you to the bi-monthly Diasomnia dinners, but it was an invitation that had brought you joy nonetheless. It begun after his enrollment in the culinary cruciable. He had taken great care to mention that he was in fact the one responsible for the dinner preparations (which seemed like assurance that it wasn't Lilia who was cooking). In fact, it was another attempt to court you. Due to various misunderstandings and assumptions, yet another of Malleus’ courting attempts went unnoticed. If only you had known about the true significance behind his actions; or rather hadn’t assumed the myths regarding fae food weren’t unwarranted stories you’d carried over from your world by mistake. Unlike some of the more dramatic stories about fae (like many myths regarding changelings and kidnappings) this one happened to be founded in a cross-dimensional truth. And so, Malleus’ attempts at ‘making his way to your heart through the stomach’ (as Lilia put it) had failed.

III

The need to protect what they hold near and dear to their heart is a very common one amongst fae, which is especially evident in Malleus who has already experienced so much loss. Malleus already posesses an extrordinary ammount of power, and as a fae with draconic lineage he’s even more compelled to use said power to ensure the security of all he finds precious. You were one such thing. As a result, he was seemingly hard-wired to protect you.

It started out small and barely noticeable, like most of his courtship attempts. At first, it was minuscule gestures, like magically removing hazardous rubble before you could even notice it during the occasional midnight walks spent in (objectively speaking) decrepit ruins. It escalated in a similarly subtle way. Evolving to guiding touches on the small of your back or the crook of your elbow. Then, it was his presence, clearing paths for you in the schools busy hallways, crowds dissolving at the mere sight of him. This was even more apparent once he’d begun joining you for lunch in the cafeteria. Coincidentally, on one such day a food fight broke out (curtesy of certain troublesome 1st year students sat a few tables away), one which you miraculosly escaped clean and unharmed from. What had seemed to be mere gestures of friendship and goodwill to you, had been much deeper to him. In truth, it was a declaration: You matter to me and I care for you so deeply that I will always ensure your protection, at any cost.

IV

Fae have many peculiar capabilities. Their magical aptitudes expand much further than any other species’, often manifesting in numerous walks of life. From an affinity for wildlife such as Silver’s (which stems from the blessing he received) all the way to enhanced senses and increased sensibility to magic, fae have developed in a different way. Their physiology is deeply tied to their magical capabilities, which often manifests as additional rare capabilities. Similarly to a unique magic, although much more common, these capabilities drew from the person’s respective characteristics. In the case of particularly powerful fae however, it unsurprisingly manifested as the ability to grant blessings. Blessings just like the one Malleus had granted you.

You’d suddenly found yourself to be luckier with each passing day: managing to get the last piece of your favourite cafeteria meal even though it was usually long gone before you even got in line or Crewel being late to the classes you were already late to so you ended up being marked as having been on time. These things, amongst many others, were a direct result of a certain blessing bestowed upon you (without your knowledge of course). However, you’d simply credited them to becoming more used to the way of life in NRC and your capability to integrate. After all, whose first guess as to a better quality of life would be a magical blessing from one of the most powerful beings in creation? The one thing you couldn’t quite explain however, was the rather abrupt decrease in Sebek’s outbursts. You’d eventually chalked it up to his gradual acceptance of the reluctant friendship he established with the rest of the 1st year group (which was also partly true, despite the fact that he’d never willingly acknowledge it). In actuality, fae blessings left a magical trace of sorts, one which was easily noticed by ones with an increased sensitivity to magic such as Sebek. Just what he managed to infer from said traces was something you’d remain unaware of, as he wisely decided it was best to leave things unmentioned. (The more powerful the caster, the more powerful the blessing, and more stongly felt magic. There certainly aren’t that many who could cast a blessing as strong as the one left on you. Sebek was in state of perpetual shock that stopped him from adressing it, while Lilia simply wasn’t a snitch. As a result, another one of Malleus’ gesutures went unnoticed.)

V

It’s a well known fact that whenever humans possess characteristcs drawing from animals, they tend to inherit certain urges and behavioural patterns. These behaviours range in both degree of effectivity and obviousness. These features are most obvious in beastmen (Jack’s tail wagging whenever he’s happy, similar to his canine counterpart), then mers (Azul having blue blood which would result in a purplish-blue blush due to his cephalopodic origin) Surprisingly, dragons in twisted wonderland deeply resemble the ones in this world. This is most evident in one aspect: the hoarding instinct. Both dragons, and dragon-adjecent beings have an innexplicable urge to collect things of value. (They’re like the British with other countries’ historical artifacts)

Intuitively, you cana determine that a dragon’s hoard would be their most prised possession; one they’d spare no effort in protecting and maintaining, especially after having spent possible centuries constructing it. Being so previous and valuable, these hoards are well hidden and protected, speculated to be the stuff of legend as they’ve never been witnessed to exist by a human eye. This suggests that the absolute highest honour anyone could receive would be to see this hoard, or even more so, touch an object part of it (the notion of being gifted something that had once been part of the hoard wasn’t even dreamt of).

You could only be surprised when trinkets of all sorts started showing up, seemingly out of nowhere. One day there was a beautiful shining gemstone on your windowsill. Another, a flower enchanted to never wilt. The gifts got more extravagant with each passing day, only further fueling your confusion (and slight irritation at the fact that despite all your efforts, this secret admirer still evaded your attempts to catch them in the act of leaving something behind) While this certainly hadn’t been Malleus’ intention, he’d narrowly missed you every time he’d left you behind a gift. Without any additional clues it had been impossible for you for to determine who had been leaving the gifts, resulting in yet another one of Malleus’ courting attempts to fail.

VI

Courtship amongst the fae (and various other residents of Briar Valley) was done in steps, increasing in the degree of affection the pursuant would display towards the object of their affections. After all, every relationship begins with small doses of affection before declaring full-blown “i love you”’s. The ultimate approach to courtship was an outright declaration of intent (which traditionally consisted of a first stage of reciprocal correspondence, followed by seeking the blessings of the other person’s family) Due to the situation at hand, Malleus resigned himself to expressing his deep infatuation feelings through a letter, deciding to leave it accompanied by another gift.

The following night, he’d shown up in the usual burst of magic at Ramshackle’s front porch. Just as usual, you threw on your coat, opened the door and went outside greeting him in a soft voice. What deviated from your usual routine however, was the fact that you were tightly, albeit carefully, clutching a letter in your hand. Further deviating from the norm, you begun to hold eye contact with him instead of immediately setting off on your walk like usual.

“I read your letter. All this time, I… I can’t believe that, well, you, umm…” you took another breath to steel your nerves before asking:

“You love me?”

“Irrevocably.” he answered with such a certainty that it seemed he was recounting an infallible truth

In that moment you leaned towards one another sharing a shy and hesitant, yet deeply loving kiss, all while interlacing hands with one another. Separating with matching grins, turning towards the path, going on the first of many nightly walks turned dates.

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You never realized how often Malleus stopped by on his nighttime stroll until he didn't. It wasn't unusual to be woken up by the gentle twinkle of fireflies that seemed to surround him, your walls painted a bewitching green. Occasionally a curious fairy would peek at you, pressing their little face against the pane as he smothered a laugh into his leather glove. Your mortal, magicless brain seemed wired for the subtle push of fae magic silently asking if you were awake or wanted company.

But it didn't come. You woke up in the absolute stillness of Ramshackle, Grim snoring near your feet.

It was unsettling, which was a funny thought since you'd been thrown into a world where magic, dragons, and overblot monsters existed.

Something gnawed at the back of your mind when Lilia brushed off your questions with a tired grin and subdued attitude. Almost like he didn't have the energy for his usual dramatics. He wasn't even hanging upside down! His eyes lacked their youthful sparkle; you were looking into the calm eyes of someone as wise as their years.

Those eyes were unwavering, cool and adamant that your questions would not be answered. His eyes brooked no arguments. Sebek conveniently avoided your gaze and was suspiciously quiet. When you tried to approach him about Malleus, he moved with a swiftness that didn't match his frame.

