#colawrites

Trey thinks of all the times you’ve called him a pushover (affectionate). As if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. How could you look him in the eye for four years and tell him to be more open, when you’ve been allowing an entire campus call you by the wrong name? Is he really the laid back one in this relationship here? God it’s ‘the girl with the green ribbon’ story all over again. When was he going to find out, when you’re both senile in a nursing home?

“Your name is … nice?" He adjusts his glasses slightly, if not a bit awkward. "I don’t know how I’m supposed to react in this situation. Just give me a second. Maybe sixty.”

Deuce is stuck remembering all the times he’s doodled your name in the margines of his notebook. He feels a bit slighted, did you not trust him? Did you think he wouldn’t believe you if you told him the truth? What’s he going to tell his mom? It already took a hour to convince her that ‘Yuu’ was your actual name and not some sick joke. You made him a liar! Dylla is not going to let him live this down. It’s 100% being mentioned to every party guest at your wedding and in her speech too.

“I already told my mom your name was Yuu!" He groans loudly, genuinely distressed "Do you know how hard that was to explain? Stop — stop laughing damn it! She is never going to forget this!”

Ace. Who doesn’t care. You’re ‘Yuu’. It’s what he’s called you these past four years and what he’ll keep calling you until the day you die. If you had a problem with it, you should’ve correct him before. Sorry, not sorry (secretly a bit miffed). Jokes aside — he takes absolutely no time getting over it and just mashes the names together into a nickname that sounds new levels of wrong. That becomes your permanent title.

“You just let me look stupid all this time, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s messed up. So…do I get to pick now, or are we pitching names in magnets on the fridge like you’re a newborn? ‘Cause I’m cool with either.”

Leona is drifting through every thought he has ever had about you for the past for years. Your name spoken in his dreams, stuck on his tongue each time he watched you walk away. Etched in his eyelids and written in the red glow when sun blinds him awake in the morning. Spoken from his chest during moments of binding intimacy. All those moments now tainted by that damned Crow. He’s pissed you never once corrected him. Out of spite, you lose name privileges for an entire day. That old title of ‘herbivore’ coming back after a three year drought. In truth, he’s just buying a bit of time to figure himself out. Even though you’re the one who let him, calling you by the wrong name is a disrespect he cannot believe you allowed an entire campus get away with.

“Tch. So all this time, you let everyone get your name wrong and just sat there. If it bothered you, you should’ve said something.” He clicks his tongue, looking away. “You know what? Fine. Don’t make me out as the idiot for taking you at your word, herbivore.”

Ruggie writes your name on a piece of notebook paper and clips it to your collar. Makes sure to do it in the biggest red marker he can find too, so people know exactly what they’re seeing. He’s got secrets, yeah. Sure. Not from you though. Did you seriously expect him to take one look at that file and let it go? Do you have any idea how important it is to have your documents right (or at least convincing forgeries)? Never-mind that you’ve had him write home to his Grandma about you with the wrong name. For four years. She’s actually going to kill him for this. You are aware that hyena households are matriarchal, right?

“You know how hard it is to keep paperwork straight?” He taps the file against your head like it is obvious. “If you were gonna be all mysterious, you could’ve picked a better time. Sheesh. Gran's gonna have my tail for this...”

Jack can’t stop staring. His whole body went stiff and he forgot that it was just supposed to be a subtle glance over your shoulder. Now there’s this hunk of meat breathing down your neck, looming there like the words will change if he stares hard enough — because how. How do you go four years with someone and not tell them your real name? He feels even worse once you tell him the reason why you let everyone call you ‘Yuu’.

“…Oh.” His ears twitch, and his terse expression softens when you explain why you didn’t correct anyone. “So that’s why, huh.” A pause. “I get why you did it, but I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me sooner. We could've set the record straight together. as a team.”

Azul dumps all your name-tags out on his desk for prime viewing. Mostro Lounge. Sams. Student ID. Newspaper Club ID. He does the same for all your old documentations. Train tickets, movie stubs, class schedules, etc. Don’t ask why he has these. Definitely not because they’re the only proof that you exist. Anyways. What do they all say? Oh, ‘Yuu’? And what is your name? Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Never-mind that you could’ve used this to cheese him out of a contract. He can’t believe you’ve held such an Ace up your sleeve and did not use it once.

“Fascinating. You had the perfect loophole and chose not to exploit it.” He exhales, somewhere between impressed and irritated. “I don’t know whether to applaud your restraint or question your judgment.”

Jade just found out your dirty little secret. He always had an inkling that you were hiding something from him. Yet the sense he got was unlike that of debtors intentionally fabricating stories. To him, a name is but a string of letters. Although this is good to know for when binding matters are concerned.

“I had wondered what you were withholding.” Jade chuckles into his closed fist. “But I must admit, I did not expect it to be something so straightforward.”

Floyd gets your last name and then instantly forgets it. Kidding! Does it really matter, when your last name is going to be ‘Leech’ anyway? For a long time he assumed you didn’t have one and was already content with sharing. Your first name is interesting. He thinks Crowley sucks for making an entire campus call you by somethin’ you’re not…but to Floyd, you’re always going to be ‘Shrimpy’. (He uses your given name often later on. Azul is Azul. Jade is Jade. When the time comes, you will be yourself too.)

“Hehe, that’s so weird. I thought you just didn’t have one, like a stray or somethin’.” Floyd grins, leaning closer. “Your last name’s gonna be Leech soon anyway, so who cares?”

Kalim feels guilty. Like the kind of guilt that gets passed down six generations. Despite his large family, he's made an effort to learn the names of all his siblings and cousins. Yet he's been addressing the literal love of his life as a pronoun?! You might think it's hilarious but this sweet summer child has an existential crisis. Naturally he'll laugh it off if you do, but it's like he's 16 again and there are important things about the people he cares about flying over his head. For the next week, expect him to overuse your name. Although, he is a bit sad. He's called you 'Yuu' for so long and he can't exactly forget how much love was poured into each time he spoke it. He still calls you Yuu sometimes out of habit, catches himself, then laughs it off, switching back and forth without much care.

“Wait—so I’ve just been calling you the wrong name this whole time?!” He laughs, a little too loud to sound natural. “No way — say it again, we can start over! Hi, I'm Kalim 'Al Asim. It's nice to meet you!”

Jamil is wondering how you've managed to survive this long. He knows for a fact that you've been to the doctor. Mainly because it was his butt seated in the waiting room with the same six shoddy pop-songs stuck on loop for two hours. Pure torture but necessary since you apparently had to be forced there. So just...why didn't you correct him when filling out forms back then? Better yet, why didn't you correct him at literally any point in time? It's been four years. Even if you were apprehensive at first for very valid reasons....seriously? This is how he finds out? He's honestly impressed you can keep a secret, considering you text him about eggshells in your cake or when someone sneezed a fart during class. Someone...help him.

“Four years.” He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ll tell me every minor detail of your life, but this is what you decide to keep to yourself?”

Epel does a spit take. You’ll need to request a new, laminated copy, alongside a change of shirt. This one’s been drenched in apple juice and crumpled from when he all but snatched the papers from your hands. Subtly be damned — you mean to tell him he’s been simpering and whimpering over the wrong name for four long years? What if he got it tattooed on his blastcycle?! Or carved into a ring box, huh?! Ah. No. He wasn’t going to do that. Forget everything he just said! Hells…if he wasn’t close to graduating too, he’d take the detention just to tell Crowley off. How the heck could you let this sort of thing go!

“What do you mean that ain’t your real name?!” He coughs, then wipes at the mess on his shirt with a horrified look. “Hells, I knew Crowley was negligent, but this is ridiculous. You’re lucky I’m tryin’ not to get detention, else I ought to go have a word with 'im myself."

Rook cannot believe there was something about you that he did not know. He resigned the knowledge of your last name to time and convenience — but to mistake your first? The revelation is both a thrilling miracle and an utter travesty! The mere thought that you haven’t spoken your own name in four years? Oh, you know his heart is shattered when not a word of purple prose escapes him. Yet he cannot sulk. No. The name ‘Yuu’ is still so special. It is the name that dots every love letter, every thought, every passion that has consumed him for four years. He welcomes your birth name as the dawn of a new era, seeing you as a vibrant blossom finally in bloom within Twisted Wonderland.

"Je te vois, mon cher, and yet there was still a part of you I had not known.” He closes his eyes for a moment, almost savoring the revelation. “A secret so intimate, so tenderly kept, and now at last revealed to the one who adores every facet of you.”

Vil loses his decorum for a brief moment. The documents are plucked from your hands, his unoccupied one grasps your bicep so that you don’t just run off on him. He points to the nearest chair and makes you sit while he skims through all of NRC’s paperwork. Your personal details are not his business and Vil is all for privacy…but he honestly has no idea what you were thinking. You do understand that you have the right to stand up for yourself, yes? Even if you wished to keep being called ‘Yuu’ — which based on your story, he assumes is false, did you not think to tell your lover? It seems a discussion about confidence is due…and an aspirin. Maybe two.

“Even if you tolerated it, why would you not correct me?” His eyes narrow slightly. “Confidence is not optional, especially when it concerns your own identity.”

Idia short circuits. His palms are moister than they get after a 24hr code jam. Not even the time crunch of a same-day deadline can get him like this. He really is the worst boyfriend in existence. Not only did it take years for you to receive proper documentation — y’know, proof of your existence so you can’t just go ‘poof’ on him someday? But to be called something like ‘Yuu’ which he is realizing in real time is just ‘You’. Wow. That’s so messed up. Why are you with him? Why didn’t you correct him? Why didn’t he think to check your stats before? Holy shit. Keyboard smash in his chest and everything.

“W-Wait—so ‘Yuu’ is literally just… ‘you’?” He stares at you like his brain just blue-screened. “How did I not catch that? I’ve min-maxed entire RPGs but couldn’t fact-check my own relationship? — god, what is wrong with me?!”

Malleus wanes as if his entire world has been flipped upside down. You were his first friend. His first and last love. Yet he cannot be remiss with you for holding your name close to your heart. He did the same when you first met, after all. Except Malleus’ ruse lasted some months while yours has held strong this entire relationship. Malleus cannot believe he’s been completely in the dark for four years. What bothers him most is that you may have gone forever without sharing this with him. Names are bonding for fae. Did you intend to bind yourself to his one day, but not allow him to do the same? Don’t bother checking the weather forecast. A monsoon is on the way with three days of heavy rain.

“Ah… I see.” He studies you with a look steady, almost aching. “Your name is not a small thing, child of man. It is a part of you, and I wish I had been worthy of cherishing it sooner.. You need not fear giving it to me now. Whether you are called by the name this world gave you or the one you were born with, I will always know exactly who stands before me.”

Lilia plays it in good fun. Anytime someone asks after ‘Yuu’, he plays dumb. Even if you’re right there. One of his little students asks about his partner? Oh, sorry dearie. They’re not around anymore but have you met my new sweetheart? Then he introduces you by your given name, and suddenly you have to explain to a class of five year olds that their teacher is a jerk who will not be getting the lunch you’ve come to drop off. Lilia’s another one who doesn’t hold himself too harshly for not knowing. Names hold power, yes. Although he’s begun to accept that one such as ‘Vanrouge’ can be desired, even though it is stained in unfathomable amounts of blood. He is just waiting for you to accept it.

“If it makes you feel better, I shall pretend to be scandalized for your sake.” He grins, utterly delighted. “But between us, dearie? I rather like that I can get to know you all over again.”

Sebek deems this as a betrayal. You could point out to him that for the first year you both spent together, he hardly used your name at all. You corrected him for calling you ‘human’ countless times back then and yet he never listened until reality slapped him in the face. Even now he still relapses on occasion, to which he apologizes. Except that reminder would only serve to upset him further. Sebek expects you to hold him at the highest regard. Even if the entire world calls you ‘Yuu’ and you were okay with it, as your partner it is his responsibility to ensure you are not just satisfied, but comfortable. Uplifted. Your name is your legacy. Wear it with pride.

“You should have corrected everyone immediately!” He’s already halfway to pacing. “No, do not look at me like that. This is a matter of honor, as your true name is part of your dignity. You will not be forced to wear a name that is not yours if I have anything to say about it."

Silver is overcome with a deep sense of melancholy. For most of his life, he went without a last name. Which is why seeing ‘Vanrougue’ written next to his person is still an adjustment. A fond one, but an adjustment nonetheless. Yet this overwhelming sensation is actually attributed to the fact that with the name ‘Vanrouge,’ it was like the world finally recognized him. He wonders how you must have felt to be given a new name in a new place and thrust into this new life. ‘Yuu’ is just one piece of who you are. He wants to know the person behind your true name. To see all of you.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, watching the tsum flatten itself against the side of a fallen log and wiggle forward with impressive determination. “But I do believe that particular specimen is beyond our needs.”

The tsum had found a line of mushroom logs fenced in with wire — carefully tended, marked, and, from the looks of it, very much not part of the foraging route he had planned. Jade would know. He was the one to aid the owner in setting them up. His tsum pressed its tiny face against the mesh as though sheer will might allow it to slip through. A soft, eager squeak escaped it, followed by another, as if it were quite certain the mushrooms inside were being unfairly withheld from it.

Jade crouched, one knee brushing the damp earth, and lifted the tsum before it could be skewered. It fit neatly in his palm. “Those are not for picking,” he said, his tone pleasantly chiding. “They belong to yours and mine neighbor. We cannot disturb them.”

The tsum blinked up at him, a proverbial question mark on its forehead.

“To the person living in that dorm,” Jade clarified, tilting his head toward Ramshackle’s roofline visible between the trees. “I would hate for you to disturb their cultivation efforts. I hear they have been trying to grow morels.” His smile sharpened just a touch. “How unfortunate it would be if someone ruined all that work, hm?”

At the mention of you, the tsum perked so suddenly Jade almost laughed.

Its little body quivered in his palm, round eyes brightening with immediate interest, and it gave a high, delighted squeak that was entirely unlike the disgruntled noise it had made a moment ago. 

Jade’s gaze lingered. Ah. So your name held weight to this version of him as well. How…cute.

Before he could do more than consider the implications, the tsum wriggled free of his hold with surprising force, popped into the air, and landed with a soft bounce in the grass. It faced Ramshackle like it was summoned by the thought of you, then shot off before Jade could think to snatch it back up.

Jade straightened slowly, his basket swaying at his side.

He did not move to follow. Why should he?

Instead, he watched the path his tsum had taken and let a quiet, knowing smile touch his mouth.

How convenient.

He had, after all, been looking for a reason to stop by Ramshackle. Unprompted visits were the most fun when in your company. 

The tsum’s sudden interest in you simply made it more…hm, socially acceptable? Not that Jade cared for adhering to such things. 

-

Jade was, in hindsight, mildly disappointed in his own judgment.

He allowed the little thing to run off in the direction of Ramshackle with far too much confidence and not nearly enough supervision. In his defense, the Tsum had been stubborn, quick, and annoyingly determined once it had decided on its destination. In his further defense, he assumed it would behave at least a little bit like himself.

It had done no such thing.

By the time a half hour had passed, Jade made up his mind to search for it with a suitably worried expression and a very carefully measured pace. He gave the impression of someone responsibly checking on a missing companion rather than someone who had absolutely let the situation happen on purpose.

By the time he reached Ramshackle’s backyard, he was ready to play the part.

He lifted a hand to his chest, brows drawn just enough to seem concerned as he approached the line where laundry fluttered in the breeze. “How troubling,” he murmured to himself, loud enough to be heard. “I do hope my Tsum has not caused you any trouble.”

Then he stepped around the corner and expected to find you waiting with tsum in hand.

Yet, there his Tsum was, face-down in your clean laundry like a lazy, overaffectionate cat.

For a full second, Jade simply gawked.

The tiny thing was half-buried in a basket of freshly washed clothes, its little body squished into a pile of folded fabric. Every so often it would wiggle, squeak, and then burrow deeper like it had found the best place in the world and meant to die there. It looked nothing like the neat, composed little helper it had been when they started the day. It looked, rather, like a hopelessly spoiled creature.

Jade’s eyes narrowed to waning slits. 

You looked up from clipping socks to a clothesline as he came closer, and his expression smoothed into something more pallatable. Naturally, you greeted him first, like you were the one in the middle of a perfectly normal afternoon and not someone being ambushed by a clingy pillow with his face.

“Jade!” you perked, gleefully easy and warm. “I was just about to call you!” 

He gave you a polite smile in return and let his gaze drift over you in that calm, observant way of his. Your sleeves were rolled up. There was a bit of soap still drying on your hands. A few stray leaves had snagged in his own clothes, and he had, with some intent, made sure they stayed there as props in his act. Ones you took note of immediately.

You reached out and brushed them away once he was near, carefully pressing the lapels of his jacket afterwards.

Jade’s smile deepened just a touch.

It’s as he expected you to do, but still. How thoughtful of you.

“It seems my Tsum has found you,” he said, as if he had only just now discovered this unfortunate development. His tone stayed mild, but his eyes flicked at the little creature writhing in your laundry basket. “I was rather concerned when it went missing.”

The Tsum, at the sound of his voice, peeked up from the clothes.

Then it promptly ignored him and squeaked at you.

Jade’s eyelid twitched.

You laughed, telling him that it had appeared a little while ago and had been very eager to help — at least at first. The moment you spoke, the Tsum perked up, popped out of the basket, and launched itself straight into your arms with all the speed and desperation of a creature that was deprived of all love its entire life.

Then it grew three times its size in a moment, resembling more a stuffed bean bag than a pocket-sized hacky sack. Just the right size to be hugged in your arms. 

Jade watched as it nestled against you, little body squirming happily as it shamelessly blocked your attention from him. 

“How devoted,” Jade commented with false praise, “it seems you gravitate to the prefect like many other bottomfeeders. I do not blame you for it, they have an aura which surely attracts.” 

The Tsum squeaked smugly and pressed itself closer to you, as though daring Jade to challenge it.

Jade took one step nearer and held out his hands to regain custody. “Come now. You cannot simply steal yourself away and expect me not to notice. Think of the prefect’s schedule.”

The Tsum gave him an unimpressed look. You, unfortunately for Jade, looked far more amused than sympathetic and squeezed his tsum tighter. 

He accepted the fact with all the dignity he could muster.

“Thank you,” he said to you, and this time the warmth in his voice was genuine enough that it nearly made the expression on his face dangerous. “I was so worried.”

The last two words were aimed directly at the Tsum, and the little thing immediately went still in your arms. Jade’s smile split against his sharp teeth, one advantage he held over his little copycat. 

There you are. Best behavior or it might be a shoebox for the remainder of your stay, hm? He thought. 

Jade reached for it and plucked it out of your hold before it could glue itself any more firmly to your side. The Tsum squeaked in outrage, squirming in his grip and glaring back at him as it thrashed. 

Jade’s smile barely changes. “There now. You have had enough attention for one afternoon.”

He shifts the tsum into the laundry basket with far more care than his tone suggests, then turns back to you. His gaze flicks over the sheets still waiting to be hung and the clothespins lined up in your hand.

“Since I have taken it back into my care,” he says, “allow me to repay you properly for this disturbance."

He steps closer, reaching for the clothesline. “I can help finish hanging this. Consider it a payment for supervising my tsum.”

It is a very polished offer, but you can hear the underlying insistence in it. Jade is not ‘asking’ so much as arranging things so that he gets to stay.

His eyes drift to the basket, where his tsum has already begun pouting at being contained again. Even as it gets to snuggle back into your pile of bedsheets. 

“Then,” he adds, voice light, “I believe tea would also be appropriate to end the evening. I recall sending you a blend from Sam’s last week. You should still have it, yes?”

Before you can answer, he is beside you, close enough that his chest brushes your back as he reaches past you for the hanging twine. One hand steadies the sheet while the other helps you guide a clothespin into place, the motion smooth and deliberate. Intent laced into each minor movement, for both you and his tsum to see.

To which the tsum in the basket gives another tiny squeak of protest, although does nothing more. 

Jade does not spare it a glance. 

“See?” he says pleasantly, angling his head just enough that you can hear the smile in his voice next to your ear. “Everything is under control, my dear. Allow me.”

Jamil’s a man of schedule due to all his responsibilities. So when the Headmaster throws a wrench in his plans and he’s left scrambling to catch up on his tasks, there are few who can walk in his way and live to tell the tale. When he is elbow-deep in soap suds and already on his third irritated sigh, most can tell he is one inconvenience away from snapping a broom in half and stay away. 

His Tsum is little help in catching up. It is just as efficient as Jamil is, only with a far smaller body and a much sharper attitude to house it. The thing scrubs at the counters with a rag pushed between its stubs, pausing only to squeak something that sounds suspiciously like a complaint whenever Jamil drags another pot into the sink or critiques its work.

“There,” Jamil mutters, shoving the last of the stacked dishes aside. “If I can get this done now, maybe I will still have time to finish my homework before club hour.”

The Tsum gives him a short, unimpressed squawk. 

Jamil flicks a glare at it. “Do not start with me. I know.”

He scrubs at one especially stubborn pot relentlessly, the kind that had had something thick and burnt to the bottom, and mutters under his breath, “I was supposed to meet the Prefect in the library at this exact time, too. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to schedule a date? But no, apparently the universe decided I should babysit a miniature version of myself while Kalim invited himself to our dinner again. Which means this entire day has gone from being decent to barely tolerable.”

The Tsum pauses in its scrubbing just long enough to make a snarky little noise that feels a lot like it is mocking him. He has a mind to cover it with a soup pot for the next hour.

Jamil narrows his eyes, stopping to flick water at it. “Do not act like you are any better than him. This is ridiculous."

The Tsum squeaks again, sounding offended on principle. He almost feels bad yet it fades quickly. 

Jamil exhales through his nose and turns back to the sink, scrubbing harder than necessary as his muscles strain. “All I wanted was one quiet study hour. Just one. With them. In the library. No interruptions. Instead I’m here with you, while they’re likely asleep at one of the back tables…ugh. I have their notes too.”

He glances down at the counter to check on the Tsum when it doesn’t splash back or give any sort of retort. 

Only to find nothing but the rag left behind where it once was.

Jamil freezes, barely having a mind to pull his arms from the dirty dishwater before giving the kitchen a once over. It would be too easy for that small version of himself to drop in the trash or get stuck behind the stove. 

His eyes scan the kitchen once, then twice, then drop to the floor, the doorway, the pantry, the windowsill. Nothing. No mini in sight. 

“Well,” he says at last, agitation stirring behind his teeth, “shit.”

There goes Jamil’s study hour. 

Again.

–

Jamil knows himself too well. Which is precisely why he knows exactly where his Tsum has run off to without much guesswork. 

It’s gone to where Jamil usually wanted to be, yet his schedule rarely allowed  –  to be with you. 

He finishes the kitchen with the kind of speed that borders on reckless, dries his hands, grabs his bag, and heads out with barely contained frustration coiled tight in his chest. He tries to school his expression into something calmer on the walk over, but it does very little to ease the tension in his jaw. Half-jogging, half-speed-walking across campus does not exactly help either. Students part like the red sea at the sight of him. 

Jamil should have been the one with you in the first place, and yet his tsum thinks it can pull wool over his eyes? 

He was behind on his work because of this whole tsum mess in the first place, which meant canceling study hour in the library, which meant missing time with you, which meant having to think about how much he wanted that hour in the first place. 

Instead, he was stuck mopping kitchens and chasing after a miniature version of himself that was now doing its best to steal his place.

By the time he reaches the library, Jamil’s temper is still simmering under his skin.

There you are.

You’re at your usual table in the back, exactly where he would have looked for you first if he came of his own accord like planned. His tsum is nestled comfortably against your chest while you read from a textbook, seemingly enjoying an afternoon siesta. 

The nerve. No version of Jamil, even a cute pillow-shaped variant, knows how to sleep anywhere but his own bed after at least seventeen hours awake. 

That tsum isn’t tired at all. It’s just making use of a very good opportunity. As Jamil nears, it opens one eye and even without a mouth to smirk, he’s certain its ego couldn’t get bigger. 

Jamil walks up to the table, sets his bag down without a word, and takes the seat beside you while angling the chair so it screeches against the tile floor. The second you look up at him, he is already scowling with words on his tongue. 

“You should have texted me the moment you found my tsum,” he says flatly. “I’ve been looking all over for it.”

It is an obvious lie. He came straight here. But the expression he gives his tsum makes the point clear enough.

The little thing opens both eyes, peers at him, and plasters on an innocent look with a cute chirp to stake its innocence. Nothing like the sour sport he’s been carrying all day. 

You blink at him, then glance back at the tsum in your arms. “I didn’t text because I figured you were busy. I didn’t mind watching it.”

Jamil’s jaw ticks under tension

You add, just casually enough to make the words sting, “It’s good company. Besides, you were the one who canceled.”

Technically, yes, he canceled. And technically, no, he hadn’t wanted to. And technically, none of this would have happened if the tsum had not made a beeline for you the second it got the chance.

Jamil drags in a slow breath and lets it out again.

“Fine,” he says, clipped. “I am officially canceling the cancellation. Don’t worry about my schedule. I’m here now and I can do my work with you…so…”

Jamil  takes your silence as an answer in itself and begins to sift through his bag for the notes he was holding onto before. Although his courtesy does not extend to the newly-dubbed rat that looks too much like him for comfort. 

Jamil reaches over, plucks the little traitor from your chest, and sets it on his school bag instead. The tsum immediately glares at him, tiny body squished indignantly into the fabric.

You let out a small laugh, and it does something unpleasantly warm to his chest.

“Are you jealous?” you ask.

Jamil looks at you for a long moment, then at the tsum, then back at you. A fresh idea clouds that brief bitter feeling that comes from being the end of your jokes. 

“Yes,” he says, with zero hesitation, “I am. Why should it get to take my hard-earned spot? Am I so easy for you to replace, Prefect? Hm?” 

Jamil watches with open satisfaction as a flush spreads across your cheeks, reaching to feel its warmth through your skin with the back of his hand. 

Jamil’s eyes narrow. “You know exactly what it is thinking, do you not? It is a variant of me. There is no reason for me to pretend otherwise for the sake of playing nice, not when I know exactly how I would act in its position” he hisses on the tail of his words, knowing you’re not so innocent as to miss his meaning. 

The tsum makes a tiny, smug squeak from atop his bag, as if it is very pleased he has proven his point for him.

Jamil clicks his tongue.

He reaches down, catches the bottom of your chair, and drags it closer to his in one quick pull until you are sitting flush beside him. Close enough that the space between you disappears. Close enough that he can feel the shift in your posture, see the way your attention snaps toward him instead of the room.

His satisfaction is immediate. You go on the look out, turning to check whether anyone noticed, and Jamil’s eyes narrow just enough to make the point that he does not care who saw. Let them look. Let them gossip. He is not the one who created this problem, and he is certainly not the one losing ground. 

Without further comment, he reaches to drag your textbook to lay flat between you both on the desk. His sandwiched arm snakes around your waist as he checks your progress. “You wanted to study with me, right?” 

The question is rhetorical. He already knows the answer. He also knows you are going to say yes, because you always do.

So he gives the tsum one last pointed look, a warning without words, before settling in. 

“Then let’s ‘study’ while we still can.”

And this time, the only one getting your attention is going to be him. 

Floyd is already bored when the day starts, which is never a good sign for anyone around him.

Unfortunately, even his own tsum seems determined to be as annoying as possible. Nevermind that this thing appeared out of nowhere from the sky and that its buddies are bouncing around campus like loose beach balls far out from shore.

It sits across from him at a stray lounge table in Octavinette, tiny body puffed up with attitude, staring him down like it is offended that it has been assigned to him. Even if they’re the same person, different font. Floyd stares right back, head cradled in his folded arms, long fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the table.

The two of them are so alike it’s dull. This is why Floyd would use cloning spells to get extra chips. Why clone people or things? It’s so dumb. 

Same face. Same temperament. Same awful habit of deciding cooperation is optional. It is like putting two spinning tops on the same surface and acting surprised when they keep banging into each other.

Floyd’s mouth twists to a scowl.

He hoped maybe this would be fun in a weird way, like they’d go on a trip to return the little guys home. Or at least amusing. But no, his tsum is not in the mood to be cute, and he is definitely not in the mood to pretend he enjoys babysitting a miniature version of himself while the headmaster piles on chores.

He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh and slumps lower over the table.

“Ughhh. This is so boring,” he groans, voice muffled against his arms. “I would rather be hanging out with Shrimpy.”

The tsum blinks at him. He wonders if in its world, your copy is a stuffed shrimp or an even tinier pillow..jelly bean…thing. The thought alleviates his bad mood just a smidgen. 

Floyd lifts his head just enough to glare at it. “Or literally doing anything else. Anything would be better than this.”

The tsum squeaks back at him, pissed and unimpressed.

“Hey,” Floyd says, eyes narrowing as his finger keeps tapping. “Don’t act like you’re not bored too. Can’t you just go home already?”

The tsum does not deign to respond in any way that would be useful. It just sits there, but does writhe as if it’s going to lunge. Too bad it doesn’t have the teeth to bite with. Sucka. 

Floyd drags a hand over his face. The headmaster had really chose the worst possible time to dump work on him. He could be with you right now. He could be following you around for no reason, draped over your shoulder (until your knees buckle and he gets to crush ya), bothering you until you laughed or got flustered or told him to knock it off. Maybe you had those tasty marshmallow snacks like last week. 

Instead, he is stuck in his own dorm, watching a tiny copy of himself act like a miniature headache with feet.

Floyd’s mood sours even further. He wants the marshmallows. 

“Maybe I should just leave you here,” he mutters, though the threat is half-hearted at best.

The tsum’s head perks.

That is the wrong reaction.

Floyd narrows his eyes. “Don’t get excited. I’m still deciding.”

He flops backward in his chair, then forward again, then side to side with restless energy building up fast enough that his seat starts to feel too small. His limbs go loose with frustration, and he flops over the table like a child having a case of the zoomies doubled with a tantrum.

“I hate this,” he says into the air. “I hate the work. I hate being bored. I hate that you look exactly like me. I hate that you can’t even talk. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh –” 

The tsum makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

That is it.

Floyd starts to sit up just enough to flick it in the forehead, but when he finally drags his head up, his tsum is nowhere within reach. 

In fact, it’s not in the room anymore at all. 

Floyd checks the floor. Nothing. The chair beside him. Nothing. Under the table. Still nothing.

For one miserable second, he just stares at the empty spot where the tsum had been and resists the urge to treat the damn thing like a chewtoy once he does manage to spot it. 

Well.

This is just great. 

Before, he was just bored. Now he’s  bored and responsible for making sure a tiny, troublesome version of himself did not get crushed, eaten, or otherwise murdered by some idiot on campus before he found it again. And if it got hurt, he would be the one who got blamed for it, which sounded like a giant pain in the ass.

Floyd pushes himself upright with a groan, reaching for the ceiling until that familiar pop comes. 

“Seriously? You run off now?I didn’t say we could play hide ‘n’ seek…”

He looks around the room again, more alert this time, irritation sharpening into something more active. If the tsum has already gone wandering, then he needs to catch up fast.

Floyd clicks his tongue, gets to his feet, and starts after the little troublemaker with a scowl on his face. Until he crosses a vending machine with those marshmallow candies in stock, and promplty forgets entirely about it. 

–

Two hours later, and Floyd is still Tsum-less.

An entire evening might have passed without him starting his search. If it got eaten or hurt – well, eh. Them’s the breaks. Floyd wasn’t in the mood until Azul came back and told him that if he had nothing better to do, then he could pick up some overtime working the Mostro Lounge kitchens.That put a spark in Floyd’s step because; again, he really didn’t want to babysit. One tsum is far easier to tolerate than a school of fish during dinner rush. 