All three were much harder to find the next day. You'd gone almost the whole day without seeing them. Realistically, you should've heard them or seen them between classes but they moved with a fluidity they trained their whole lives for.

What kind of guard would they be to Malleus if they weren't quick on their feet? 'To be caught is to be at fault,' as Lilia would say.

Not that you knew that.

Silver did, though. He supposed it was a fault--his fault--that led him to your door at the dead of night. You deserved to know and Malleus had been asking for you.

A whinny ripped you from sleep and you opened the window, rubbing your eyes until the image of Silver on Samson became clear. Alarm already set on the phone Crowley gave you, you put a note out for Grim and tucked him in before throwing on a pair of slippers and meeting Silver outside. He helped you onto Samson; you swore he ate a sugar cube before Silver swung himself back into the saddle. His posture was practiced and stately but you could tell by his arms that he gripped the reigns hard.

Silver was thinking about something. You thought about asking him what was wrong but it didn't feel right. A nighttime ride with a full moon should be something magical but the air was prickly and tense.

Heavy, almost smoldering.

"The magic was messing with the animals and I couldn't sleep." Silver finally spoke, Samson circling the stables. It took a carrot to get him back in but Silver didn't mind. He grabbed a broom someone had left out but you didn't give it much thought until he started to enchant it. Silver motioned for you to get on.

"Is the magic coming from Malleus?" you asked as you set off for Diasomnia.

"I think so but father won't confirm it. It's best you see him for yourself. Maybe it will help."

Your arms tightened when Silver suddenly whipped out his magipen, firing a spell at the ivy winding around the tower with a single glowing window. The ivy retreated, bowing up like a snake before another blast of fire magic sent it slithering in the other direction. Silver ascended with a hefty sigh, angling the broom so you could step through the window.

"Is that you, Child of Man?"

You didn't see Malleus at first, distracted by a rhythmic tapping. He drew up to his full height, ungloved fingers wrapped delicately around the staff of Diasomnia, claws poised on the points of the spinning wheel at the top. His tongue was thin and forked, darting out to taste the air when you did not answer. Unbothered but careful, he floated towards you.

Tongue peeking out again, he swept the bottom of the staff out. You were speechless, only able to stick your foot out so the staff tapped against it. A satisfied smile curled his lips as he stared more confidently in your direction.

Or he would've, if he wasn't blind.

You'd never seen him like this and wondered if another fae had put a curse on him. Malleus was quite literally blind, his usual vibrant green eyes clouded over with...something.

"M-Malleus?" you squeaked. "Are you okay? You're--"

"In the midst of my shed," he lamented. Malleus held out of hand, palm facing down and claws out. He was clearly waiting for you to take it, to feel what he'd so missed these last few days. His brows furrowed with concern for a fleeting second, tongue poking out to sense your heat. Awestruck, you slowly placed your hands around his.

His other vocal chords took over as gurgled with delight. He seemed to melt in your hands. You'd heard bits and pieces of the shedding before but didn't realize it incapacitated him when it happened. Malleus meant to lean the staff on his desk--where it would normally be--and frowned when it skipped across the stone wall; Silver caught it before it hit the ground.

It was only then you'd realized his room had been rearranged. Everything had been pushed to the edges of the room, crammed in corners, or was flush against the wall so he had a big open space to roam.

"What does that mean? Are you okay?" Silver gestured for you to walk him to the bed. Malleus' hand hesitated above your head before drifting down to your shoulder. He'd barely tapped it when pieces of your hair wrapped around his claw. His instinct was to wrench his hand away but Silver grabbed his elbow firmly as the warmth of your hands encompassed his and untangled your hair. Noises you'd never heard filled the room; deep chuffs and trills that quieted when you laced your hands together and walked backwards.

It was amazing at how...primal...the fifth most powerful mage in the world was right now. He was clearly at the mercy of his draconian blood, liked he'd reverted to something just passing for human. Malleus was easily the most powerful and most vulnerable you'd ever seen him. And he sat, so politely and nearly dependently, with you on his bed.

"Do you need something, my boy?" whatever Lilia wanted to say died right there when the door swung open and he saw you and Silver. "Silver!" he hissed sharply, "What have you done?!"

"They were worried," Silver shifted his weight nervously but maintained his composure otherwise. "They wanted to see him and Malleus has been asking."

"There's reasons!" Lilia began, his eyes hardening, "And when I tell you something I expect--"

"I will not hurt them." Malleus looked over at Lilia, his face stern and eyes piercing despite the fact they couldn't focus. "Are you suggesting I will?" Malleus' voice dropped low, tone so cold the room seemed to chill in an instant. It occurred to you that Malleus could launch himself from the bed faster than you or Silver could react. "I would never!"

"I didn't say that," Lilia's eyes twinkled with annoyance and authority. You wonder how many tantrums Malleus has thrown in his life and it makes you feel small, nearly newborn, when you realize he's been alive longer than you'll ever be. You squeeze Malleus' hands when he shifts his body towards Lilia. "You're moving into the next stage of your body and I just want you to be careful. You know you have to relearn things when you shed."

Malleus pursed his lips in silent agreement. The shed made him clumsy as a babe, his body constantly buzzing with new and larger magic reserves. It set his veins ablaze, making him both overly sensitive and slightly numb. New muscle fibers were hard at work stitching themselves together to fill out his lanky, boyish frame.

Dragons weren't meant to be scrawny; they were proud and regal creatures. Some species were more brawny than others but it was clear he hadn't come into his true body yet. The body had to match the magic reserves so the muscles wouldn't be completely destroyed if he ever needed to use large amounts.

It really was like learning how to walk all over again. And finding out how to control his strength.

"You also tend to be more territorial," Lilia muttered under his breath. Malleus was in the throes of a shed when he burnt his bangs, he recalled. He'd been explaining to Malleus that he couldn't eat all the ice cream by himself and Silver deserved some and it was polite to share when it happened.

"I will be careful," Malleus promised quietly. "You'll stay, won't you?"

You hadn't realized he'd wrapped his arms around you or drawn you into his lap until now. He clearly cared for you, fingertips brushing along your arms and claws flexed out so there was no chance of catching on your skin.

There was a touch of forlornness to his voice.

"I can," you returned the gentle petting, admiring the thickness of his forearm. It was the first time you'd seen prominent veins on him.

He radiated more heat than you imagined. Maybe that was a side-effect of the shed.

"I don't know what to do, but I'll help." you patted his arm.

"Fear not, Child of Man. I'll teach you." he leaned down until he found the top of your head. You could feel his nose in your hair.

"I'll allow it," Lilia crossed his arms. He was miffed and mildly offended that he'd been ignored the last few minutes. "But you have to take your potions and precautions, young man!"

"But they're stupid and--"

"No take, no stay!" Lilia spoke over him.

"Fine!" Malleus huffed, baring his fangs at Lilia. You swore you felt the air tremble, like a pulse of magic shot out. "Fine," Malleus harrumphed, leaning back into the bed like a pouty child. He removed himself from your hair, head cushioned by pillows and the wall.

Satisfied, Lilia nodded his head. "I'll bring up the next batch soon. Silver, come help me." Lilia wasn't asking and it was clear they'd have things to talk about. Silver rubbed the back of his neck, resigning himself to his fate.

For the longest time you just sat in Malleus' embrace, staring up at him. You don't know if he knew that and you hoped he didn't. Would he think it was weird? His jaw looked a little different but you couldn't say how; his throat seemed a little thicker but you attributed that to his dragon vocal cords being more active right now.

"Have you always had that scale under your chin?" you asked, reaching up to touch it curiously. He grabbed your hand before you could.

"Yes," he folded your hand closed carefully. "It's a very vital scale for us dragons. It's a heart scale."

"What's a heart scale?"

"You give it to your mate. It holds your heartbeat and can provide protections when made into jewelry."

"Your heartbeat? So you won't die if you give it to someone?"

"It's more of a reassurance to your chosen one. They can tell your pulse and how you're feeling when they hold it."

"Does it hurt when people touch it? Does it mess with your heart?"

Malleus laughed, the sound dancing up and down your spine. "No, Child of Man. You're not supposed to touch it because if it's ripped off I'll be extremely vulnerable for a few days...maybe a few weeks. Heart scales are the biggest sign of devotion, of claiming, by dragon standards. You are sealing a portion of your magic and strength into a single scale for one person to hold and cherish as you recover."

"Can you only grow one?"

"Historically, most dragons only get one, yes. I've heard that some dragons can grow more if they find new lovers but it's extremely rare."

"Is it called a heart scale because of the heartbeat thing or is there another reason?"

"It's actually a defense mechanism. It grows over a main vein that leads to our hearts when we're in dragon form. That's why we're exceptionally vulnerable when it's removed. It's also why most paintings and books depict the knight stabbing the dragon under the chin during the final blow."

You settle against him, your interested hum filling him with a sense of pride. He's kept your attention and that feels obscenely delicious. There's a beautiful cruelty in the newfound sensitivity of his skin; your unintended brushes are quite literally the first hair-raising experience in this new body. The scent of you is nothing new but it's the first time he's smelled it with this sharpness and it's sits heavy and sweet on his tongue.

Some dragons may go dormant and withdraw during their shed but others, like him, are more active because the magic and muscle working in tandem to push out the old scales.

His eyes are clouded by the excess magic that has nowhere to go until his body builds itself bigger. His sensibility, his control, feels totally swallowed by the lub-dub of your heart. It almost feels like he's being flung out and drawn back in as it beats.

He's completely at your mercy and he's okay with that. Craves it, even.

Scales explode at his back with a splintering crack that makes him think he put too much pressure on the headboard. It makes you jump and the instinct to lick your cheek to calm you nearly wins. He breaths a big sigh of relief and sits up straight to rub his back against the stone. When he realizes they're not falling off, he asks you to fetch the brush and comb off his desk. You didn't expect him to be shirtless and lying on his stomach when you turned around with them in your hands.

As if he could sense you staring at him, he smiled. It was supposed to be innocent but he couldn't pull it off in this state. Something washed over the room again, palpable and heavy and swirling. His smile was beckoning and decadent and devious.

"What now?" you stood beside the bed awkwardly.

"Sit on me," he folds his arms and lays his chin upon his hands. Blushing, you straddle his waist. Malleus' back arches as your body touches his naked skin. It's mostly because the brush scrapes him and the comb whacks a scale but the tang of your embarrassment makes him want to buck into the sheets. Heart hammering and hormones surging, he buries his claws into the bed until it touches the fluff and foam underneath.

His breath hitches as the pinching sensation of scales breaching returns. There's a moment of tension as new scales push the old ones to the surface. The sensation of being too tight, too big for his current body returns. "Brush me," he hisses, feeling like his lungs can't expand all the way. "Gently," he warns as you start.

You brush in circles, watching in amazement as the scales seem to breathe with him. They're hard and shiny, a little unyielding, but clatter like gravel when they finally fall out. It's like holding a handful of black rocks. "Now use the comb and pull towards you," Malleus' shoulder rolls as you work the weird honeycomb-like thing over it. To your surprise, there's a fine layer of skin-like substance on it.

It's pebbly and indented with the impression of his old scales.

He gives a near-lecherous groan and you're amazed at how baby soft the new skin is.

"Does the shedding hurt?"

"It's uncomfortable," he admits. You notice a bit of sweat on his brow. "I explained it to Silver one year in attempt to make him feel better about his burgeoning puberty and he said it wasn't the same. Said it was more like eating too much during the holidays and desperately needing to undo your pants and vest but being too stuffed and tired to bother."

You laughed. Malleus did too, the noise low and smooth.

"How long does it take to shed?"

"Everyone is different. It can take up to a week sometimes. Silver and Lilia helped with my legs. All I have left are my arms and back. Our chests tend not to shed very much since it would be the underside of our dragon form and that's traditionally softer and not true scales."

"So what's with the comb and brush?"

"The brush stirs up the scales and exfoliates the old layer so the comb can take off the skin underneath. If you don't remove the skin, the new scales can't settle. Makes things itchy and uncomfortable." he clucks his tongue. You take the scales and strip of skin to the desk like he asks. You straddle him again but it doesn't feel awkward this time. Now you're in hunting mode, smoothing your hand along his shoulders and around his back to feel for edges of scales that need to come out.

Malleus bites his lip, pressing his face into the bed. He's never felt your hands on him this long. You inspire fire and lightning in him; he burns and he mourns and rejoices as the butterflies and bolts follow wherever you go. His muscles tremble under your touch and the effort to keep his thrall in check; the new limits of his body and magic aren't known yet and if he doesn't focus he could very well reduce you to a babbling mess that only he could quell.

Not that he'd mind.

He'd rather see you with his own eyes, though. Memorize your curves and the way you bend. Sevens help me, he breathes into the bed and bites back a moan. The smell of singed cotton and silk makes his nose wrinkle. Malleus inhales, sucking the heat back into his mouth so his bed doesn't burn.

"So how do I make more of them come out?" you're squeezing and poking and Malleus chuckles.

"They come out in their own time. There's a dragon clan that alleges shedding is controlled by emotions but we don't like to share our research with each other. You know, dragon things." Malleus shrugs.

The heady, blindsiding lust has subsided for the moment. He doesn't know how or why but he's grateful for it.

"If you don't share, how do you know?" you're playing with his hair now, running your fingers through it and braiding it.

"We host each other and need conversation. It's nothing more than bragging, really. Speculation at best." a smile twists his lips as he daydreams of showing you off during the next hosting. It's been a while since a dragon was known to take a purely human partner.

The rustling returns, a whisper of wind through grass, as a few rows of scales sprout beneath the nape of his neck.

He could consult with all the experts in the world and never know why you playing with his neck is more tender and dangerous than fiddling with his heart scale. His mind reels back to old paintings of ladies lying lovesick on chaise lounges and suddenly he understands. You brush and pluck and comb and Malleus sees why Lilia says the best ruler is a gentle ruler.

You are so benevolent and he's basically prostrating himself right now. Willingly. HIM, a DRAGON!

The tickle at his neck has him weirdly relaxed but his stomach tenses as you comb and move into his hairline. He blames it on the large bit of skin that came off, feeling his back open up as it stretches from nape and down the length of his spine.

You scooting yourself along his back probably has something to do with it, too.

His wings explode out of the glamour and it nearly pitches you off the bed. Now that the pressure and extra layer is gone, his wings are free. They're dark and leathery and a bit wet from the fluid between layers. That fluid helps push the new scales up and creates the protective seal common to dragon hide. Malleus is secretly glad for a break.

The feeling of your hands on him was divine torture. It evokes the cries of a beast deep within him, a tongue that he is just learning to speak for you. Those cries are both a plea and a promise to breed you pretty and he wants nothing more than--

"Look at all of 'em!" you're running your fingers along the scales near his sides and he's ready to rip a chunk out of his sheets with his long, hungry teeth.

"Mercy!" he teases. "Why don't I teach you to care for dragon wings instead, hm?" Malleus presses his cheek to the bed. Parts of his wings are thinner and he can feel your leg against them.

They could easily wrap around you. Make a nice little privacy curtain if he was on top.

He was deaf to the knock at his door but you weren't. Malleus frowns as your warmth and weight leaves him. The sound of clinking glass and something squishy and airy echoes in the room. He can't see it but he knows that squishy, airy sound is the horn covers he despises.

"You'll wear them and like it!" Lilia stomps his foot, tray rattling before he continues to the bed. He'd literally had to wrestle Malleus into these when he was little. They were enchanted slips that kept his horns from catching and spearing things when he slept. It also kept him from goring people in a fit of rage since they could only be taken off by the person who put them on. "If you don't, they'll go home!"