So he set off without any concern motivating his actions and went wherever his legs wanted to go that got him away from Azul’s annoying lecture. Now if they take him to Ramshackle all on their own and bypass that rusty old gate you never bother locking? 

Well, there’s a chance his tsum might be with you. So it’s technically not against any rules to stop inside for a break. He’s been searching real hard for a total of twenty minutes. That’s a lot for a poor, harmless little eel who’s had his entire Saturday stolen. 

He does not bother knocking. It’s not as if the front lock works anyways. 

He just pushes the door open and wanders in like the place belongs to him, all loose limbs and lazy confidence, already grinning to himself at the thought of scooping you out of bed if you happen to be napping. It would be funny. It would also be easy. Especially if you are half-asleep and soft and warm and not expecting him. Maybe he’ll let Jade have their dorm room to himself and stay over, or make you join the game of hide ‘n’ seek. 

Much better than chasing some bratty little tsum around campus.

He pads down the hall, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other swinging at his side, until he catches sight of your foot dangling off the couch in the living room.

Perfect.

His grin turns sharp. Oh, this is gonna be good.

Floyd leans over the backrest, already reaching for you, planning to scoop you up in one smooth motion and drag you into whatever nonsense his tsum has gotten itself into. Maybe he’ll make you help look for it. Maybe he’ll just keep you and let it sleep outside.

The whole plan drops. 

Because there, sprawled right on your stomach like it owns the place, is his tsum.

Fast asleep.

On its back, snores carrying in the air. Where are they coming from? It’s not like the thing has a mouth. What? It rises and rolls with each one of your breaths, completely dead to the world, while you lie there with one hand half-curled near its side like you’ve been together for hours. 

Floyd should’ve known. 

His eye twitches.

No. Absolutely not. He leaves it alone for a few hours and it goes and hogs your lap? Your stomach? Your attention? That little thing is so dead.

Floyd’s cheeks stretch in a way that is not friendly at all.

“...You little shit,” he hisses through his teeth, voice almost sweet if you ignore the plan for murder in it.

He doesn’t bother waking the tsum up. All day annoying him and now it decides to nap? 

Why would he give it that mercy?

Instead, in one swift motion, Floyd snatches the tsum off your stomach and flings it down the hall like a baseball. It disappears with a tiny squeak, flailing its nubby arms as it nearly clips one of the ceiling lights, and a hard thump echoes from down the hallway. Striiiiiiiike OUT. Maybe Basketball was the wrong club to choose, Floyd thinks. 

It’ll live. Maybe.

Floyd wastes no time taking its place, or more accurately put as his rightful spot.

He drops down between your legs and curls his arms high around your torso, letting his full weight smoosh you into the cushions like a blanket, pressing his cheek flat against your stomach. Floyd settles in with a long, satisfied sigh; now this is what Saturdays should be. 

He feels you stir beneath him and adjust to wrap your legs around his torso in turn. 

You ask why he is here, voice still rough with sleep, and then ask him the time like it suddenly matters more now that he has shown up unannounced and taken over your couch.  If you didn’t care about your plans enough to stay awake before, why should you care about them now? 

Floyd blows a raspberry into your stomach as a response, snickering as you fully wake up and start pushing his face away. It’s an easy victory, as he grabs your wrists and pulls your hands back to his scalp. Another when he feels your tummy dip with an exhale, before you scratch at his nape in the way that feels like an electric current through his spine.

He tilts his face just enough to glance up at you. “I finished pest control, ya’know…your dorm was infested with bugs.”

It is a lie, technically, but a very good one. It’s just one bug. A tiny, jelly bean sized, Leech. Though he’s sure you’ll scold him for it later whenever the tsum regains consciousness. “Ya can thank me later, hehe. Just go back to sleep.”

Lilia watches his little tsum bounce in place in the palm of his hand, those bright magenta eyes full of restless curiosity.

How utterly adorable.

Also, entirely predictable. He expects nothing less. A tiny thing like this, dropped into a place as large and strange as Night Raven College, is bound to get itself into trouble the moment it is left unsupervised. Which, to be fair, is not much different from Lilia himself whenever he visits a foreign land. So it would be quite hypocritical of him to police this little creature during its stay. 

He hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Off you pop, then. Have some fun, little me. Do bring back a story or souvenir.”

The tsum perks up immediately, as if it had been waiting for permission to shed its decorum. Bless that the tsum alternatives of Lilia’s children and charges were in the care of his family. Otherwise he doubts his tsum would be able to truly go about carefree. 

Lilia chuckles under his breath, setting it down with a gentle pat. “Just make sure you find your way back to me by dark, all right? I would hate to have to come looking for you.”

The little thing gives an eager squeak, then bounces off at once, tiny body disappearing around the nearest corner with all the confidence of something that has no boring plans to spend its time.

Lilia folds his hands behind his back and watches it go, smile turning fond. 

Honestly, what could it get up to? His mind folds over a few ideas of what he’d do in its position, but nothing more. 

Probably not anything too serious, surely. 

Maybe it would peek into someone’s room and search for treasures. Sneak a snack from the cafeteria staff. Startle a first-year by hitching a ride in their pocket. Hide in a backpack or play in the garden ponds. Cause a little harmless mayhem most certainly. That sort of thing.

Ah. There are so many possibilities.

No, really, the little creature has all the makings of disaster in miniature. A smaller, less talkative Lilia is still Lilia, after all. Which means it is likely to be clever, nosy, difficult to catch, and just cute enough that people will forgive it for being a nuisance.

Or try to, at least.

Lilia’s expression brightens as he goes about his business. Surely it will come back with a tale or two. Should he bake the little creatures some biscuits before they’re sent home?

He watches the last bit of movement vanish as it seemingly already found its first target  and lets out a low, amused little laugh. Too cute, indeed. 

Someone out there is about to have their day ruined by a hand-sized troublemaker with his face.

Lilia can only hope they survive the experience.

–

Lilia does not panic when midnight rolls around and his tsum still has not returned.

That would imply surprise, and surprise would imply he had not already seen this coming from a mile away.

No, what he feels is the familiar, fond sort of exasperation one gets when watching a child wander off with the confidence of a king and the sense of direction of a potato. He has known his tsum for all of five minutes and already knows exactly what sort of trouble it is capable of. The only question is which kind of mischief it has chosen tonight.

So he sets off to find it himself.

A nuisance, yes, but not a difficult one. Lilia sticks to the rooftops and the quieter paths, the sort of places where gossip lingers in the air and students forget to look up. That narrows his search nicely. If the little thing is anywhere interesting, it is likely somewhere it should not be.

He lands lightly on a roof, peering over the edge with bright, knowing eyes.

“Now where would I go if I were a cheeky little tsum with too much freedom and not enough supervision?” he muses to himself.

The answer comes to him at once.

Why, the place where one might find a little nighttime fun, of course.

Naturally.

A grin spreads across his face as he mutters a spell, and in the next instant he is perched on your bedroom windowsill, one leg already inside your room as he takes a quick look around. It is a familiar habit by now, his little acts of charming intrusion, though he always makes sure to do it with enough flair that he can hardly be accused of sneaking.

He checks your bed first, floating over to see if the comfortor had a prefect-shaped lump underneath. He found a neat and tidy bed waiting with nothing but your slippers missing from their place by the sidetable. 

Hm.

On the top pillow, Grim lies sprawled like he has been felled in battle, mouth hanging open, one paw draped over the ledge, drool threatening to ruin the fabric entirely. Lilia blinks once, then smiles coyly and closes Grim’s maw with one finger. The second he does, it slacks open again with a loud snore. 

“Kehehe~ I now see why my little dove has such striking eyebags. I can sleep through anything and anywhere; it seems you can as well.” 

Of course the dire beast is asleep where he can be of the least use. It’s no wonder you barely notice whenever Silver’s nodded off, if Grim’s this heavy of a sleeper. 

Satisfied, Lilia slips across the room, shuts the window behind him, and closes his eyes to listen.

There. 

A murmur, hushed and gentle, coming from downstairs.

He follows it at once, moving as quietly as a mouse while walking the seams in the floorboards. The voice leads him toward Ramshackle’s kitchen, where warm yellow light spills into the hall and the air smells faintly of honey and cinnamon.

Ah.

There you are, my sweet. 

You’re standing at the counter in your houserobe, pouring honey into a mug of warm milk, the late hour having softened your voice into something with a sleepy drawl and more private. It is the sort of sight Lilia finds himself rather partial to, if he is being honest. Entirely too endearing to be shared with others. 

Tucked up against your neck, nestled between your warm skin and the lapels of your robe, is his tsum. The little stowaway looks positively delighted with itself, eyes closed in permanent crescents as it squeaks a reply to your idle musings. 

It is warm there, Lilia can tell from across the room. Your body runs hot compared to fae. He’s guilty of syphoning heat himself from time to time. His tsum has found the best possible place in the entire dorm and made itself right at home, tiny body half-melted against you as if it has always belonged there. 

How brazen.

How very, very like him.

Lilia’s eyes narrow with amusement rather than annoyance. Honestly, he cannot even be mad. The creature has excellent taste.

You are talking softly, likely not even expecting company, and the tsum is soaking up every second of it like a little gremlin wrapped in a blanket of your attention. A tiny thief. A shameless one.

Lilia slips up behind you with all the grace of a ghost and none of the intention of remaining one. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, settling comfortably against your back, and dips his head to press a small kiss to your cheek.

“Good evening, little songbird,” he says, voice low and cheerful. “You and I seem to have a guest. Care to introduce me?”

His pupils thin to slits as he glances at the tsum in your collar, not waiting for your answer. “Thank you for taking care of my love while I was away, mini me. I should have expected you’d be drawn to them after a day of adventure.”

The pat he gives the tiny thing is light, but the look on his face says the words ‘thank you’ should not be mistaken for permission to indulge itself further.

The tsum huffs at him, displeased at being reminded that it has been found.

Lilia only smiles in response. 

It is not that he is jealous, exactly. Lilia does not much mind sharing your company, not on principle. But that does not mean he is going to let a hand-sized version of himself hog all your warmth without at least making a scene out of it.

So he keeps his arms snug around you and shifts closer, making himself very difficult to ignore.

You lift your mug for a sip, and before you can take it away again, Lilia slides one hand over yours and guides the cup closer to his mouth while you are still holding it.

“Oh?” he hums, utterly shameless. “How thoughtful of you.”

He drinks from the very same spot you just sipped from, all while keeping you tucked neatly against him. The tsum in your collar notices immediately and tries to lean toward the mug too, as if it has any right to copy him.

Lilia makes a small sound of disapproval and nudges you just a little tighter against his chest.

“No, no,” he says sweetly, as if explaining a basic lesson to a particularly stubborn child. “Sharing is a very important lesson, but I am far from the age where I must behave selflessly.”

The tsum lets out an offended little noise yet doesn’t persist. Not when you poke its cheek with a muttered apology.

You carry a shadow that is towering, one that swamps your own in broad daylight. 

Physically, Jade is not clingy in the traditional sense. He is not hanging off your shoulder or demanding affection in public. In fact, he is oddly respectful of your space…which somehow makes him more overbearing? He simply has eyes in the walls. You grow accustomed to the sense of being watched over with time, as he is worse than a helicopter mom at disney world.  

A hand on the small of your back while walking through crowds. Casually steering you away from danger like you are a shopping cart with a broken wheel. If someone becomes too loud or aggressive near you, Jade inserts himself into the situation before you can speak. 

And seven help the sad sack who touches you without permission. 

Jade does not explode like Floyd or bark threats like Leona. No. He politely dismantles people with a shark-took grin. One warning is spoken with that overly pleasant customer service voice and suddenly the entire room feels humid. 

“Oh dear. I’m afraid you seem to have mistaken my partner for someone interested in your attention. How embarrassing for you.” 

People at Mostro Lounge learn very quickly that your name is not one to use carelessly in conversation, unless they want Jade’s attention - and trust me, that is not a fun prize. Gossip in his domain? Unless he thinks it is relatively harmless and might yield a cute reaction from you…nuh-uh-uh. 

Jade understands social warfare better than nearly anyone at NRC. He knows secrets. Everybody has secrets. Azul collects contracts but Jade collects information, and if someone threatens your reputation? Congratulations. They have just volunteered for psychological warfare against a man who enjoys sampling poisonous mushrooms in his free time. Very Mao-Mao from ‘Apothecary Diaries’ core. 

If someone DOES spread rumors about you? They tend to disappear before they gain traction. It is almost magical. One moment there is gossip circulating around NRC and the next the students involved are apologizing to you with sweat dripping down their backs while Jade stands nearby smiling like a proud parent at a piano recital. 

You never find out what he did to make it happen. Snitches get stitches, you can ask whomever you like. No one is about to get on a Leech’s bad side. Especially anyone from the Coral Sea…they like having their gills intact, thank you very much. 

In fact…your social circle seems to thin out. No one you’d miss, certainly. Anyone worth keeping around is already known by you before Jade’s fancy was stuck, after all. He just has a ‘quality’ that keeps bottom feeders away. 

Jade is significantly more possessive than he pretends to be. He acts amused when people flirt with you. Smiles. Tilt his head. You’d think him entirely unbothered, if not for the slight twitch of his lower eyelid. 

Meanwhile he’s mentally ranking the best burial locations on his usual mountain trails. He won’t do it. Just…let him tinker. He can only tolerate so much audacity from these people after all. 

Unlike Floyd’s explosive jealousy, Jade’s comes in the form of increased politeness. That’s how you know he is upset. The sweeter he sounds, the worse the situation is. If someone is heavily flirting with you, Jade becomes attached to your side for the rest of the day. He won’t intrude unless you explicitly ask – discounting the times you’re unaware of his presence – but he does expect you to shrug the plebs off. Make an effort or his ire might have you backed up against a wall later that night. 

Make no comment when he casually mentions your relationship status every three sentences either. Subtly, as he watches the offender making a move on you crumple like the trash they are and evaporate from his sight. Yet…if it continues beyond flirtations? If someone dares to make a vulgar comment at you?

His terrariums gain new fertilizer. 

No, because seriously. There is no situation where he’d let any sort of objectification or crude remark slide. Not interesting. Not funny. The only tolerable admiration is watching bottomfeeders deflate as they realize he’s already got the best pickings of the land. He can and will cut their tongues out. 

“My, what a vulgar thing to say. I do hope for your sake that you simply misspoke…though judging by your expression, I suspect not. How unfortunate. Shall we continue this conversation somewhere private? People do become rather forgetful when they are trying to impress someone who is already spoken for, don’t they? ” 

Jamil Viper 

7/10

Jamil does not WANT to be protective.

That is important to understand first and foremost. 

He already has enough responsibilities. Enough people depending on him. Enough stress. The last thing he needs is another person to worry over and yet somehow…there you are. Sitting comfortably in the center of his thoughts like you pay rent there. Mm. 

Annoying.

Very annoying.

He’s a bit of his own worst nightmare. Jamil finds a partner who is competent insanely attractive. Nothing gets him going like a show of power…but his brain doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch. So he naturally tries to take charge in most situations and has a terrible time letting his guard down. 

Because now he has to think about things like whether you ate today. Whether you got enough sleep. Whether Ace and Grim dragged you into another near death experience. He catches himself scanning crowds for your face automatically and gets irritated every single time he realizes he is doing it.

Just his luck that he’s fallen for the person with the self-preservation skills of a mosquito…ha..haha..hahaha.

Physically, Jamil is surprisingly attentive. Not overbearing, but hyperaware. He notices exhaustion before you say anything. Notices when your social battery dies. Notices when you are forcing yourself to smile through discomfort. He’s used to reading people. 

He is the type to silently pull you away from overwhelming situations under the guise of something casual.

“Come help me with this for a second.”

Suddenly you are outside getting fresh air while he pretends to sweep the outer courtyard. .

Jamil is not loud about protecting you because loud attention is dangerous in his mind. He prefers subtle control over situations. Strategic positioning. Standing between you and someone sketchy without making a scene. Steering conversations away from topics that upset you. Making sure you get back to Ramshackle safely even if he acts like it is an inconvenience.

And yes. He absolutely keeps track of where you are. Give him your phone so he can add you to Life360. Just do it. 

Not in a creepy way. In a “if something happens to you I will have a stress-induced migraine” way. He gets pissed when Grim takes your phone though. The headmaster seriously has you both sharing one? Just…look, take his old one. Don’t tell Kalim either. He’ll 100%% get you the newest model with an unlimited data plan, but Jamil isn’t about to have someone else doing what he can do for you just fine. Especially Kalim.

He especially hates when you wander around NRC late at night alone. This school has entirely too many weirdos, overblot incidents, and students with magical superiority complexes. The moment he finds out you went somewhere dangerous by yourself he is giving you ‘That Look’.

You know the one.

Socially, Jamil is vicious in the pettiest ways possible.

He does not have the authority of someone like Riddle nor the intimidation factor of Leona, so instead he weaponizes competence. If someone is rude to you publicly? Congratulations. Jamil is about to make them look stupid in front of everyone.

Not directly, of course. That would be messy.

But suddenly they are fumbling their words during class presentations because Jamil “helpfully” pointed out inconsistencies in their work. Suddenly they are losing arguments they thought they could win. Suddenly every flaw they have becomes painfully obvious because Jamil knows exactly how to press people until they crack.

He has years of experience surviving court politics. Some random teenager is light work.

The thing is, Jamil gets especially protective over your image because he understands what it feels like to have people make assumptions about you. So rumors? Harassment? People trying to paint you negatively? He…is guilty of doing that to others. 

So he is able to detect the early signs of someone scheming. No one’s ripping at your confidence. He’ll end them.

Not only because he cares about you, but because he genuinely cannot stand unfairness directed toward someone he loves. You become one of the very few people he allows himself to prioritize emotionally and he takes that seriously.

Now jealousy?

…Yeah. Yeah Jamil has issues.

Not outwardly at first. He tries SO hard to play it cool. He tells himself he is being irrational. That you can handle yourself. That he trusts you.

Then he sees someone flirting with you too comfortably and suddenly his eye is twitching.

Jamil’s jealousy manifests through hovering and passive aggression. He starts inserting himself into conversations uninvited. Interrupting. Pulling you away under flimsy excuses. Offering to do things for you before someone else can. Oh, he is burning. That ego he tries to keep under a tarp is coming out at full force. 

And the sass?

Unmatched.

“Oh? You suddenly developed interest in my partner after ignoring them for months? What a fascinating coincidence…sorry, what’s your name again?”

The worst part is that Jamil absolutely notices when people are attracted to you before they even realize it themselves. One lingering glance and he is already annoyed.

He also DESPISES overly touchy people around you. No one gets a pass. Kalim really pisses him off, but he has to bite it down. At least there’s the comfort of knowing it’s strictly platonic but still. 

Your little first-year group? He has so much beef with Ace it isn’t funny. That ******* knows exactly what he’s doing whenever he slings an arm over your shoulder. Floyd? Every basketball practice is one where Jamil is tempted to spike the ball at the back of his head. He tolerates Grim, knowing that the menace is going to be there until the day you both die. 

And if someone thinks to pass a vulgar comment? A cat-call? Mm. Patience isn’t always a virtue. 

Jamil’s entire expression flattens like someone turned his emotions off manually. He gets cold in a way that makes people instinctively backpedal. Unlike some of the others, he is less likely to threaten violence and more likely to verbally flay someone alive with frightening precision.

He knows exactly what insecurities to target too. Doesn’t matter who it is. He can pick them apart in a few short moments. 

“You know, confidence is attractive in moderation. Unfortunately for you, this is just embarrassing.”

Rook Hunt 8.5/10

Dating Rook is like accidentally befriending a very affectionate cryptid.

One day you are minding your business and the next you hear rustling in the trees followed by an enthusiastic Frenchman praising the way sunlight reflects off your hair. There is no such thing as privacy anymore. Not because Rook wishes to control you, but because he genuinely enjoys your existence so much that he cannot help orbiting around you constantly.

He is EVERYWHERE.

The scary thing? Half the time you do not even notice him until he speaks.

“Ah! Trickster! The way you leap away in surprise reminds me of a startled doe. Magnifique!”

Cardiac arrest. Immediate cardiac arrest. He ceases for the rest of the day but then is right back at it the next. 

At first his protectiveness does not even register because Rook treats everything with fascination. He watches everyone. Compliments everyone. Appears out of nowhere for everyone. So naturally, you assume his attention toward you is just part of his personality.

Then you realize he has been tailing you across campus for three hours because you mentioned feeling unsafe walking alone after dark.

Romantic.

Terrifying, but romantic.

This man has the instincts of a hunting dog and the perception of a military drone.

You are never unsafe around him.

Ever.

Physically, Rook is actually extremely protective. Far more than people expect. Underneath all the theatrics and poetry is someone with terrifying awareness of his surroundings. Rook notices danger instantly. The shift in someone’s body language. A suspicious movement in the crowd. The subtle signs someone intends harm.

A student reaching for their pen? He sees it. Someone following you through the halls? Already aware. Suspicious noises outside Ramshackle at night? He is perched somewhere nearby like a Victorian gargoyle with a bow in hand. Sorry Malleus. This one is not fit for your club to study…unless?

Ahem. You genuinely cannot sneak up on this man.

And because of that? Nobody sneaks up on you either.

The issue is that Rook treats protecting you like an act of devotion. He enjoys it. Not in a creepy controlling way but in a “the hunter safeguards what he treasures most” way. 

And unlike some of the others, Rook is willing to get physical FAST if he thinks you are genuinely threatened. People forget that beneath the dramatic monologues and layers of concealer is a man who hunts for fun.

For FUN.

One second someone is getting too aggressive with you. The next Rook is suddenly behind them smiling with their wrist pinned up against their back.

“Ah ah~ I would reconsider your actions, mon trésor’s comfort is far more important to me than your pride.”

The thing about Rook is that he rarely ‘sounds threatening. Which somehow makes him infinitely worse. He says horrifying things with the same tone someone would use to compliment flowers.

And LORD help the poor soul that genuinely hurts you somehow.

Rook becomes the physical manifestation of “I know where you live.” 

His little ‘Oo la la~’ pitch that carries in the wind like fallen leaves suddenly turns into Krampus incarnate. Deep, guttural, and spoken directly into the perpetrator’s ear with a promise for something much worse than a beating with a straw broom and some coal in their stocking. 

“Aha. No. We are not looking at mon coheur in such a manner. You may apologize now, or I will be forced to consider alternative persuasion. Un, deux, toi –” 

Socially, Rook is extreamly supportive rather than controlling. He absolutely hypes you up constantly. Shamelessly….it’s very much the ‘Wear whatever you want, my darling. I know how to fight’ dynamic amped to maximum overdrive. 

He will praise you in front of literally anyone with zero shame. Your intelligence, your beauty, your habits, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh—nothing is safe from his admiration. At first people think it is exaggeration because surely no one can speak this poetically about their partner twenty-four hours a day.

No. He means every word.

The issue is that this also means he becomes deeply offended when others speak poorly of you. Rook values beauty in all forms and to insult someone he treasures? Mon dieu. The audacity.

Rook does not argue normally. He psychoanalyzes people like he is peeling an orange. Someone makes fun of you once and suddenly Rook is smiling thoughtfully while pointing out all the hidden insecurities fueling their behavior.

In front of everyone.

“Oh? Such cruelty toward someone so radiant…could it be envy, perhaps? How unfortunate. To possess eyes capable of witnessing beauty and yet remain unable to appreciate it.”

Murder. Actual murder.

And because Rook is naturally charismatic, people listen to him. He can spin social situations terrifyingly fast. One minute someone is mocking you and the next they are being publicly pitied by half the room while Rook comforts you dramatically like the star actor of a tragedy play.

But jealousy? Hah! Listen. 

Rook is a strange creature because he simultaneously understands why people are attracted to you while also wanting to put them in the ground for acting on it.

He appreciates beauty. Of course others admire you! How could they not? To him your existence is practically artwork.

So when others pursue you, he does not see them as something to dismiss. No. No. He will acknowledge their challenge…and you will find no one more competitive. He wants to win. 

Which means the flirting somehow becomes worse. He is a peacock spreading its feathers while aiming a shotgun with its beak. 

You think one person complimenting you is bad? Congratulations. Rook is now reciting poetry while kissing your hand in front of them with enough intensity to make bystanders uncomfortable.

He becomes unbelievably touchy too. Draping himself over your shoulders. Holding your waist. Tilting your chin toward him while maintaining eye contact with whoever dared flirt with you. If they want you, then they’ll have to offer you better than what he can provide. Which is impossible, because Rook spares no effort in ensuring you have everything you could ever want. 

And if someone says something vulgar about you? 

…they have a ten second head start. 

Rook does not mind admiration, he encourages all beauty to be appreciated, but crude lust disgusts him. In his eyes it reduces something precious into something cheap and tawdry. He takes it personally, like someone smeared mud over a painting. 

He merely teases the brim of his hat, ducks his chin low, and fixes the offender with sharp eyes and the terrifying realization that this man could absolutely hit a bullseye through their skull from fifty yards away.

“You speak of them so carelessly…how terribly sad. To witness something so precious and reduce it to vulgarity. I highly suggest you choose your next words with greater care, monsieur. ”

Lilia Vanrouge

6.5/10

At first glance, Lilia does not seem protective at all.

If anything, he encourages chaos.

Go explore dangerous places! Fight strong opponents! Experience life! Make reckless memories! Half the time it feels like he is actively encouraging your bad decisions while Sebek is somewhere nearby having a stress-induced aneurysm over it.

Lilia is not controlling. Not even remotely. Rather than stop you from pursuing danger, he’s walking into it at your side. 

He does not hover over your shoulder monitoring who you speak to or where you go. He will not cage you up “for your safety” because frankly? That sounds dreadfully boring to him. Lilia fell in love with YOU. Your spirit. Your freedom. Your ability to live fully despite fear.

Why would he take that away?

No, if you are with Lilia then you are expected to spread your wings and enjoy life to its fullest. He wants stories. Excitement. Late night walks, spontaneous adventures, troublemaking, dancing on rooftops because “the moon looks lovely tonight.”

He treats love like something alive. Something meant to grow unrestrained instead of being locked away. He’s waited seven-hundred years for this chance and will not waste a second of it. 

Which honestly makes people underestimate him terribly.

Because while Lilia is not overprotective in everyday situations…

He IS an elder fae. Even those of lower status are raised not to take matters of the heart lightly. Your soul is an extension of his own. 

The man could probably locate you in a foreign country with nothing but a vague description and a prayer. You will be halfway across campus thinking you're alone only to hear his voice from a tree branch.

"My, my. Fancy seeing you here."

He truly is an extension of your person now. While not tethered for centuries, he is quite fond of being a phantom limb of yours. 

Which becomes obvious the moment someone truly threatens you. He does not mince his words or offer mercy to those who threaten his family. Kingscholar was very fortunate to be spared after targeting Malleus during the spelldrive tournament during your first year in wonderland. Remember how brutal Lilia’s words struck. 

There is a massive difference between Lilia finding your recklessness amusing and someone else harming you intentionally. One earns laughter. The other earns silence.

And silence from Lilia Vanrouge is one of the most terrifying things a person can experience.

Because Lilia does not posture.

He does not threaten.

He does not growl warnings or puff out his chest.

He simply decides that someone is dangerous.

Then acts accordingly.

People often forget that beneath the jokes, the gaming addiction, and the culinary war crimes is a former general. A man who spent hundreds of years protecting a royal family through actual conflict. Lilia has survived war. Buried friends. He knows exactly how far he is willing to go for the people he loves. 

Which is as far as his body can take him. Lilia would die for you without hesitation. 

Not in the romanticized “I’d take a bullet for you” way either. In the very literal, non-negotiable sense that he has already accepted the possibility long ago. Loyalty is woven into Lilia so deeply that protecting his loved ones is practically instinctual. 

Which is why anyone who thinks otherwise, dares to even tinker with the thought of harming you, is scheduling an audience with General Vanrouge. 

Socially, Lilia is surprisingly relaxed. He has lived too long to care about petty gossip (although he does enjoy hearing it). Rumors roll off him like water because honestly? Most students at NRC are children to him mentally. Why would he value their opinions over yours?

That being said, he DOES care if the rumors genuinely hurt you.

Not because your reputation reflects on him, but because he cannot stand seeing someone he loves feel isolated or targeted. Lilia knows what loneliness feels like better than most people ever will. He still will not intervene though, not beyond offering a distraction to make you smile. 

Honestly? He finds caring about that sort of thing silly. With time you’ll understand and think the same, of that he’s certain. 

If someone dislikes you, they dislike you.

If someone talks badly about you, then they are showing their own character.

Most of the time he laughs it off. "Mhmm. Are they finished? Goodness, they seem to think about you more than I do."

Now jealousy?

Pshh. Manageable. A dime in a dozen. 

Lilia feels secure in your relationship. He does not panic over every passing flirtation because he trusts you and frankly finds some situations funny. Watching younger students awkwardly attempt to woo you while he sits nearby smiling into his tea is genuinely entertaining to him.

He especially enjoys making them nervous. “Oh? Trying to court my darling? My my, how brave~”

Although he is not against blipping in if harmless flirtations progress to crude vulgarity or a breach of boundaries. Which is unfortunately common with youth that possess egos with more concentrated power than the sun. The moment someone dares to say something genuinely degrading about your person, he eases in with the air of someone far superior and reminds the offender to view a specific chapter in their history textbook. He normally isn’t fond of his pictures in those books, but surely they have their uses. 

And if there is one thing Malleus Draconia has desired selfishly in his long life, it is you. He cares very little for the details. Only that it is the wedding of your dreams and closes with your soul bound to his. 

He attends all planning meetings personally despite his schedule. He didn’t even do that for his coronation, so imagine how the consultants quake as they present their ideas to you with the king right there (A bit in his own head, only paying attention when you are stuck on a choice). He sits beside you during fabric selections, choosing the floral arrangements, signing invitations and virtually every task that he’d not think twice over if you weren’t there.

Insists on tasting desserts and all menu items. Remember the culinary crucible, dear? Oh, how it takes him back. Except now the head patiessiere nearly pees their trousers when he comments on the cake being a bit dry. Honestly. Do these people think he is a monster? 

Across the entire process, he listens carefully to all your comments. The last thing he wants is a choice being swayed because someone devalued your opinion. Nevermind He can be a monster. 

“You’ve glanced at the tulips thrice since the floral samples were brought out, and yet you were quick to agree on roses. Speak up, dearest. Otherwise I shall do it for you.”

Since you have no parents for him to formally ask, Malleus quietly seeks out Grim for your hand instead.

Which … becomes one of the single most confusing moments of Grim’s life. It’s not every day that the big honcho fae bends his head to a direbeast. 

“Grim,” Malleus says, calm and with careful approach, “I would like your permission to marry your companion.” Grim squints at him, puffing up. “And what do I get outta it?” Malleus blinks once. “My gratitude.” “Ain’t enough. What else ya got?” The dragon prince smiles, thin and dangerous in the most charming way. “Do not become greedy, little beast.” Grim immediately straightens, his tail tucked down as his voice wobbles. “...Y-you got it, Your Highness.” 

His initial fear does not dampen Grim’s ego. He tries to milk the situation for everything it’s worth and Malleus allows it. While amusing, the matter is taken seriously. Grim is like your child, in a way. He sure demands your attention like one. 

“I WANT TUNA. PREMIUM TUNA. NONE OF THAT CHEAP CANNED STUFF.” Grim slaps a list of demands on the tabletop, written in barely legible catscratch.  “You bargain boldly for someone so small.”  “YEAH, WELL YOU WANNA MARRY MY HENCHMAN OR NOT?”  

Needless to say that the entire royal guard is horrified to see this beast with fangs bigger than its mouth riding the coat tails of their king. Yet Grim gets everything he wants and pushes the boundary…until he puts in an absurd dowry request and the tap runs dry. 