Fire began to crackle in his mouth but before Malleus could turn an ember into a blaze, Lilia jammed an open vial into his mouth. "Red to suppress the fire, green for the lightning, and yellow to maintain his human form." he explained. You were told to give him the yellow last since his wings had come out. Lilia taught you how to clean his wings, much to Malleus' chagrin.

He helped Malleus stand and circled him to assess the shedding progress. "Not bad, little one! You might be able to see by tomorrow at this rate!"

"I'm not little, Lilia." Malleus grumbled, the words sour in his mouth. "I am the future ruler of Briar Valley!"

"Still little compared to me!" Lilia teased. He seemed like he was in a much better mood. Maybe he was just worried that Malleus would hurt you in his current state. Malleus sat dejectedly, slumped over as he nursed the yellow potion while Lilia put on the horn covers. "Finish up and I'll get you ready for bed." he patted Malleus' head.

You were tasked with changing out candles you'd never noticed while Lilia took Malleus into the bathroom to change and whatever else he needed. The sun was high in the sky outside and you were shocked.

How long had you been fiddling with scales and skin?

The exhaustion hit you all at once. You felt the heaviness of your eyes, your head throbbing with sleep deprivation.

"To bed, you two. And no canoodling!" Lilia tucked you in. He pulled the ribbon on the curtain, leaving the room dark save for the candles glimmering softly around the room.

"To bed with you!" Malleus scoffed; he knew he was blushing and was glad your eyes hadn't adjusted yet. You giggled and he tucked himself childishly into your side, ears burning. Your clothes smelled faintly of the shower and your lotion. His lips brushed across your collarbone in the settling but you hadn't noticed.

All it once his jaw ached. The hunger ripped through him and his mouth watered. There would surely be no greater pleasure than to sink his teeth into the plush of you. Not to devour, but to sample and savor.

To map every dip and hollow with his lips as if it was his life's purpose.

The taste of you seemed to punch at his insides, causing his heart to flutter and his organs to twist in longing. In frustration. He didn't want the crumb, he wanted the whole meal. Thrall pounding in his veins, threatening to ooze from him, Malleus gnashed his teeth.

"Could you love me? Do you love me?" he rasped. His throat had suddenly run dry. Something in him whispered, begged, to trace your throat with his teeth as if it would restore his ability to speak. He did not--could not--until you answered.

"I do," you stumbled after some time. He could hear your mouth working to speak long before the words came out. Pinpoint the moment your breath hitched. Hell, he could tell you the direction your tongue rolled across your lips as they formed the words! "But there's different kinds of love and--"

Malleus couldn't see but he knew he was propped up on one arm and leaning over you. He could feel his hair tickling your cheeks. Hear your heartbeat increase.

"Do you love me the way that I love you?" he was so scared to ask. Even if his eyes could see, he wouldn't recognize the timid voice that came out of his mouth.

Somehow you've wound yourself around him and pushed him onto his back. The horn covers squeak cartoonishly, as they're designed to do when he makes contact with something. "You mean the way that involves dating and not being emotionally constipated?" you tease, smacking him in the chest.

He took the ribbing as confirmation and snorted at you. "Emotionally constipated? I beg your pardon?! We fae aren't meant to be straightforward! You of all people should know this!"

"And you should know that I can't read your mind. I don't know unless you tell me!"

"Fae don't tell, we court! And I've been courting you for a good while!" Malleus defended. "I'm pretty sure we'll hold a record and children will make fun of us for generations." he rolled his eyes, mumbling about being called Prince Prude.

"Have you now?" you cocked your head. What did fae consider courting, exactly? Lilia never really touched on the topic because each fae had their own way about it.

"Yes," Malleus answered, voice soft with adoration.

"And was the shedding part of that plan?"

"Well, it is an intimate thing." he looked away. "And I did miss you terribly," he rolled back over until you were both on your side. His milky eyes stared into yours and you swore you saw wisps of green in them.

He would never tell you but he needed the shedding to be honest. Not being able to see your reaction if you didn't feel the same was just a bonus. He could always blame it on the hormones since they govern the shedding and the pining.

"I missed you too," one hand smoothed up the arm that found its way across your waist. "Thought I was going to have to beat Sebek up to get some answers," you joked. "Maybe pull his hair."

He chuckles, snuggling down into the sheets. You know he can't see but he's staring at you through his lashes and it makes your legs weak. The air feels light and sweet and your tempted to lean forward and kiss him. Malleus' brows rise in anticipation and his lips pucker in the ghost of a kiss when he feels you hesitate; you're so close he can taste the twitch in your lips.

"What's wrong?"

"You're blind right now. Feels kind of wrong." he feels you squirm and something about the shyness in your voice sends heat licking through his body. He wants to say something about you also being blind in the dark room but his words fail him, drowned by the surge of desire to pin you underneath him and show you just how right it would feel.

He feels his human side pull him back, the taste of the yellow potion welling up on his tongue. "I give you permission." he hovers over you, lips desperate. "Now give me mercy. Give me purpose. Give me life."

You kiss him and Malleus groans breathlessly. Your lips are soft and warm and somehow steal his breath despite the fact that you're breathing into him. Against him.

The scales on his arms ripple violently, sounding like breaking branches. He pays them no mind as they scatter and flake off as your fingers dig into his arms. One kiss turns into three turns into you not being able to feel your mouth. Malleus seems to sense your lungs crying for air and peppers kisses along your gasping throat and heaving chest. Your hands move from his arms to his covered horns and you both freeze as they squeak like that obnoxious rubber chicken Lilia picked up on a whim.

Malleus doesn't know how he pulls it off considering Lilia was known for his speed and stealth but you manage to look semi-innocent when he flings the door open. The candlelight sparkles against the scales in the bed, Malleus holding one of your hands to the bicep above his head as the old skin hangs from the comb in your other hand.

When did he put that in your hand? How did he move you without you feeling it?

Lilia scans you both and it's the first time you've felt afraid. Something pushes back against that stabbing scrutiny and you wonder if Malleus threw a veil up. Though suspicious, Lilia relents and retreats for the night. He demands you get some sleep and says he needs some so don't wake him with any raucousness!

You breathe a sigh of relief and collapse against Malleus. He's beyond smug and you think you hear a purr. You start to chastise him and pause, hand sliding from his chest to his chin. He looks down at you with enchanting, ethereal green eyes.

They glow in the darkness of the room and you think they've gotten impossibly greener.

"You can see!" you whisper incredulously.

"And I intend to memorize," Malleus scoops you up in his arms, one hand ghosting along your back as the other cups your cheek and draws you close. You fall asleep wrapped up in one another, counting kisses instead of sheep.

You don't know how long you slept since Malleus kept the curtain down. The click of his polished shoes on the stone woke you. He looks the same as always and you wonder if anyone else in Diasomnia knows about the shedding. Malleus looked up from fussing with his cufflink, horns polished and on display. His smile is soft and toothy.

"Don't worry about school today, beloved. You're expected back tomorrow." he leans over to kiss your forehead.

You noticed he didn't say 'we' and give him a curious look. He pauses above you deliberately and you see a bandage under his chin. "You didn't!" you sit up so abruptly you nearly headbutt him. Malleus barely dodges and simply holds up your hand in response. The ring isn't heavy or gaudy but there's no mistaking the shiny, black thing at the center.

Warmth swirls through you and you feel something peaceful and joyous.

"My affliction persists so I've been granted an extended absence as long as I do my work and someone turns it in for me," he recites, eyes closed and bobbing his head matter-of-factly. Clearly Lilia fed everyone a story.

"Are you ever going to recover from your affliction?" you laugh, lounging back on the bed and looking at him.

Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something? 

“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.” 

Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s. 

And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him. 

So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.) 

And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink. 

But it hasn’t, and you haven’t. 

Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech. 

Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!

Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.

It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.

“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?” 

“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?” 

“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”

Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever. 

You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so. 

“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?” 

“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.” 

He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean. 

“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?” 

You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain. 