“No, you may not have partial ownership over the royal treasury.”  “Eh, worth a shot. Can ya blame a guy?” 

The wedding aesthetic is gothic fae, set in Briar Palace with the reception in the main ballroom. 

Endless cathedral arches woven with glowing thorned roses, black candles floating in midair, silver tableware engraved with ancient draconic blessings.

Massive stained glass windows depicting Briar Valley’s royal lineage. Soon your story will earn a place there. 

Music played by a live orchestra for guests to dance — haunting violin melodies mixed with deep choral hymns that vibrate through the palace halls. Only the best in the country.

Your attire is custom-made by royal tailors over several months. Every inch is hand embroidered with protective enchantments woven subtly into the fabric by court mages. For this ceremony, you are given his mother’s crown. As this is the day you become queen. 

Malleus’s ceremonial robes are breathtakingly regal, made of of black silks with dragon scaled embroidered motifs. A high collar that reaches his throat, silver accents, and atop his head an obsidian crown set with emeralds that frame his horns. 

The train of his cloak is so long that attendants have to carry it behind him.

Yet somehow, none of all that adorns him compares to the expression on his face when he sees you.

The ceremony takes place within the palace’s grand cathedral garden at twilight.Briar Valley’s sky glows violet-blue overhead while thousands of floating lanterns illuminate the marble pathways.You are kept separate from Malleus until the ceremony begins due to ancient tradition.

It nearly kills him. Malleus is NOT a patient man once the clock begins to tick with him at the altar. 

Lilia thinks it is hysterical. Of course he does. Being the one to give you away, he’s already seen you many times. He does not understand Malleus’ pain. 

“You’ve waited decades to fall in love, years for her hand, and now you cannot survive a mere six hours?” “I am considering abolishing this custom permanently. For now, I need to temper myself. Not another word.”

When the cathedral doors finally open, every conversation dies instantly.

Malleus turns.

He had expected beauty. He had expected to be moved. He had not expected to feel his mind go quiet. You look so radiant that it becomes almost unbearable to be patient. His expression is composed, because it always is — but the possessive warmth in his eyes gives him away instantly.

He is thinking, very simply, that you look like you were always meant to stand beside him. 

Ethereal.

Untouchable.

His.

The possessiveness that floods his chest is immediate and almost frightening in intensity. He needs the priest to speak faster. He needs everyone to be quiet so he can hear your steps coming closer. Time has never felt so agonizingly slow. 

In his vows, Malleus does not speak lightly when he promises himself to you. Every word feels deliberate, chosen with care, like he is laying down a sacred vow even though he’s making up his speech on the spot. 

He promises not just devotion, but presence. Protection. A future that is no longer measured in solitude. 

“I have lived long enough to know that many things can be admired from a distance,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You are not one of them. You are the center of my world, the home I return to, the future I choose.” His gloved thumb brushes your knuckles. “I swear to stand beside you in joy and in ruin, in quiet and in raging storms, for as long as this heart of mine still beats.” A beat barely passes before his tone lowers, just between you both. “And if it should ever fail, I will still find my way to you, my one and only love.” 

When he kisses you, it contains all he’s been stowing away since the day began.

For one impossible second, it is as if the entire kingdom vanishes and there is only you, warm in his arms, and the knowledge that this is real. That you are his husband or wife or spouse in the eyes of the world now, but more than that — you are his in every way that matters. 

Then the party begins. 

There is no such thing as subtlety here. The palace opens up into a night of music, dancing, feasting, and enchanted lanterns drifting into the air like captured stars. Guests from Briar Valley mingle with the students and friends you brought from Night Raven, and for once Malleus looks utterly content to simply watch you move through the room, smiling at people, laughing, glowing under the attention. 

Speaking of dancing - It's a tad intimidating for Malleus to dance with his grandmother during the mother/son portion, but all the more worth it to see you spun around by Lilia. Not only did the elder bat step in as the one to give you away before, but as your guardian.

When it’s time to cut the cake – which, to note, is a towering sight meant to feed hundreds – you do not smash the cake into his face, but you do smear a little icing on his cheek, and the entire room collectively freezes for one horrifying second because ‘human dare’? Surely there are some noblemen that don’t know Malleus well who expect divorce right there. How foolish of them, really. 

Malleus only laughs, low and delighted, and calmly eats the icing off his cheek. He doesn’t return the favor, but a few flustering words are exchanged between the couple that guests aren’t privy to. 

There is no garter tradition. Absolutely not. Not if he has any say in it. The concept of another man reaching for your leg on your wedding day is not something Malleus is willing to entertain, no matter how ceremonial anyone claims it is. The answer is a very polite, very final no. 

At the height of the party, he listens to toasts offered by those closest to you both and lets the evening simmer before offering the closing note in his own words. 

When he stands, glass raised and a presence that quiets the crowds, he finds it in himself to indulge in all who’ve gathered beyond your little happy bubble. 

“Tonight,” Malleus says, lifting his glass, “I am reminded that even the longest roads may lead somewhere wondrous.” His gaze turns to you, and everything else fades. “I thank you all for bearing witness to this day, and I thank fate for bringing me to one who makes eternity feel short.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “To my beloved — may your every dawn be bright, and may you never doubt that you are cherished beyond measure. To us.” 

The following day, you’re together on the route to the Scalding Sands. 

It is not just a getaway; it is a return. Memories of walking the streets of Silk City and tinkering with which souvenirs to bring home. How liberating it was. He enjoys the trip there almost as much as the stay itself, because it carries the memory of you both as students — younger, less certain of each other, but already orbiting one another in ways neither of you could fully explain at the time. He wants to recreate that feeling, but now with no distance between you at all. 

He arranges a secluded stay where your status can go unrecognized where you can enjoy the novelty, the food, the stars, and the quiet without interruption. There are evening walks, private dinners, and long moments where he simply sits with you, listening to you talk about anything and everything while the desert wind carries you both above the weight of life. 

Afterward, you settle in Briar Valley. Now King and Queen. Yet more importantly, now a family. The living quarters no longer feel like a place he inhabits through birthright. Because the truth of it, in his mind? Is that the palace was never home until you arrived. 

Your wedding isn’t a spectacle. If anything, it’s an elopement…but a pre-planned elopement? Certainly not a whim. After all, he’d proposed in the past. It’s just that the matter of setting a date never came…until now. No better time than the present, no?

Lilia could make it into a grand spectacle if he wanted to. He has the connections, the charm, and more than enough history to justify anything from a moonlit courtly affair to a hundred-dragon parade. But when it comes to marrying you, he does not see the point in making it bigger than the love itself.

To him, the important part is not the crowd. It is the fact that it is you. So the wedding becomes something small, sweet, and quiet — a decision made with a smile and no unnecessary fuss. Just a gut feeling and enough coin in his back pocket to make something special. 

It happens barely a year after you graduate from Night Raven, while Lilia is still getting his teaching license and you’re out finding what role you want in life. No hurry about it, either.

You, Lilia, Grim, and Silver are on what is supposed to be a ‘family’ vacation (sans. two very miffed gentlemen stuck doing their work back home)  to the Land of the Red Dragon; and somewhere between sightseeing, trying novelties, and Lilia deciding the moment feels right, the “trip” becomes an impromptu wedding. No warning. No giant announcement. Just a very casual, whimsical decision that leaves everyone else scrambling to catch up (yourself included).

“Ah…all the views in this city would make lovely wedding venue options, don’t you agree? Aha! I’m glad to hear it! Let’s be off then!” Before you can blink twice, he’s snatched you by the wrist and begun prattling on to a shopkeep about purchasing a bouquet of wildflowers. 

He is delighted by the prospect. You’re only half-surprised because, honestly,he’s always pulling last-second surprises like this. 

The ceremony is put together in less than a day. Somewhere scenic, private, and beautiful in that understated way Lilia loves — maybe beside a quiet shrine, maybe in a garden with trees hanging heavy with blossoms, maybe on a playhouse terrace where the wind moves through fairy lights and the moonlight catches your wedding bands. No priest. No one in attendance, really, other than yourselves. Silver and Grim are off souvenir shopping and will be back just in time for dinner.

It feels simple, but not empty. It's intimate, like the world alone has been given the privilege of watching something precious happen. One of the softer moments in an old general’s life. 

Cool lilac and plum florals, woven ribbons, warm wood cradling your wings, a crumpled linen cloth under your feet., fresh greenery tucked behind your ear and in his breastpocket, and a small spread set with local dishes. Ordered from the restaurant you’d eaten at the night prior, even though Lilia tried his darndest to gain access to your lodgings kitchen. 

Your clothes are rented from a local tailor as well. Nothing extravagant or fancy. In truth, Lilia would have been satisfied getting married in the cleanest article in his suitcase. Yet the thought of seeing you in a rented Qipao was too tempting. Silver lets you borrow his blue handkerchief to fill three of the superstition requirements (old, blue, and borrowed). You buy a cheap cosmetic cubic zirconia tiara for something new. Lilia takes great pleasure in setting the gaudy thing on your head, encouraging you to play princess for the night. 

When you step out from the changing booth, his lips pull on reflex. It’s been six-hundred-some years since his fangs felt too big for his mouth. 

Not because he is surprised — he already knew you would look ravishing — but because seeing you there, ready to become his, hits him in that little, devastating place in his chest where he keeps all his most precious memories tucked away safely.

Lilia is playful by nature, but this moment strips that away just enough to show how deeply he feels it. You are radiant. You are real. And you are standing there about to choose him over and over again. 

For a moment, he thinks of how fortunate he truly is. He has seven hundred years of memories. He is about to create more. There are many men he led to their deaths, who did not get to experience a fraction of what life had to offer beyond their blades and camaraderie. 

Now, give him a twirl? Great. Now a kiss, maybe three. 

“Ohhoho,” he chuckles while hovering circles around you, right before flipping upside down and stealing a nip at your nose. “There you are, dove! I was wondering when you would arrive and ruin my composure.” Magenta eyes glint cheekily when you ask, “You had composure to begin with?” He takes your chin between thumb and index, shamelessly admiring you from head to toe. “A little,” his finger pinch with a millimeter left between them,” Yet you have stolen it from me, you minx.” 

That night, standing arm in arm, he slides your wedding ring into place and holds your hand in both his own. Here, in this faraway land, there are no bounds. Only two people, choosing to go through time together. 

“I have wandered a great many roads,” he says, eyes glimmering on you, “and I have learned that the prettiest ones are not always the easiest. They are often an illusion.” A soft smile touches his mouth as he slips the ring over your finger. “But you? You make every path worth following.Should this be a trance, it is one I never intend to wake from.” He folds his palm over yours and offers you his bare finger in turn. “I vow to laugh with you, to guard your heart when you are tired, more so when you are full with life, and to keep choosing you come every sunrise and to lay with you each sunset. ” 

When he kisses you, it is but a brush. The complete opposite of his usual passion and cheeky excitement. There is a sweetness to it that feels almost unfair, because it is also full of decades’ worth of feeling he has never once rushed. In that moment, he is thinking about how lucky he is, yes — but more than that, how amused he is that something so simple could make his whole life feel rounded..

Now…back at home, there are two very displeased fae. The king of Briar Valley has done well to temper his emotions since being crowned, and yet thunder rained from the heavens the night your family vacation ended. Not only did he miss an adventure to the Land of The Red Dragon, but the wedding between his father-figure and best friend? 

Mm. Yes. Malleus is happy for you two loves, but step aside. Give him an evening to simmer because he’s been planning what gift to give you both since the engagement and now it is ruined. 

Sebek is no better. Congratulations are in order, but they’re spoken through grit teeth and blazing jealousy that both Silver and Grim got to partake in the merriment first 

Needless to say, a reception is held back at your home in Briar forest. The small cottage you share with Lilia becomes quite the crowded hub. 

It is intimate and warm and full of familiar faces both new and old. The cottage becomes the heart of it all, with blue torchlight in the trees, mismatched lawn chairs brought out for guests, little plates of finger food shared between friends, and decorations that look like they were gathered from the forest itself. Which…they were. Acorn strands, floral adornment from your garden, etc. Nothing you both did not already own. 

Lilia…bless his heart, tries to make the wedding cake himself. You stop him before he can. Firmly. Lovingly. Because yes, you trust his intentions, but you are not entirely sure you trust a Lilia Vanrouge wedding cake to be…edible. It’s bad enough that you’ve had to replace the oven twice since moving in together. 

“Lilia…darling, why don’t we order from Clover Bakery? Trey already sent an RSVP and I do love their honeycomb cake. This is a special day, why not let someone else do the labor?”  Lilia, knuckle deep in what you think is squid-ink icing, looks at you before grabbing a random bottle off the spice rack and dumping a third of the contents.  “Nonsense! A handmade cake is precisely what our wedding needs. It shows how grateful we are for our guests sharing in the merriment!”  “Ah…haha,” you can only nod and begin to think of ways his cake can be hidden from the guests, “you make a fair point. Uhm. How about we do both? The more the better, right?”  "Good thinking!"

Your first dance together is suave and a bit all over the place. He tries to cast a little levitation spell but his magic isn't quite what it used to be. What does warm his heart is Silver stepping in during the parent/child portion, as Lilia doesn't have a parent to join in for...reasons. Malleus wanted this honor with you, but it's Grim who takes the mantle. Although our beloved kitty does regret it during the trade off, when Lilia's spinning him in circles by his front paws and one slack grip from sending Grim right into the banquet table.

While the party is relatively relaxed and more akin to a reunion if anything else…he does take the time to offer a toast. Coincidentally after the cake was cut and people seemed to flock to the outskirts where they might feed the local wildlife. He stands with a glass in hand, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who just pulled off a surprise wedding. 

“Well,” Lilia says, lifting his glass with a grin, “this is rather wonderful, isn’t it? It would be far better if I could recognize your lovely faces, but alas. These eyes aren’t so sharp after a glass or six of wine.” A few people laugh. He lets them. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate the two of us, and for not fainting from shock when we decided to make this official in the middle of a family trip.” He turns toward you, and his smile softens into something far more tender. “To my dearest…thank you for choosing this path with me, even though you deserve every grand thing the world could offer. I promise to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.” His eyes gleam. “Now, drink up! We are married...ah, but not too much. I fear the wildlife might have a bit too much fun should you all pass out drunk in the shrubbery, kehehe~ ” 

The following week? You’re both screaming in a wooden barrel down a waterfall in the Sunset Savannah. Just because the wedding occurred on vacation, does not mean you shouldn’t enjoy a proper honeymoon. 

Thrill rides, enormous slides, lazy rivers, wave pools, splash zones, and enough noise and color to make it feel like the most chaotic, exciting honeymoon imaginable. It is exactly the sort of place that lets Lilia be ridiculous in the best possible way. This time just the two of you. Hopefully Grim hasn’t burned the cottage down, but you both can worry about it later. 

Alright. The ONE day Leona decides to attend class and it's the beginning of what one might consider his worst nightmare.

Mm. Just -

Trein, you are NOT doing a good job of convincing him to attend regularly. He's only present because the garden was booked for some seminar on Entomology. If Leona wanted to learn more about annoying insects and cowardly decomposers, he'd play 20 questions with the Ignihyde freshman.

Although an hour-long soul sucking lecture is starting to look damn preferable when pitted against a week of utter inconvenience.

Trein - the predictive bastard he is - plucked a hair from Leona's mane before the lesson began and dared to use it as the demonstrative piece. As if he knew that the second Leona caught sight of those soulless dolls, that he would sooner jump out the window (fifth story, no joke) than hand over a single skin cell's worth of DNA.

The predictive bastard is nicknamed as such with purpose. He would be right.

Leona feels his patience thinning out and interweaving with six different indescribable emotions all at once. The instruction manual? Tossed right in the trash. Gloved knuckles crack in his fists when Trein holds a mockery cub for Leona to take.

He doesn't need this. Even if he failed the project, he could pass the class by acing everything else. Leona would rather attend every lecture for the rest of the semester than take the swaddled doll back to his room for a week of glorified babysitting.

Then it's eyes open - piercing, heavy-lidded emerald windows - and its thin tail slips out to dangle through a gap in its swaddle.

An hour later, Leona's laying flat on his back in the botanical gardens. Sun in his face, that damn entomology lecture somehow still running, and a weight no heaver than his lunch draped on his chest. Ruggie came around with his lunch but had tact enough not to linger. Not when Leona didn't stir, but a messy mop of thick, sandy-brown tufts popped up when it caught a whiff of grilled meat in the wind.

For how annoyed he was - he had to laugh. The predator instincts were there even though it wasn't capable of eating anything but formula or mashed foods.

It's a good thing press can't enter Night Raven. They'd sure have a field day with this one - Leona's got to give it to STYX...the 'doll' is the spitting image of a KingScholar cub. Olive toned skin, tiny fangs that are just barely growing past nubs, pointy ears that are still mostly weak cartilage that droop, and when he pushes its hair back? The roots are blackened near the scalp, thick for a baby but not unlike when he was that age. Pictures for reference, of course.

When Ruggie drops the bag and its eyes dart back, looking up at Leona from his chest and obviously gauging if his chin is safe to bite? The bigger clicks his tongue, accepting his fate and swearing off this class once the week is over.

Damn realistic enchantments. Damn new requirements. Damn it all - he thinks, and catches the baby's chubby cheek in hand right before it sinks fangs to Leona's flesh. As if it could hurt him - hah.

Contrary to the doubts people have in him - Leona's not keen on being a dick to children. He's just not fond of them. There is a different.

It helps that this is an infant that can't talk his ear off about why strawberry icecream is the best for two hours straight. His routine is hardly disrupted. Not like those other students that can't tell a binky nib from a bottle's head. For the entire week, Leona behaves no differently aside from griping about Trein's audacity to every available ear. Not the kid, but Trein. He'd be a bit less miffed if this was an actual kid and not going to disappear into data. Then his effort would at least be worth something.

Rule of thumb - when the kid does something, so do you. The baby is constantly tucked into on arm and rarely ever in its swaddle. Damn things never felt good on his tail as a kid and he knows that'll make it cry. When he naps? It's on his chest, and it stays there. Curled with one heavy palm pressed over its back, sleeping without a care in the world. The same at night. Leona's not about to get up and check a bassinet every few hours. So it's either in one arm or in a nest of pillows next to him.

Leona's not a baby-talker, but he does reassure it like he would Cheka when the runt was little. Short commands that demand attention and confirmations that he's there. An easy, "Relax," or "Yeah, yeah. I hear you." when the kid's fussy. Which is rare, because Leona knows what'll set a cub off before anything happens. Usually loud environments or not getting enough play/tummy time.

Maybe he just has a way with kids - or maybe it's because his voice is soothingly low and his temperature is on the warm side. They just like him, and while it can't 'feel' anything? He's at least able to win the favoritism of this little doll just by being there. It's...definitely an 'emotion' for Leona. Especially when he hears how others are really struggling.

Having a cub rely directly on him is different than it was with his nephew. Even when the 'doll' kicks up a fuss, crying when the spelldrive team's voices booms too loud across the field, or getting daring enough to swipe at Leona's forearms when he wouldn't wake up - he gets annoyed, but never enough that he doesn't bounce back after a moment or two.

Trein gives him a C+ in the end. He tossed the handbook, did not fill out the proper logs, and did not attend any classes during the week. Leona doesn't care. He was too pissed to attend and could care for the kid on instinct rather than some book.

And as he knew from the very start, the spell wanes and the cub that tugged his braids on the walk there became a blank slate for the next class. Leona takes it as his cue to find his usual spot, lay flat on an open slab, feel the sun on his face and doze off with a different weight in his chest, rather than on it.

You’ve learned, over the course of this week, that approaching Leona directly is a mistake. Trying to schedule a meetup time with him is like trying to sell bagged air. Possible, but requires far too much skill.

So you don’t.

Savanaclaw’s waterfalls are loud enough to drown out most things—voices, stray thoughts, even the distant clang of Magift practice and the recurrent fight between roommates. The mist hangs in the air, cool against your skin as you follow the familiar stone path toward the flat slab of rock your target's claimed as his own. You don’t bother announcing yourself. If he really didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t find him.

You spot the tail first.

It sways lazily through the air in a slow, deliberate arc, casting a thin shadow over a small bundle of sandy-brown tucked against Leona’s side. The rest of him is exactly how you’d expect — stretched out on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting heavy and loose near the baby. A book is propped open against his chest, pages shifting faintly in the waterfall breeze.

He’s positioned closer to the edge of the rock, his broad body forming an unmistakable barrier between the infant and the rushing water below. The cub is laid on the opposite side, facing the falls. From here, you can see its tiny ears twitch at the sound, still soft and mostly cartilage, drooping slightly at the tips. Its thin tail peeks free of a discarded blanket, flicking clumsily in imitation of the one hovering above it.

Leona doesn’t look up when you step closer.

“Oi,” he drawls, voice low and lazy. “If you’re gonna stare, at least bring something useful. Like food.”

You huff a quiet laugh and move around to the safer side of the rock, crouching down near the baby instead of him. “Good evening to you too.”

One emerald eye cracks open, unimpressed. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

For Leona, that's as much of a welcome as you're going to get. So you settle in at a safe distance to make friends with the more adorable of the two. Up close, the cub is even more unbelievable.

Olive-toned skin, just a shade lighter than Leona’s. A messy mop of sandy-brown hair that's already thick for something barely a week old, darker at the roots near the scalp. Although you'd surmise this kid to be more like a 12 month old than a newborn given its size and motor skills. When it yawns—wide and dramatic—you catch the faintest glint of tiny fangs pushing past the gumline. Its gaze is heavy-lidded and bright green, tracking the movement of Leona’s tail overhead with sharp focus.

The tail dips lower. The cub swipes at it with both hands and misses.

Leona flicks it just out of reach.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, pushing down a laugh.

“For what?” he replies without looking at you. “It’s enrichment.”

Without giving him attention, you know he's smirking. It's the heavy ego dragging down his tone.

The cub lets out a small, indignant huff. Not a cry—just a sound of effort—and tries again. This time it catches a tuft of dark fur between its fingers. In the corner of your vision, its elder winces.

Leona clicks his tongue. “Don’t pull.”

The cub freezes.

Then its eyes dart—not to the tail, not to the water—but up at him. At Leona.

He hasn’t moved. Not notably. But there’s something different in the set of his shoulders. Something alert and commanding beneath his relaxed posture, but that's as far as it goes.

“Relax,” he adds, quieter.

The cub’s grip loosens.

You don’t miss the way Leona's tail adjusts its rhythm after that, lowering just enough to keep the baby engaged without letting it yank too hard. It’s absentminded. An effortless adjustment that passes between them and you're just the fortunate onlooker.

“You’re good at this,” you feel compelled to tell him.

He snorts. “At lying down?”

“At knowing what it needs to grow without preparation.”

For the first time, you give his laid-back approach a new name. Adaptability. Patience.

That gets a faint twitch of his ear.

“It’s not complicated,” he mutters, returning to his book yet clearly not progressing. “Swaddles feel like crap on a lion's tail. Loud noise pisses it off. If it’s staring at something too long, it’s bored. You just…pay attention. Tiresome but doesn't take a genius.”

Other students would beg to differ. Many of them. Although sharing what you've learned in other check-ins feels ill opportune. For the sake of this moment and to not give Leona's ego any extra fuel.

You think about the first day of the assignment—how furious he’d been. The way he’d thrown the handbook away with a force that rattled the bin. The way he grumbled about Trein’s nerve to anyone within range. Even though he isn't the type to initiate unnecessary conversations. And yet here he is, positioned deliberately between a waterfall and something that weighs less than his arm.

The cub shifts, attention finally drifting from the tail to you.

It stares past your smile, and you hold still.

Its nose wrinkles slightly, as if scenting the air. Then, with surprising determination, it rolls—awkward and wobbly—onto its side and reaches a small hand toward you.

When you don't instantly understand what it wants, it whines and that hand flexes in a grabbing motion for your brain to measure up.

Leona’s eyes open fully out of their heavy squint and follow.

“Don’t drop it,” he says flatly, but with no hostility. Just the same tone he gave when the cub tugged his tail.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You slide your hands beneath the cub carefully, lifting it just enough to settle against your crossed legs. It’s warm—warmer than you expected but beastfolk are supposed to run at higher temperatures. Solid too. Real in a way that still feels unsettling if you think about it too long.

It doesn’t fuss.

Instead, it studies you with those catty pupils and presses its nose to your stomach.

Its gaze flicks from your face to Leona, then back again, as if cross-referencing something. Tiny fingers then curl into the fabric of your shirt with a content smile.

Leona watches the whole exchange with quiet scrutiny. You'd be able to fully appreciate the view if he wasn't burning holes in your side.

“Huh,” he grunts after a moment.

You instinctively feel defensive, “What?”

“It doesn’t usually go for people.”

There's a judgement hanging in his tone that you're wary of, but it's Leona so you taper back that insecurity.

You raise a brow before patting the baby's back. “Maybe I’m special.”

“Maybe it’s got decent instincts," he shrugs, turning on his side in full and settling his weight on one arm.

There’s no bite to the comment. No elaboration either, and maybe you're just as bad as him, because you want to know. Unlike whatever silent communication he shares with this cub, your pride won't accept less than words.

His gaze sharpens overhead, trying to pull your attention, but then softens by a fraction.

“Lion cubs are good judges of character,” he says casually.

You huff, as if you didn’t already know. “Oh? Is that what this is?”

He rolls his eyes. “If it didn’t like you, it’d let you know.”

The cub shifts again, tiny claws catching briefly before relaxing. It leans into your hand when you brush your thumb gently over its cheek. Earning a small, pleased sound. A purr more in vibration against your fingers than in volume.

Leona exhales through his nose, something almost amused there.

“Pack mentality,” he says after a beat. “If it decides you’re safe, that’s that.”

“Decides based on what?”

Another lazy flick of his tail. “Based on me.”

It's the same as a child watching their parent eat something unfamiliar before giving it a try. The analogy is strange even as you think of it, but not untrue.

Your chest warms at that, though you try not to show it.

The cub’s tail gives a faint wiggle, mirroring the larger one overhead. It glances back at Leona again, just to check.

He meets its eyes and juts his chin in your direction.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “They’re fine.”

That seems to settle it. The cub relaxes fully against you, attention drifting back to the waterfall. Mist beads faintly along its lashes. You pull stray, damp hairs from its face and sleek them back. The moisture in the air holding them without a tie.

You glance over at him. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Leona smirks, and his tail arcs over your head now. You're tempted tug it down.

“Doing what.” It's not even a question.

“Showing off.”

His lips curve faintly, sharp to show a hint of fang and subtle. “If I wanted to show off, you’d know.”

Still, he shifts slightly closer to you—not enough to crowd, just enough that the space feels… intentional. Protective. His arm stretches out behind you, resting on the rock like an unspoken boundary. Not touching but if you leaned back enough of your own accord, there'd be a happy accident.

You look back at the falls. The cub watches the water with quiet fascination, utterly at ease between you.

“You didn’t have to take this so seriously,” you say softly.

Leona hums.

“Wasn’t about serious.” His voice dips lower, quieter beneath the rush of water. “I’m not leaving something that looks like me to fend for itself. Fake or not.”

You glance down at the cub—at the familiar green eyes, the sandy hair, the faint shadow of future strength in its tiny frame. Even if it shared no resemblance, you doubt he'd do this any differently.

Trein was right in that Leona would've never willingly took the assignment. Yet he was wrong thinking that Leona is irresponsible.

“Could’ve dumped it on Ruggie,” you tease, moving to pinch the cub's cheek. It nips your finger in retaliation but is clearly in playful spirits.

He scoffs to smother a laugh. “Trust a hyena with a lion cub? You’ve got to get better jokes.”

The cub startles slightly at the change in tone. Instantly—before it can escalate and squirm from you—Leona’s hand comes down, heavy and warm, resting over its small back where it sits .

It calms immediately.

You feel it through your palms, the way its breathing evens out beneath his touch. A moment later and it's off in dream town with dancing sheep fluttering overhead.

Leona doesn’t even look at it.

Just picks his book back up, but only to use the pages as a blindfold to block out the sun.

“You’re protective,” you murmur.

He waits. “I’m practical.”

“Right," you smile.

The three of you sit like that until the sun dims. Water roaring. Mist cooling your skin. His tail continuing its lazy rhythm above you both. The cub eventually awakens and abandons watching the falls in favor of reaching for your fingers, babbling softly in curiosity rather than fussing.

When it leans too far toward the edge of your lap, Leona shifts again—subtle but immediate—closing the gap with his body so there’s no chance of slipping toward the water.

A living barricade.

You glance at him.

He’s pretending not to watch.

But he is.

Always.

“You know,” you test his patience, “for someone who hates this assignment, you’re making it look easy.”

He closes his book with a quiet snap and finally turns his head fully toward you. In the brief second between when its in his hands before being thrown off with more force than needed, you catch the title.

Emerald eyes meet yours—steady, unreadable, but not cold. Daring you to comment that he seemingly dug Trein's manual out of the trash.

“It is easy,” he diverts. “When you don’t panic.”

The cub makes a small noise, patting at your sleeve again. You laugh softly, indulging it.

Leona studies the two of you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts—not softer, exactly. Just… settled, and you think it means that your time in their company is well past its expiration. Somehow a thirty minute check-in turned into three hours and missed dinner.

So you go to exchange the warm cub for cold savannah air, and while it doesn't protest, a tail does catch your wrist. Just not the one you expected.

“Stay,” Leona says after a beat, like it’s an afterthought. “Kid's quieter when you’re here.”

You pretend not to hear the honesty buried in that, but don't move other than to pull your phone from your back pocket. The cub eyes it with brief interest while you swipe through contacts, looking for that familiar card to cash in a favor or two.

“Only because I don’t yell at you like Ruggie does.”

“That’s debatable.”

But he shifts again, making more room on the rock without ever explicitly inviting you closer.

The cub squirms, then settles between you both, half in your lap and half against his side—perfectly relaxed.

And for the first time all week, Leona looks almost… at ease.

Ruggie's first impression of this kid is that it is scrappy. He snorts when Trein passes it over, pushing out a low whistle through his two front teeth and their meeting is just a mutual understanding that shit's about to get real right. He doesn't say hello or coo some sweet greeting to show the kid it's in good hands.

"Seriously? It made ya scrawny too?" <- Trein is not impressed. It's obvious that Ruggie didn't so much as glance at the issued handbook. Why should he? It's not like he hasn't taken care of a brat or six in his day.

What he does readily accept is all the caretaking materials. Bassinette, blankets, formula, diapers, clothes - shit, this kid's starting out better than most back home and it isn't even real. Back in his village, they used reusable cloth diapers and these fake pups are about to waste weeks worth of disposable goods. For what, an assignment? The thought makes him a bit miffed and he makes a mental note to ask Trein at the end of the semester if there are any leftover materials the school doesn't want anymore. He'll happily take it back home.

Ruggie isn't intimidated by this assignment in the slightest . I might be one of the easiest A's he's ever gotten on campus - and there's nothing customers in a restaurant love more than seeing a 'single father' busting his tail to support his kid. This project is about to make him big bucks in tips at his part time jobs.

He's had two ankle biters on his feet and a drooling sasquatch slung on his back while helping Gran clean the streets from litter. Does Trein think he'll break a sweat caring for one baby in a school packed with distractions and resources? He's raised kids for way longer than a week, knows how to stretch what he was provided, knows how to check if it's breathing, knows how to make do - this isn't knew.

What is new? Having enough.

Back in his dorm room on the first night - while he's counting his madols and doing a few coin tricks to draw the infant's eye - all Ruggie can think of is how he has enough.

How this isn't the 'realistic' experience everyone's raving about. It isn't what his Gran went through raising him, not what folks back home do, and the whole thing is just as fake as those downturned honey brown eyes that are full of energy for something so small.