You hum. “Can’t remember.” 

“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.” 

Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?” 

Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad. 

Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders. 

“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?” 

You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.” 

“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!” 

You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.” 

What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.

Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles. 

It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve. 

It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this. 

“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”

Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”

“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.” 

But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart. 

“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.” 

Right, his borrowed human form. 

It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches. 

Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra. 

Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked. 

“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.” 

“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?” 

He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.” 

Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.” 

Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.” 

“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now. 

Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter. 

Fuck.

“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…” 

“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door. 

Surely, you can leave it at the door. 

On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal. 

“Is it super different?” you ask. 

“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?” 

“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.” 

“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…” 

You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really. 

“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”

For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance). 

“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”

He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.” 

Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon. 

But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand. 

And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.” 

“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking. 

His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t. 

“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?” 

“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.” 

“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.” 

“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level. 

“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water). 

You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you. 

For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink. 

It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted. 

A few seconds is a century. 

“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t. 

Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same? 

Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could. 

Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat. 

“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”

You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak. 

But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass. 

“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.” 

Baby? 

What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.

Anything? 

Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do. 

“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now. 

You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner. 

But you’re hardly prey.

His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?” 

Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him. 

Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.” 

You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more. 

Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look. 

“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining. 

You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers. 

You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly. 

“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”

You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit. 

“—feels real good if you touch it.” 

Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb. 

You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.” 

He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry. 

But he struggles to avoid scratching you up. 

“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?” 

You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—” 

He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.

“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”

“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. 

You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)

“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”

Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor. 

“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.” 

He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again. 

When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.

And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!” 

Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall. 

The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it. 

“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?” 

That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash. 

When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.” 

Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.” 

“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip. 

Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy. 

When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass. 

And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.” 

You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels. 

You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.” 

“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.” 

It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt. 

“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep. 

“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!” 

“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.” 

His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice. 

Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his. 

“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine. 

And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours. 

You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core. 

When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again. 

“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…” 

“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.” 

Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to. 

“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—” 

In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but 

the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling— 

“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?” 

“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other. 

Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.  

When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?” 

“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.

 ”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.” 

Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy… 

Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway— 

“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!” 

“The dorm has potential, sure,” He crossed his arms, a disapproving look on his face.

“But there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. Have you seen the wallpaper? It’s practically falling off the wall. Oh, and that’s not even covering the dust problem—“ Vil talked your ear off for about an hour or so. You let out a small sigh. “Alright. I’ll try to fix it up with the ghosts before all the boys get settled in.”

He nodded in response but didn’t comment, causing you to continue. You flashed him a nervous smile. “…At least it’s better than when I first settled in? We had to replace so much furniture. I think I slept on the floor a few times because my headboard for the bed broke and I didn’t have the couch yet.”

Your attempt to lighten up the conversation only caused Vil to look at you like you were insane. You swear you could see his eye twitching.

“…Uh huh. Just get it fixed up, Prefect.” “Rodger that!”

.

.

It was hard cleaning it up before the seven boys moved in. Mainly due to Vil’s high standards. Every time you’d show him what you changed, he’d scoff and say it could be better.

Very constructive criticism. Truly.

At this point, you were getting tired. You figured you might just settle for mediocre and tell them Ramshackle was ready.

You got to the dorm after school, letting your bags hit the floor with a sigh. Grim was out with Heartsbyul today. The ghosts rushed to greet you. “Prefect! Prefect!” They sounded more hurried than usual, but you didn’t think too hard about it.

“Hey. I think I’ve made up my mind about the whole VDC thing,” At your words, the ghosts shared looks between one another.

“About that—“ “I’m just going to let them move in already. I mean, the dorm’s nice enough for Deuce and Ace’s standards. And I’m sure Jamil and Kalim won’t really care.”

As you moved to go to your room, the ghost stopped you. Slightly concerned expressions stained their faces, causing you to raise a brow.

“With the VDC situation… we believe we’ve found a solution.”

You gave them a funny look, your eyes bouncing between the different ghosts. “What do you mean—?”

“Beauté!”

The eerily familiar voice echoed throughout the dorm. Your eyes widened as you swiftly turned around to see a certain French man standing at the end of the stairs. He enthusiastically smiled as he caught your gaze, tipping his hat towards you.

“Ah! Trickster! I am enthralled by the beauty of Ramshackle!”

“How did you—!?” You turned towards the ghosts, eyeing them suspiciously. “You guys let him in, huh?”

Like a bunch of dogs caught chewing on the couch, the ghosts’ eyes averted downwards as they gave you a guilty nod. You let out a tired sigh and moved to face Rook once more.

You stiffened as you realize he totally heard your plan to knowingly settle for mediocrity. Swiftly, you clasp your hands together and give him a pleading look. “Please don’t tell Vil what you heard!”

Rook let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “Non non! Though the sight of you pleading is rather pleasant, I’d never be so cruel!” He let his eyes travel across the room as he observed the furniture.

“This dorm is anything but mediocre! Ramshackle carries a brilliant atmosphere! So unique! So beautiful! You’ve done well with a place that was mere bolts and boards when you arrived!” You give him a small smile, appreciating the praise. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’s enough to really satisfy Vil.”

Rook let out a hum, nodding in acknowledgment. “Roi du Posion is one to never accept anything but the best. A truly admirable trait.”

His eyes sharply scanned the area. You don’t think you’ve seen anyone look at your dorm— or any room— as intensely as he was right now. A part of you was just glad he wasn’t looking at you. You would’ve melted under his gaze.

Rook broke the silence with an eager smile.

“May I propose an idea?” You raised a brow, cautious about what was going to come out of his mouth. Nonetheless, you nodded.

He leaned closer to you. “I am very well acquainted with Roi du Posion. It’d be an absolute honor to fancy up the dormitory for him!”

You went quiet, looking at him with slight disbelief. “You’re…offering to help?”

“Oui!” Shaking your head, you took a step back.

“Okay…? And what are you trying to get in return?”

After the whole Azul situation, you knew better than to believe that anyone at this school would want to help just to help. Rook’s grin widened at your question. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

“You’re quite intelligent, Trickster.” His hand went up to fiddle with the tip of his hat.

“In return for my help, I request unrestricted access to every room in Ramshackle.”

Out of all the things you were preparing to hear, you definitely did not expect that. For a moment you just stared at him before blinking in surprise. “Every room in Ramshackle? That’s it?”

Rook cheerily nodded. You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicion clear in your gaze.

“… Can I ask why?”

The vice housewarden laughed at the question. Unexpectedly, he gave you a light pat on the head. “Why? Why, because your little dorm is absolutely fascinating!”

Your eyes travel towards the living room; a dinky, little couch paired with a barely working TV and half broken table. A few rats in the corners chewed at the walls. Spider webs were hidden all throughout the place. You moved to sit on the couch, only for it to let out an embarrassingly loud squeak before a small spring flung out from the bottom.

"Fascinating is one way to put it..." You gave him a nervous smile which was returned with Rook's enthusiastic grin. He stared at you expectingly, making you shift in your seat. At least he didn't seem repulsed by the state of Ramshackle?

Having the help of Pomefiore's vice housewarden would certainly give you the best shot at satisfying Vil. Not to mention that another pair of hands would overall make everything easier...

"Sure. I don't see why not."

Rook's eyes lit up at your words. In the blink of an eye, you were suddenly pulled into a tight hug. Somehow it was just as suffocating, if not more, as Floyd's embraces. "Oh, merci! I promise this arrangement will spur no regret within you!"

You patted him on the back, letting out a small squeak. "Y-Yeah that's awesome, Rook. Could you let me go now?"

.

.

You were starting to regret this.

The next morning you awoke to a flash of sunlight on your face. "Ugh, Grim. Keep the curtains closed..." You grumbled, squirming in bed to find a spot where the sun wasn't directly on you.

Abruptly, the comfy blankets that kept you warm were ripped off of you in an instant. A cold breeze swiftly hit your body all at once.

"Grim!—" "Bonjour!"