Ruggie's 'doll' is the most realistic thing of the project, and he hates that too. Kid's tiny by miles compared to the others. The doll shrunk half a size in the enchantment. A thin little frame, cheeks that are soft but not plump. When it goes to yawn, two baby fangs snag on its lower lip. They're too big for its mouth but hungry all the same. The same goes for its ears - large satellites that circle round at the slightest noise.

What's on the mark though is that scraggly mop of chocolate brown hair on its head. No one guessed that Ruggie used to be a brunette, not even other beastfolk. Hyenas were segregated so it wasn't common knowledge that their coats change as they age.

This spell got it on the mark though. Even with that stump over its ass, a poor excuse for a tail that the kid will never get the chance to grow into.

As much as Ruggie can't stand the assignment - he cant bring himself to be distant from his 'doll'. Not just because of the grade...it's pride, and he isn't known to have much of it. Ruggie won't pretend he's perfect but you'd have to be a real asshole to look a baby in the eye and leave it to fend for itself.

Curse every thing - because as he's jokingly prodding the kid's sharp fangs - all he sees his himself. He sees a little thing that doesn't realize how shit the world is, and it's looking at him like how he looked at his dad. So for the week, he'll joke around and treat this kid like he does the ones back home. It's temporary but the doll doesn't know that.

Moving on - Ruggie's efficient. Formula's measured precisely - no waste, but if the kid's stomach so much as growls then he's prepping more. Diaper duty is a world-record pace. He even takes over for some of his more squeamish classmates - for a fee. If Trein wasn't such a hardass, he'd probably try to run a daycare for the other groups and make a quick madol. But noooo. It's 'cheating' and Trein will burn his tail off if he tries -

A bit paranoid about temperature despite NRC being controlled. He keeps the kid in a swaddle over his stomach the whole day, using his bandanna to block the light if it wants to nap.

Basically - even though the baby doesn't need this type of devout attention, he treats every moment like it matters. To Ruggie, it does. He learned early on that crying doesn't always mean someone can help. Taught it to his youngers. Since this is temporary, he allows himself to dote a bit. Do what he wishes he could do back home.

He's real good at improvising entertainment. Whistling a tune to get himself a laugh, passing it frozen rags to chew on, playing airplane while going between classes, etc.

He does struggle when moving isn't an option. If the kid's asleep on him or burps up its lunch when he needs to be on the go? He's itching, feeling unproductive, and then rammed with guilt if those tiny hands cling to his vest. He forgets that kids are clingy once they find somewhere safe. Leona has to have him bench-warm during spell drive for the week and he takes the win.

On the first night, it was whimpering in the bassinet until he pulled it next to the bed. He gripes about spoiling it but knows what it's like to wake up alone.

In the end? Ruggie has a solid B+. He lost the A for not following the handbook and giving in to the kid's desires too much. Also for interfering with other students projects and trying (key word. trying) to set up that daycare.

He's not sentimental when his scrappy little thing turns back into what it always was - metal and a dream. All the good things in his life are temporary. He rolls his shoulder like nothing happened, and chalks 'Scrappy' up as a job well done.

You should’ve known better than to look for Ruggie in Savanaclaw.

Or in class.

Or anywhere remotely convenient. Not with the way he's somehow everywhere across campus all at once. Are we certain that his UM and Cater's aren't switched?

It takes three wrong turns, one confused first-year, and a pointed “Try the Lounge” from Sam before you finally spot him weaving through the tables at the Mostro Lounge with a tray balanced on one hand and—

Ah.

Of course.

Of course he brought the baby to work.

The bassinet is nowhere in sight. Instead, the infant is secured to his chest in a snug wrap, little hyena ears poking out from the fabric, wide honey-brown eyes taking in the glittering lounge lights like it’s front row at a stage show. Customers 'ooh' and 'ahh' - their attention magnetic to the little employee who's name isn't on the payroll but is surely bringing in big bucks for Mostro's head honcho. Azul probably saw nothing but dollar bill signs strapped to Ruggie's shift tag tonight.

You bid said merman a brief introduction at the entrance and make waves past a beaming Floyd that was moments away from stealing your time. You sadly didn't have an evening to spare for tricks and the occasional bite. It's a good thing he's on kitchen duty so you can escape to the main floor.

Ruggie doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does but is stuck mid-performance.

“Two sea-salt caramel teas, one grilled octo-dog—careful, it’s hot—and if ya need a refill, just give me a wave, yeah?”

He spins on his heel, nearly checking your side and on instinct cover's the baby's head with his palm. A bitten 'watch it' is on his tongue but is wrestled down since he's on shift. Practiced grin already in the making.

“Well if it isn’t NRC’s most dedicated single father.” You snicker over his shoulder.

And just like that, he startles. Two sets of identical rounded ears swivel your way and his bite is back. Ruggie grins wide enough to show fang.

“Oi! Prefect!” His pitch climbs. “You stalking me now?”

“Hardly," you deny flatly, "I just had to follow the trail of unpaid labor.”

Ruggie spares a moment to fake offense, but tugs you to the side as other waiters make quick footwork towards their tables. A bit guilty for possibly getting them with Azul, you follow along without a fuss. It helps with adorable, quizzical little eyes watching your every step.

“Hey!” He feigns a scoff. “This is paid labor. Big difference.”

"Monetizing your a baby for extra shifts and tricking customers isn't that much better"

The baby shifts at the sound of your voice, head tilting slightly. Its gaze flicks between the two of you — curious, alert, not the least bit hostile as you were expecting from all the stories he's told you about hyena kids. This one is just… interested.

You lean closer and wiggle your fingers with a silent prayer for them not to be nipped off.

“Hi there, lil dude.” You poke its nose, smiling until your cheeks stretched.

Ruggie snorts. “Don’t encourage it.”

The baby’s eyes track your hand with intense focus. One small fist reaches out, grabbing at your sleeve with surprising strength.

You blink. “Wow. Strong grip.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruggie mutters. “Tiny little ankle-biter.”

But there’s pride tucked in the edges of his tone. The insult lingers fondly under his breath and is probably a more tame version of what he's thinking.

You glance at the tray still balanced on his palm and ask a question you already know the answer to. “How long’s left on your shift?”

“‘Bout an hour.” He shifts the tray to his other hand and rolls the shoulder with the baby's sling. A little head bounces up and down with it. “Why?”

You cross your arms. “I’m here for your check-in, genius. But I’m not chasing you around the Lounge for sixty minutes.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “You offering to clock in?”

As much as you'd love to be Azul's unpaid slave for the next hour, that fortune can remain with his debtors. An animated wave towards the knot aching his trapezes alludes to a much sweeter job.

“I’ll hold the baby.”

That gets his attention, even if it should've been obvious.

His teasing grin fades into something more assessing — not distrustful, just instinctively weighing options. Shifting his attention between you and Jade not-so-secretly looming over by the host's podium. The clock on this short break ticking.

The baby makes a soft chirping sound and tugs on his vest, loosening the top buttons which were already on a thread.

Ruggie sighs. “You sure? It’s not exactly light.”

“I’ve carried Grim,” you deadpan.

“Fair point.”

He crouches slightly, carefully loosening the wrap and transferring the baby into your arms with practiced ease. His hands linger a second longer than necessary, adjusting the fabric around its shoulders and hovering to make sure your confidence wasn't a ruse.

“Formula’s in the back fridge behind the bar,” he rattles off automatically. “Three scoops, level, warm water — not hot. It gulps too fast if it’s too warm.”

You arch a brow but listen tentatively. “Relax. I can follow instructions.”

“Wasn’t worried ‘bout that.” He smirks, and shoots you a wink.

But you notice he glances back once before heading toward the kitchen, just to jut his head towards an empty table in his section and adjust those messy buttons. You take the hint and park it where he needs you.

The baby settles against your chest easily. No fussing. No tension. Just wide-eyed curiosity that occasionally pulls when a stray customer waves while passing. It's taken to chewing on your lapels and considering this is better than it being fussy for an hour? You can wash the coat later.

Up close, you can really see the resemblance. Magic is truly fascinating and honestly a bit scary sometimes. It's the only thought you have while counting the freckles dotting its nose, tracing them like constellations just to hear it giggle. You've often imagined doing the same to the person it inherited them from, although Ruggie might not look this adorable or smiley about it.

There would be a close tie though.

This scraggly chocolate-brown hair. The oversized ears swiveling at every clink of glass. Those two tiny fangs peeking out when it yawns.

You tap one gently, unthinking. “Oh, you definitely got his bite.”

The baby grabs your finger and attempts to gum it immediately. Your mistake, really.

“Yep. Confirmed.”

For the next hour, you occupy that corner booth like an unofficial daycare station. Azul eyes you suspiciously when he sweeps the grounds before closing but says nothing — likely calculating whether it's worth it to toss you out of his domain this late. Maybe he isn't entirely heartless, because when those ears perk in his direction it's like he changed paths on instinct.

A rare kindness - or afraid of children. Likely the latter in all truths. Especially with one so fearless and ready to explore every nook and cranny.

When Ruggie darts past your table with plates stacked up to his chin, the baby’s head swivels so fast its ears nearly flap.

It tracks him until he disappears into the kitchen.

Then it waits.

Not anxious.

Just expectant.

When he re-emerges, its whole demeanor perks.

You notice that happens often over one measly hour, and file it away with other needless yet precious information.

By the time his shift ends, Ruggie collapses into the booth across from you with theatrical exhaustion.

“You owe me,” he declares, one eye open to fix you a look.

“I owe you? I just provided free childcare.”

He grins cheekily. “Yeah, but now I gotta buy you a soda to keep my reputation intact.”

“You have a reputation?”

“Hey.” He warns, "Don't slander a guy in front of his kid."

Disregarding that he's childless and underaged at that, you make the decision to let him have a victory just this once. Ruggie leans back into the booth with ease, melting into supple leather as that tentative coil that was puppeteering him across the lounge finally starts to wind down.

Glass clinks on the table as a poor busser sets two bubbling sodas in passing. The two gents exchange finger guns before you can say thanks. The lounge sobers as the kitchen staff roll out to clean and waiters turn in their checkbooks for the night. You feel sleepy under the ambiance of it all, pulling the baby close so it doesn't hit the table when you lean back.

Ruggie passes you a fizzy drink. His fingers lingering in you sight and curl for a wordless exchange. You pass the baby back to him and curl your hands around the cup instead. You sip the straw and it's your usual favorite.

The transfer is seamless. The doll taking to him easily, as if it was waiting for Ruggie to finally relax, one small hand fisting into his undone necktie.

Ruggie pretends not to notice. You do.

“Alright,” he says, stretching those pesky knots from his shoulders. “Report. How’d Scrappy behave?”

“Curious. Tried to eat my hand.”

“Sounds about right.”

You both laugh at that. Clearly Ruggie's been a pin cushion for those sharp fangs over and over. When he reaches for his own glass, his sleeve cuffs upwards just enough for a few healing dots to present themselves on his wrists. There are bandages on his index fingers and one on his left pinky too. You can only imagine how his days have carried out. An hour has offered a glimpse, however.

You lean forward on your elbows, eager to share. “It watches you, you know.”

One gulp and he's downed half the glass, swirling it as ice clinks together.

“Yeah? So?” he sniffs. Brain freeze.

“So it’s obvious.”

He snorts. “Obvious what?”

“That you’re its favorite, duh.”

Another long sip and the glass is now left one-third full. You're not sure if he's dehydrated or trying to deflect. That, or preparing to chew on ice chips.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a spell, Prefect.”

“Mm-hmm," his nose wrinkles when the straw squeaks empty. You smile into yours. "And yet every time you walked by, it tracked you like you were the main event.”

He shrugs, but his fingers absentmindedly adjust the baby’s swaddle. You wait a beat and watch as he digs into the glass for ice cubes. The lounge was fancy, having sticks and chips instead of basic crushed.

Ruggie pops one stick in his mouth and it crunches, you expect a second to follow but he brings it to the baby's mouth. The little kid is happy to suck on the ice and seems almost relieved to lodge its fangs against something.

“Good on their gums. If I'm holding it, he won't choke. Quit worryin' so much."

You want to argue that you haven't said anything yet - that Ruggie's the one worrying.

Instead, you chew on the tip of your straw and study them both. You already filled out the observation sheet Trein supplied earlier, but what Ruggie doesn't know won't hurt him.

Side by side. Same shade of honey eyes, same sharp fangs, same mischievous tilt to their head when it glances up at him. Ruggie's nose crinkles with a childe for it to slow down, and you want to trace patterns over his freckles.

“You two look ridiculously alike,” you say, straw still stuck between your teeth.

“Oi.”

He's not appreciative of your analysis, but you'll make him come around. “I’m serious. It’s like someone hit copy and paste.”

Ruggie dismisses you quickly, although there’s visible heat creeping up his neck. It dusts a roguish backdrop for those constellations on his cheeks. He pops another ice stick in his mouth. It'll take more than one to cool him off though.

“Spell got lucky, that’s all.” He pouts.

The baby reaches up and grabs his chin. You have to admit that the grip on this one is strong for something so tiny - and hyena beastfolk are considered weak?

Did the NRC library even have books detailing the differences between species? It sounds like something everyone here just knows. Except you.

Ruggie startles and rips that thought spiral from it's roots. The baby's begun tugging at his nape hairs, climbing from his arms to cling against his shoulders. Laughter bubbles up with your soda and Ruggie does not look impressed with you. Not one bit.

“Hey— don’t yank.”

He tries to ease it off before some hairs come loose, but also doesn’t forcefully pry the hand away.

You watch the interaction carefully, because once again, you realize how different this is compared to the stories you've pulled from Ruggie on a good day. The baby isn't afraid when Ruggie bears his fangs back or pretends to nibble at its arm in retaliation. It doesn't look reluctant to cry or tug at him.

It’s not being raised to distrust the world, like Ruggie learned and how he said every kid should. He's so warm with it, gentle and you realize that this must be what utopia would look like for Ruggie if he was this kid.

The thought is as touching as it burns the back of your eyelids.

You blink quickly before gesturing toward the bottle station behind the bar counter. “Hungry?”

If Ruggie notices you were staring, or that your soda's gone flat and to waste - he doesn't say it. He pushes a finger into the baby's palm, gently but effectively freeing his hair from risk.

Ruggie jostles the swaddle when it whines, then nods. “Yeah. It’s about time anyway.”

You both quietly head to the end counter. Jade's finished wiping it down and warns Ruggie to clean up once he's finished. On his way past, he checks your shoulder with a promise that Floyd would be looking to hang out the next day. Considering he was too 'busy' in the kitchen tonight to give you a 'proper' greeting.

No amount of assurances that you don't mind will dissuade your excitable friend. All you can do is accept your fate, and once you reluctantly do, Jade is gone. That impish twinkle too before you can smack it off his face.

Ruggie's a man on a mission and you were the perfect distraction - it seems.

He measures the formula powder with practiced precision, leveling each scoop with a quick tap.

“No waste,” he mutters, flicking his eyes to you to make sure you're watching him.

Your hip bumps the lower drawer as you lean in “Of course not.”

While you don't laugh, he mistakes this awed attention for amusement.

“You laugh, but this stuff back home?” He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t last a day.”

Correcting him feels pointless when he's already back to snickering alone, plucking a bottle from a bag hidden below and handing it to you. Once it's rinsed clean he takes it back with a half-uttered 'thanks'.

The baby seems to know this pattern by now. Its eyes practically glimmer while watching him move. This actually does make you laugh, reaching to prod its cheek.

“You said kids in your village are raised communally, right?”

“Yeah.” He twists the bottle cap on. “Gran watched me. I watched the younger ones. Everyone watches everyone.”

“That sounds… nice.”

You mean it. Hopefully he senses the genuinely and doesn't mistake it for pandering. For a moment you're worried when Ruggie goes quiet, but then it's like he remembers who he's talking to and relaxes.