You never sat up on your bed faster than now. Unfortunately, you were met with the dreadful sight of Rook standing at your window. He held the curtains open with that bright smile of his.

Right. You gave him unrestricted access.

"Rook?! Where's Grim?" Your head frantically searched around the room. The blonde man in your room seemed way too calm compared to you.

"I sent Monsieur Peluche on a... supply run. He shall be back shortly!" Before he could ask anymore questions— such as 'What the hell do you mean by supply run??'— Rook grabbed your arm and yanked you out of bed.

"Rise, Trickster! You mustn't sleep in! Up, up, up!" You groaned, trying to wiggle your arm out of his grasp.

This was going to be a long day.

Rook left your room, giving you privacy as you got ready for the day. Walking downstairs, you were surprised to see a plethora of cleaning supplies laid out on the living room table. A variety of different sprays, towels, dusters, mops, and brooms were sprawled out beside a tired-looking Grim.

You'd never seen so many cleaning items in your life. You had gotten accustomed to an old mop and bucket for most of your troubles. Maybe a spray bottle if you were feeling spicy.

"Oh là là! You did not disappoint, Monsieur Peluche!" Rook emerged from the kitchen, moving to stand next to you. Grim shot the blonde a dirty glare.

"Not like I had a choice! I just didn't want to get—" "We should get started! Ramshackle isn't going to clean itself!"

You couldn't help but giggle at Grim's misery. You'd repay him with a tuna can for his work later anyways.

It was refreshing to have another pair of helping hands, especially one that worked so fast. You were on dusting duty while Rook sprayed down the shelves and Grim mopped.

The ghosts peeked out, not expecting so much activity so early in the morning. Swiftly spotting them, Rook shot them a smile and wave. Though they were hesitant, they returned the favor.

There was one cobweb on the stairs you struggled to get. It was underneath one of the higher steps. A part of you told you to just leave it. Not like anyone would be checking under there anyways, right?

A bigger part of you told you that Vil would kill you if he saw a spider on the stairs. With a sigh, you glanced towards Grim and Rook.

"Hey, is there a stool or something I could stand on?" The two both turned to face you at those words. Grim gave you a lazy shrug before going back to mopping. Great help, truly.

Rook let out a small hum. "What for, Trickster? Are you planning something?" You couldn't help the small chuckle that left your throat at his question.

"Just trying to reach a cobweb. Does that count as 'planning something'?" Rook's smile widens as he laughs.

"Perhaps. Though, your plan is less devious than I had originally thought."

The banter is amusing, but the dust is starting to get to you. Your nose is practically killing you. Glancing around, you sigh at the lack of things to stand on. "It's fine I guess. I'll just grab a chair from the kitchen—!"

Suddenly, you feel a pair of arms on your waist. In the blink of an eye, Rook hoists you onto his shoulders like you weigh nothing. "Can you reach now?" His voice is way too innocent when compared to his actions. You didn't even hear him approach.

The added height was disorienting for a bit but you were quick to snap out of it as you were now face to face with the web. "Oh, uh— Yeah. I can."

Your voice is just a murmur as the feeling of Rook lightly squeezing your thighs with his hands sends a shiver throughout your body. You try to ignore it as you lean forward, swiftly swiping the web with your duster.

"Done! Could you put me down now?"

Rook gives your thighs another light squeeze as he shakes his head. "Surely there are other spots you cannot reach, Trickster. Allow me to accompany you until you finish them all."

Well, he wasn't wrong. There were spots you left dirty; telling yourself you'd come back to it later. It seemed like later was now. "... Alright then. To the kitchen!"

You'd continue to point in a direction for Rook to walk in so you could clean the harder to reach spots. The French man was more than happy to oblige, claiming that carrying you was an easy feat.

"How'd you get so strong anyways? I don't exactly see you training often." You mindlessly mused, swiping away dust from a closet corner.

"Oh là là, a curious one, aren't you?"

You shrug at his words, continuing to clean. It wasn't a question you expected an answer to. However, Rook caught you off guard when he spoke once more.

"I was in Savanaclaw prior to Pomfiore. Ask you may know, the king of beasts' dorm has a heavy emphasis on physical strength."

Your cleaning came to a halt as you glanced down at him, wide eyed.

"You were in Savanaclaw!?"

Rook laughed at your reaction, looking up at you.

"You're not the only one filled with surprises~"

.

.

Your wrist started to ache from mopping the floor for so long. Another day, another area to clean. This time it was the upstairs. You handled the hallways, mopping and drying every piece of wood.

It was taxing, but it had to be done. Grim had been complaining nonstop about his arm hurting, so you decided to take over mopping duty.

Rook was busy cleaning the doors. You could hear him spraying them down from a distance. With Grim's "hurt" arm, Rook had assigned him the responsibility of gathering any trash build up throughout the dorm.

Overall, it was a rather quiet day with each of you working diligently. Besides maybe Grim who got distracted by a rat in the trash.

"Trickster?"

You turned around at the familiar voice, already knowing who it was. He stood there, towel and spray in hand as he looked at you expectingly. You titled your head in confusion.

"Do you need something...?"

Rook laughed. "It seems as though you need something, Trickster. Look at your bucket."

Frustratingly enough, he was right. Your water and soap bucket was running low. "... More would be nice please." You murmured.

He looked satisfied, giving you a nod. "As I suspected. I'll be back shortly, Mon Amour."

You chuckled at the nickname, watching him move downstairs. Once he returned, he carried a huge container filled with the liquid for the mop. Despite you telling him that you could pour it yourself, he insisted on doing it. As he did, you decided to question him a bit.

"So... Mon Amour, huh? Where'd that come from?"

He glanced up at you, attempting to gauge your reaction to the name. "Ah, it just slipped. Why the question? Do you not like it, my dearest Trickster?"

You shrugged, watching the water and soap mix fall into the bucket.

"I'm neutral. Leaning towards disliking."

Rook let out an entertained chuckle. "Why the hostility?"

"I dunno. Just reminds me of those cheesy love novels. You know, the ones that try to be romantic but end up being barf worthy?"

He raised a brow at your comment, filling the bucket up to the brim before stopping. "I can't say I do. Is that something from your world?"

The mention of your original world made you pause. You fidgeted with the mop in your hands.

"Well— Maybe? I just assumed those kind of novels were universal. But I guess I haven't seen any of those books in Twisted Wonderland. There's definitely a chance this world just has better literature than mine." The thought makes you chuckle a bit. It seems like it also amused Rook too.

"If you don't mind me asking, could you tell me about some of those novels from your world? I'd like to better understand where you came from."

With that, you ended up going on a bit of a tangent about the books from your world. Whether or not you were an avid reader didn't matter, your world definitely had some notable and awful books.

Then the conversation moved from books to movies. Rook was quite the film nerd— explaining his semi-obsession with Vil. He listened intently as you talked and talked.

Then it went from movies to your family. He listened as you recalled what your home life was and how it made you the person you are today. In a way, it felt kinda therapeutic.

You never really took Rook for a good listener considering he was often the one going on tangents. However, with the roles flipped, you confided with Rook about things you haven't even told Grim.

Not much cleaning got done that night. But Rook gave you a rub on the back and told you how truly fascinating you were.

For some reason, it felt comforting to know someone thought of you that way.

.

.

The days where they would move into the VDC came closer and closer.

With Rook's help, the entire downstairs was squeaky clean. If you didn't do some of the cleaning yourself, you'd think it was done by a professional maid.

Ramshackle had never looked better. The ghosts gave small nods of approval as you passed them.

The upstairs was pretty much clean. All the hallways shimmered and shined. Rook even took the liberty to add a few nice vases and paintings.

You were weary— Grim had an awful tendency of breaking nice things— but Rook had looked so eager to add them it was hard to refuse.

You still weren't sure what Rook gained from having unrestricted access to Ramshackle. He's looked through some of your boxes and photo albums, but they weren't anything special. Just a few polaroids of you with Grim or some of the other first years.

At the corner of your eye you might've spotted Rook pocketing a few of the pictures.

You didn't call him out on it.

It doesn't bother you anymore. The fact he could go anywhere in your house creeped you out at first, but you started to get used to it.

He became somewhat of a roommate to you; appearing at different spots of the house. You even started to find some of his stuff lying around.

Notably, he left his violet, Pomfiore robe folded on top of your room drawer…

Your impulse control could use some work with the way you immediately grabbed it to try it on.

It was mere curiosity! Ramshackle didn't have any fancy dorm uniform and you wanted to see how it'd feel wearing one!

"Trickster, are you ready to begin another day—" Rook opened the door to your room, his eyes widening at the sight in front of him.

A wide grin soon appeared on his face. He stepped into the room, leaning against the doorframe. "Beauté~"

Embarrassed at getting caught, you swiftly tug off the robe and hand it back to him. Clearing your throat awkwardly, you give him a sorry smile.

"Uh—! I... don't know why I did that. Sorry! Just... wanted to try it I guess."

Your stuttering only seemed to add onto his amusement. He shook his head as he took the robe from your hands. Surprisingly, he wrapped it back around your shoulders.

"Non non. It suits you well."

Rook gives you a pat on the head, his fingers running through your hair.

“We still have the bedrooms to clean. They move in tomorrow. Don’t get distracted now, Mon Amour~”

Something about the way he said that nickname now felt... different. More intimate. It kinda makes your brain malfunction but you try not to think too hard about it.

Rook was right. They moved in tomorrow. You had to make sure it was ready for them. Ready for Vil. No time to get distracted by Rook.

With a nod, you and Rook grab the supplies and start immediately. Grim left to tag along with some scheme Ruggie had going on, so today it was just the two of you.

While you cleaned one room, Rook did the other. There were four guest rooms, leaving an even two and two for each of you to do.

The ghosts would appear and disappear sporadically, so you never really knew when they were going to be here to help.

They also had quite the rebellious streak. Something you'd learn firsthand. Multiple times.

As you fixed the sheets on one of the beds, smoothening it out, one of the ghosts abruptly appeared from the headrest. They lunged toward you, arms out. Naturally, you screamed because what the hell.

The ghost laughed at your reaction, floating behind you as you groaned. "Really? Was that necessary?"

With a shrug, the ghost circled around you. You sighed.

"You think you could move the boxes out of here and into the storage room? I'm almost done cleaning." The ghost complied, bringing down a few of the boxes in no time.

"What's going on between you and the huntsman?" A meek voice asked from beneath the bed. Another ghost. Seemed like they were hiding all over this bed today. You shook your head.

"Nothing. I consider him a good friend? He's helped me a lot these past days."

The ghost moving the boxes let out a huff as they delivered the last one. "He sure is gettin' comfy here."

You shrugged, fluffing the pillows. "It was part of our deal so that doesn't really bug me."

Moving from out under the bed, the shy ghost tilted their head at you. "Is that the reason you don't mind? Or something else?"

That causes you to pause, raising a brow as you registered the ghost's words.

"... What're you trying to say?" "Nothing. Just word for thought."

.

.

"That was the last room! We're officially done! Yes!"

You excitedly announced as you and Rook walked down the stairs. Plopping down on the couch stomach first, you let out a sigh mixed with relief and exhaustion. Rook let out an amused laugh, taking a seat beside you.

"Indeed, Trickster. I'm sure Roi du Posion will be pleased once he sees how far your humble abode has come."

You roll onto your back, glancing towards the blonde with a smile.

"Thanks for all the help... Really. I couldn't have done it without you."

Rook waved his hand, returning your smile with his own.

"Non non! It was my pleasure. I've learned plenty about Ramshackle, Grim, and you, my dearest Trickster~! It was time well spent."

In your defense, you were tired and not really thinking straight. You didn't register the comment till it slipped from your lips.

"Aw, no more Mon Amour? Darn. I'll miss it."

Rook paused, raising a brow. Realizing what you just said, you let out a groan and hid your face in one of the couch pillows.

"... I didn't mean it like that—" "Then what did you mean?"

He leaned closer to you, his grin widening. Rook had you like a cornered animal. And he loved it.

"Just... Uh..." Think, Prefect, think!

"I like the way you say it is all?"

Rook nodded, his hand brushing over yours. "I see. You enjoy my voice then? Merci."

Of course he had to find a way to still make it embarrassing. Another groan escaped your lips. You shifted on the couch so that your back was facing Rook. He found this amusing.

"Merveilleux, Trickster. You continue to be simply amazing. Truly. I'll dearly miss this once the VDC concludes."

That had you perking up. Oh, yeah. With the VDC coming and ending, you won't be around Rook all the time anymore. The thought saddened you a bit.

For as obnoxious as he could be sometimes... you've grown to like his presence.

You sit up, the pillow now in your lap as you glance towards Rook.

"Feel free to stop by Ramshackle whenever you like! I seriously owe you for everything you've done. Maybe someday I'll come over and help around Pomefiore?"

He glanced out the window, considering your words with a small hum. His hand brushed against yours. Except this time, he let it linger.

"What if it wasn't a prank, though? What then?" you leaned in a bit closer subconsciously, reveling in the redness of his face. "T-Then... then...." he seemed to be running out of words.

He looked like he was about to pass out and you tried to gently grab his shoulder to ground him but as soon as your fingertips touched his shoulder, he squealed and ran away, slamming the door behind him.

"Well. I'm gonna take that as a 'I like you, too'." you shrugged after a few seconds of shocked silence.

(He texted you a few hours later, admitting all too casually that he does, in fact, like you too. You imagine he must have debated for a long time about sending that text.)

𝓓𝓮𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝓢𝓹𝓪𝓭𝓮

"Hear me out... Tigress from Kung Fu Panda."

"No, no, I hear you." you said, nodding your head thoughtfully. To be honest, you were a mess internally, hyping yourself up for the past 5 minutes.

Deuce had even asked you if you were okay before the two of you began playing, noticing your nervousness. You cursed yourself out internally for not hiding it better.

He looked at you expectantly and you pursed your lips, taking a deep breath. You stabbed the cake with the skewer. "HEAR ME OUT. YOU." you said a lot louder than you intended to, cheeks heating up.

Deuce's mouth dropped open and he leaned over the table to get a look at the image on the skewer, just to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

"Me?!" he seemed genuinely surprised, staring at you with wide eyes.

"Uh, um... yeah." you smiled awkwardly, twiddling your thumbs underneath the table. You weren't exactly sure how he would respond, since he's never dropped a hint before (at least not one you've picked up).

"....Can you pinch me?" he asked with a completely serious expression, and you laughed awkwardly, reaching up to pinch his arm. "Oh, shit. I'm not dreaming."

He grabbed you by your upper arms, staring at you with a strange intensity. "Can I... take this as, y'know, a confession?" You could feel his hands trembling slightly, but you weren't going to judge because so are yours.

"Yeah. I guess you can." you whispered. "So, how are we feeling about... that?"

"Great. Really really great." Deuce smiled widely and you smiled back. Confessing is much less romantic than the movies, that's for sure. But that isn't neccesarily a bad thing.

"I feel really really great too." you confirmed.

"By the way, you're not gonna post that on Magicam, are you?" he asked sheepishly, letting you go and scratching the side of his neck.

"Ah, no, no. It was just to trick you into thinking it's a normal game." you admitted, looking towards your phone screen which was still recording. "But I might just save it for personal purposes."

"Please don't." Deuce's cheeks dusted pink.

𝓜𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓾𝓼 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓪

"It's your turn." you motion towards the cake with your right hand, turning to face Malleus.

"What a peculiar... being you are attracted to." Malleus comments, looking at the character currently piked into the cake.

"That's the whole point." you laugh a little at his genuine comment. You never thought that Malleus would actually agree to do this with you, to be honest.

He can't even use a phone properly, so you couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of strange childhood crush he'd have since he probably grew up without a TV.

But he did seem very enthusiastic when you explained the way the game is played, so who were you to question his ability to participate in it? He must have at least one strange childhood crush. Maybe from a picture book, or something.

As he places the first character into the cake, your eyes widen.

It's you.

"M... Malleus." You heave out, nonplussed, not sure if you want to silently place the skewer with his visage next to the one with yours, or if you want to scream and freak out and die on the spot.

"That's... not how you play the game. The character is supposed to be fictional." is what you settled on, hoping to every god there is that you don't look completely flustered right now.

"But you said I must obtain images of someone strange that I am secretly attracted to." Malleus smiled at you, clearly proud of himself.

(You wonder how many attempts it took to get the printer to work for him.)

You're not sure whether you should laugh or cry right now. "How am I... strange?" You force out, way too flustered to say anything more.

"Is it not strange for me to harbor such feelings of admiration towards a mere child of man?"

Oh, right, sometimes you forget that Malleus is royalty from a land which still finds relationships with humans scandalous to some degree. You nod, still dumbfounded that he accidentally beat you to your own confession.

You can't take the awkward silence anymore so you stick the skewer with Malleus on it inside the cake in one swift motion.

"I also have a strange being I'm secretly in love with." You shot back at him, a little debilitated by your shaking hands.

All Malleus did in response was start laughing heartily, which only made your face heat up even more. Nevertheless, his laughter is a sound with a very welcome ring to it.

"I thought you said that's not how this game is played." He teased you with his signature grin. He seems overjoyed at this moment.

"Yeah, well, I was going to... ugh. Fine, you beat me to it." You felt too awkward to meet his gaze, but you could definitely feel it on you.

"I see. You are surprisingly bold, sometimes." he said thoughtfully, as if he sees you in a completely different light, now.

"So, do we like... make out now, or whatever?" you suggested (half-) jokingly.

"What is 'making out'?" He asked genuinely.

The halls of Pomefiore were unusually still that afternoon, as if the dorm itself held its breath.

Sunlight spilled through Vil’s dorm room windows, the sheer curtains catching golden rays and softening them across marble floors and sleek countertops. The air smelled faintly of roses and white tea, Vil’s signature blend, subtle and refined. Everything in the room was precisely arranged: perfumes categorized by base notes, makeup tools glinting in spotless trays, a single crystal water pitcher catching the light like cut diamonds.

Y/N sat on the velvet stool at his vanity, legs tucked politely, posture naturally poised.

She didn’t fidget. Not out of fear, never fear, but because this room, this moment, felt too delicate to disturb.

Vil stood behind her with practiced ease, sleeves rolled to his forearms, gloved hands moving with quiet control. He was a vision of sculpted calm, yet his violet eyes, sharp, unreadable, betrayed an unusual focus. Not on her skin, not on the techniques he’d practiced since childhood, but.. on her. The stillness of her breathing. The quiet flutter of her lashes. The shape of her lips, unpainted.

“Close your eyes,” he said, his tone polished but soft. “Unless you want me to accidentally stab your eye with a brush.”

A tiny smile touched Y/N’s lips. “I’d prefer not to lose an eye today.”

He hummed lowly, approving, almost amused and dipped the brush into his preferred primer. As he worked, the pads of his fingers barely ghosted over her cheekbones. His touch was featherlight, careful. Surgical. And yet.. There was tension.

Not in the room.

In him.

Vil was always composed, always perfect. But lately, when it came to Y/N, he found himself slipping. A thought lingering too long. A compliment escaping his lips before he could catch it. A glance that lasted a second more than it should.

He hated it.

And yet.. he was drawn to it.

“Your skin absorbs product very evenly,” he murmured, brush sweeping from the center of her forehead outward. “You take good care of yourself.”

Y/N opened one eye to look at him in the mirror. “You sound surprised.”

His lips twitched. “Not surprised. Merely pleased.”

And then... there it was again. That flicker of something in her expression. She held his gaze a second too long, and his fingers halted mid-stroke.

Vil turned away, swiftly reaching for the foundation like nothing happened.

He couldn’t afford distraction.

Not when her presence pulled at something inside him that he didn’t want to name.

Vil Schoenheit didn’t fall in love. He chose.

He admired. He respected. He tested people, examined their discipline, their presentation, their will to elevate themselves. That’s what beauty was: earned, sculpted, controlled.

But with Y/N, it wasn’t control that drew him. It was the way she didn’t try to be noticed and yet, he always noticed her.

When she walked into a room, she didn’t demand attention. She simply held it, like a quiet song that refused to leave your mind.

She didn’t shower him with flattery. She asked insightful questions. Listened carefully. Spoke when she meant something. She didn’t try to impress him, but she did, effortlessly.

And worst of all.. She looked at him like he was more than his beauty.

It was infuriating.

And frightening.

“Eyes closed,” he reminded, voice a touch more stern now, as he reached for the eyeshadow palette. “Head slightly up.”

She obeyed. He let the silence stretch a few moments as he dipped his brush into a pale gold shimmer.

Vil focused, but he could feel the heat of her skin under his gloved hand. His palm settled lightly under her chin to steady her, and his thumb brushed the underside just barely.

A flicker of awareness raced down his spine.

He scolded himself internally. You’re being unprofessional. This is a simple application. Keep it clean. Keep it simple.

But nothing felt simple with her.

“You know,” Y/N said quietly, as he blended the shimmer into her lids, “You don’t always have to hide how you’re feeling.”

His brush paused. Just for a breath.

“Excuse me?”

“You always seem so carefully put together. But I see how your shoulders tense when something bothers you. Or how your smile doesn’t reach your eyes some days.”

Vil’s chest tightened, subtly.

Of course she noticed.

She always did.

“..Feelings are secondary to results,” he said smoothly, trying to put distance between them with words. “I have responsibilities. Image, discipline—”

“You’re allowed to be human, Vil.”

She said it so gently. Not like pity. Like permission.

His hand dropped from her face slowly.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He simply looked at her reflection. Her eyes still closed. Her brows relaxed. Trusting him.

How infuriating.

How enchanting.

He finished the eyeshadow in silence. Then, with a practiced motion, reached for a gloss, soft pink with a barely-there shimmer. He held it up.

“...May I?”

Y/N looked up at him. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

He tilted her chin again. This time slower. He applied the gloss with calculated care, his face inches from hers. Her lips parted ever so slightly, breath catching in her throat.

He cursed his heartbeat.

And when his gloved thumb accidentally brushed the corner of her mouth, barely, he felt her inhale. Just faintly.

Vil stepped back too quickly. The gloss clicked back into place with more force than necessary.

“..It’s done.”

She turned to the mirror.

Her reflection stole her breath.

The look was subtle, soft, glowing. Like moonlight on water. Elegant, but natural. She looked, felt, like a version of herself she hadn’t seen before.

“...Vil,” she said, stunned. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”

Vil stood behind her, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You always could,” he said quietly. “You just don’t always see what I do.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.

It lingered.

Too long.

He looked away first.

Vil turned sharply toward his desk, pretending to sort through a set of clean brushes. Anything to busy his hands.

“Beauty,” he said with clipped precision, “is about refinement. Not deception. You didn’t need the makeup. I simply revealed what was already there.”

But his voice was thinner now. Strained around the edges. Because every word he said.. was also about how he felt. About her.

And he hated that she made him falter.

Hated that she made him feel.

Y/N rose from the stool, still watching him.

“Thank you, Vil.”

He didn’t turn.

“Don’t thank me. Just wear the look with pride. That’s your task now.”

But the way his voice softened near the end, it wasn’t command. It was quiet hope.

She lingered a moment longer, then stepped toward the door.

And as she reached for the handle, she paused.

“Vil?”

“..Yes?”

“I see what you do too. Even when you try to hide it.”

Then she left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Vil stared at the empty space she’d just filled, lips parted, expression unreadable. A thousand thoughts behind those violet eyes.

He lowered his gaze and whispered to himself—

“...This won’t end well.”