He shrugs his non-dominant shoulder. “It’s practical. Can’t afford not to.”

The baby squirms slightly, impatient. As if you both could make time go quicker if it tried to nip Ruggie's wrists. After the timer on his phone dings - when did he set that? - he tests the bottle on his wrist. Waists five more and then hands it over.

'Scrappy' as Ruggie called him earlier, latches on like his life depends on it. Which, to be fair, it does.

Ruggie watches with quiet intensity, making sure it doesn't eat too quick but also that it isn't left unsatisfied.

You nudge his calf with your foot, a shit-eating grin pushing the fat on your cheeks. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

Because credit is owed where it is due. Received happily too, if his ears flattening on his crown have anything to say.

He huffs, as if he's heard it twenty times over. Probably has from customers. “Told ya. Easiest B I’ll ever earn.”

Although you highly doubt any of them made Ruggie duck into his collar. That's a pleasure you hope is for VIP patrons. Ones who got to hold the baby instead of coo at it from a distance.

“You lost the A already, didn’t you?”

He grimaces. “Handbook technicalities.”

Someone apparently forgot that this isn't just a social visit, and that someone wasn't just you. Ruggie daggers a miffed glare at you from his spot. You know he's itching to see your report, but sadly that's all tucked away.

You grin, already aware. “Tried to run a daycare?”

“Allegedly," he corrects, "Trein has no proof! I'm being unfairly docked."

He's not wrong but the undertone confirmation is enough for your stomach to clench with hysterics. You wheeze and nearly pitch into his side, and 'Scrappy' stops to look between you both.

Then — unbelievably — it makes a small, pleased noise. Bottle forgotten.

Ruggie freezes.

“…You hear that?”

“Yeah.”

He looks down at it like it just sprouted wings. You don't understand why. The sound is adorable but it's been laughing all night. Yet Ruggie's moved by one little giggle and you want to know. You do.

“Huh.” He whispers to himself.

Then the baby resumes drinking, perfectly content.

You soften your tone, ask if he's tired, where he's planning to go, if he wants you to take off or help tidy up.

He doesn’t respond right away.

Instead, he adjusts the bottle slightly when it gulps too fast. Something hits your calve and Ruggie's foot is boxed between your two when you look down.

“It’s weird,” he admits finally. “All this controlled stuff. Perfect schedules. That ain’t real.”

When the bottle comes empty, he tugs it back to gauge Scrappy's reaction. He goes to burp it, another move that looks like muscle memory. You both give a small cheer to egg it on, and laugh once a belch hits the lounge walls. Another success.

It gives a satisfied little sigh and closes its eyes, and doesn't give Ruggie or the formula a second glance.

He sets the bottle down quietly, but doesn't say more.

Yet you understand. If it was back home, no kid would be full enough to willingly stop. Even if they were, they'd take more out of fear that there wouldn't be a next time.

You didn't think about how this assignment might impact the students beyond a bit of temporary stress. You didn't know, Trein maybe spared a thought but judged this worthwhile regardless.

And there isn't a promise or assurance you can give that will make what Ruggie's feeling any less cumbersome.

So you don't, and instead you set a hand on top of his with a silent promise to wrap those little bites before parting ways.

“No, it's not real” you agree, “But the way you care is.”

He clicks his tongue against his front teeth, except there’s no bite to it. Since you have no doubt that he's just as good to the real ones back home as he's been to a 'fake' that thankfully will never know anything beyond this one good week.

“You’re laying it on thick tonight, Prefect.” A weak laugh hisses past his teeth as he nudges your shoulder.

“Just making observations.. It's kind of my thing.”

The typical jazz that guides customers at ease flicks off, as do most of the lights aside from the low headers. All your points about Ruggie are proven when he tugs the spare keys from his pocket an twirls them on his finger. He's closing, so no - you're not locked in or about to be in a game of cat and mouse with the Leech twins.

Scrappy yawns, fangs snagging briefly on its lip. Ruggie gently frees it with his thumb, a gesture so careful that it contradicts every joke he's made tonight. The same when he steps out from behind you and waits, making sure you don't get stuck in the dark.

“You know,” you grab your back and meet at his hip, “if you ever did run that daycare, I’d invest.”

His eyes gleam. “Oh yeah? What’s your cut?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Forty.”

“Forty-five.”

He pretends to consider it.

“Deal.”

From the first moment Trein passes the 'doll' over - Jack is disturbed. The swaddle is small in his arms. Bigger than the others around the room, but wolf-beastmen tend to weigh heavier than the average child at birth.

Not that this 'thing' was born. Trein plucked a hair from Jack's tail before he could finish reviewing the assignments instructions over.

Jack was expecting an old toy with some baseline features.

Not this.

Warm - familiar 99.4 degree baseline for his kind - smelling faintly of milk and talcum powder. So distinctly alive with a tiny heartbeat to be felt against the palm on its back.

With thick ash-blond hair, soft to the touch and little pointed ears that flick up and assess its surroundings. Big amber eyes that hook Jack's breath, a strong grip that latches onto his finger and drags up memories of holding his little sister for the first time.

It looks healthy and aware. When Jack leaves the room, there's a stream of denials in his head.

'It's just a spell. Not real. I'm holding something that costs more than my house. Just a flashy toy.' - He can remind himself every morning, but Jack never fully believes it.

In the back of his mind, he can't view this as a project. All Jack sees is a dependent, something small that's counting on him for protection, and he can't fight whatever instinct weaves through his veins that this is too realistic to be fake. Jack knows he'll get hurt from it but he lets attachment happen.

Around half-way through the week though, he considers if passing is worth it.

Jack's absurdly gentle - taking the 'doll' everywhere and not once letting it from his sights. If any of his club-mates complain that he's checking the bench too often, he gives zero cares. It's not like he's the only member with one of these dolls interrupting their practice. He's just the only one responsible enough to check it.

Other students in his home-ec class learn to steer clear because Jack isn't above lecturing them if they're not as dedicated as he. Seven forbid if he catches one abandoned 'doll' on campus. He will march to Trein personally and toss his classmates under the bus.

Its blankets are kept fresh, a space in Jack's gym bag dedicated to its belongings. Jack follows the feeding schedule to a T, and compulsively checks over its needs after every class. Although he has a sixth-sense by the end of day three where he just knows if something's amiss.

For someone who holds a strict bedtime at 9:00 PM, Jack lets his routine slip by the second day with his grade as a weak excuse. The baby struggles to sleep alone and Jack lasts exactly two nights before its sharing his bed, close enough to cover in a second if there's an emergency. He sleeps lighter, waking up every two hours just to press its stomach and check if it's 'alive'.

Shockingly enough, Jack's 'doll' sleeps through each night with ease. Any sleep deprivation is that nagging paranoia's fault. Other students aren't so lucky...

Around day four, the 'doll' starts laughing when a vine of Jack's potted peperomia drops into its bassinet. He's quick to lift it out but the 'doll' bats happily with those tiny hands. Its small tuft - a pathetic excuse for a tail - wags as Jack starts to swing the vine like a pendulum.

Something in Jack's chest shifts permanently, and its screaming at him to drop the plant. Yet he can't, because the baby would cry and even if it doesn't really recognize who Jack is - he can't bring himself to do it.

The trial ends with an east A+, along with extra credit for helping his peers care for their 'dolls'. When the spell dismisses, gone is the little wolf Jack wrecked his routine for. The enchantment ends and the doll returns to its baseline state made up of metal and polyvinyl chloride. All materials go back to Trein and Jack is more than ready to go exercise without stopping between sets to check his 'homework'.

That night, however, he wakes up every other hour. Like clockwork. Just to pat an empty space and flip back over on the opposite side. He doesn't talk about the project much, not because he was inconvenienced, but because part of him wanted it to last.

The first thing you notice when you step into Savanaclaw isn’t the baby.

It’s how quiet it is.

Not empty. Not lazy.

Intentional.

The hallway outside Jack’s room usually carries the low hum of voices, the scrape of boots, the occasional bark of laughter from the upperclassmen. Tonight, it feels… softened. As if the dorm itself has adjusted its volume around something small and sleeping.

Your chest tightens before you even reach his door.

You don’t announce yourself. You’ve learned that you don’t have to. The door is cracked open, a strip of warm golden light cutting across the darker hall. You lift your hand and knock gently against the wood anyway—more habit than necessity—before pushing it open the rest of the way.

The room smells faintly of clean linen and damp soil.

Jack stands near the window, hoodie sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. The fading light of evening spills across his shoulders, catching in the pale strands of his hair and outlining the sharp line of his back when he stretches. There’s something grounding about the way he moves - with purpose yet unwound. Like seeds scattering in the wind.

He’s trimming a yellowing leaf from one of his potted plants. You can't recall its name, but remember he purchased it not too long ago in foothill town. You were there that day, stuck in line at a new sandwich shop Grim wanted to try. Jack took a detour to look for a new cactus while you waited for your order but came home with this one.

You pause just inside the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.

He rotates another pot a few inches so it catches the last of the sun, fingers brushing loose dirt from the rim. His touch is careful, almost doting for something that can't possibly know it's Jack minding its care.

This is a side of Jack that you'll never tire of watching.

And then you see the bassinet.

It’s positioned beside his bed, angled slightly toward the window but not too close to the draft. The blanket tucked around the edge is neat. Thoughtful. Inside, swaddled in pale fabric, a baby sleeps. Your view isn't fit for ogling at this angle, but only a blind person would miss those two big dorito-ears poking over the rim.

Not that you haven't looked your fill already. In your imagination, a sweet face with big amber eyes comes to mind. It met your watch once while tucked over Jack's shoulder, and you swore that it giggled because of you.

You’ve been watching Jack all week.

Not in a way that would embarrass him. Just…admiring. Wanting to catch those rare glimpses of someone not placing an act for a good grade. Not that you believed Jack would be dishonorable.

No. This was just a rare opportunity, and you wanted to selfishly hold onto it while you could.

The way he carries the baby tucked high against his chest between classes, one broad hand braced securely at its back. The way he automatically positions himself between it and any crowd. The way his golden eyes flick up at sudden noises before anyone else even registers them.

You didn’t come tonight to check on the baby.

You came because you’ve been worrying about him. About Jack.

He hasn’t acknowledged you yet.

Maybe he truly didn’t hear you.

Or maybe—because this is Jack—he did, and he’s giving you a second to look without making it a thing. Somewhere in your twisted little heart, there's a hope that he wants you to watch him.

He finishes with the plant, sets the shears down, and brushes his palms together. Only then does he glance over his shoulder.

“Oh. Prefect.”

His ears flick outward once—subtle, restrained.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

There’s no suspicion in his tone. Just a raw statement. Jack isn't one for lying. He simply isn't good at it. When his tail sways into a gentle rhythm, you made the decision not to call his bluff.

He heard, and he wanted you to see him. That random 'somewhere' in your heart is becoming easier to locate.

“You were busy,” you say softly and hang against the door pane.

A faint rustle interrupts the comfortable silence. It's so quiet that you think you imagined it, but Jack's head turns instantly towards the bassinet.

The baby hasn’t cried. Hasn’t whimpered. There’s no real sound -just the smallest tightening of its limbs, a slight shift beneath the swaddle. Like sheets being rubbed together.

Jack is already moving, and you're too curious to wait for a formal invite. The brick walls and warm hanging hearth are inviting enough.

Three long steps carry him across the room. Jack kneels beside the bassinet without hesitation, one knee pressing into the floor as he hovers over it. His brow furrows, not in panic but in assessment. He overlooks the child like a puzzle to be solved and you wait for an answer, heart thudding unexpectedly hard in your chest.

The swaddle looks fine to you. Snug. Even. Textbook approved.

Jack slides two fingers beneath the fabric near the baby’s shoulder and drops his alert demeanor.

“Too tight,” he murmurs under his breath.

You blink, ducking closer when his eyes send a swift reassurance with just a glance. If he minds you over his shoulder, Jack doesn't say.

He loosens the cloth just enough to give the baby room to flex, careful not to unravel the structure entirely. His movements are practiced, precise—like he’s already memorized the exact degree of tension it prefers.

The infant exhales in a soft little huff. Its tiny wolf ears twitch once. The tension leaves its limbs almost instantly, and that sound is gone. It no longer wants to leave its restraints so there's no need to tug the fabric.

"There you go. Not so bad," Jack mutters at a frequency you struggle to hear and yet bright golden eyes register with no trouble.

He catches your confusion and leans in, "Speak lower for now. Their ears are more sensitive than most."

You were already being quiet since it was sleeping, but Jack's warning has you reconsidering the decibel system. If there's any time for you to discover some telepathic abilities, let it be now so you don't bother this bundle of cuteness.

You both wait for it to settle, those sweet cheeks now covered in a bit of drool. Jack wipes it clear with the edge of its blanket and sighs.

You feel your throat tighten, lips locked with no words.

It didn’t cry. It didn’t even fully wake up. Not beyond a few blinks and a hint of trust.

“You didn’t wait for it to fuss,” you say quietly, leaning closer without thinking. Jack's ear twitches against your cheek but he doesn't ask you to move away. Be it so you can converse safely, or if he truly doesn't mind.

Jack shrugs minutely, but there’s no pride in it.

“It was starting to squirm,” he replies. “That’s what it does when it’s uncomfortable.”

You want to remind him that not everyone can pick up on such subtle shifts, but Jack's difficult to extend praise towards. Especially from you for some reason. Each compliment is met with mixed signals. A deep rouge over his cheeks but a sharp dismissal.

You kneel on the same side of the bassinet, peering down. Each time Jack shifts, his thigh bumps your waist. He doesn't apologize but steadies a hand when he forgets you're easy to knock over.

The baby’s cheeks are slightly flushed with warmth. Its little hands curl near its chin, claws no bigger than pinpricks. Its breathing evens out again like nothing ever happened.

“You caught that from across the room,” you murmur, trying again.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He smooths the blanket with the flat of his palm, adjusting it by instinct. His fingers linger there a second longer than necessary, hovering.

“It’s routine,” he says finally. “You notice patterns.”

Routine.

You almost laugh at that. Jack does love his regimens but the thing with babies is that they're as unpredictable as they come.

Routine doesn’t explain the way his body stays angled toward the bassinet even after the baby settles. Routine doesn’t explain how his shoulders remain braced, like he’s expecting something to happen at any second. The way his spine forms a quiet shield between the bassinet and the rest of the room.

The way one knee is still planted on the floor, even though it's been minutes and his schedule is waiting. Not that you're Jack's keeper, but you give attention to those with pieces of your heart. Any other week and he would be out running extra laps in the Magift stadium at this hour. Yet he's tending to his plants, which is a morning ritual.

“You’ve been doing more than just noticing patterns,” you keep it light.

His tail brushes your back - then stops abruptly. You take it as a sign to stand and perch on the edge of his work desk.

“I’ve been watching you all week, Jack.”

That gets him to look at you. Your heart picks up and berates your brain for admitting something so vulnerable. Although you've already dug the grave and he's not throwing you to the door.

Jack would never. You're still grateful. The subtle wide-eyed look isn't defensive. Just...cautious. Dare you think flustered.

“You walk on the outside of the hallways even though it's harder to cross through,” you continue anxiously. “You've checked out more books than Trein assigned. You haven’t slept through the night once.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Because he knows you’re right. The evidence is stacked right behind you if you turned around.

You swallow a thick seed of bravery, “You don’t even wait for it to cry. No one else is that mindful without a second thought.”

Most of your class isn't taking the assignment as seriously as they should. One reason you waited until the end to visit Jack was because you knew he'd be great. Not just because your attention called to him every time he was visible.

Call it a gut instinct.

Silence stretches between you, thick but not uncomfortable.

“You’re a natural,” you say with conviction. A large helping of pride mixed in from beginning to end.

The words leave your mouth before you can overthink them. Eeven if he was just going to brush it off like always, his ego deserved to know.

You wait for him to scoff. To flush and busy himself with his plants again. Then you could idle about, fill out Trein's form, discuss the weekly musings and bid both sweet wolves a good night.

Instead, something new flickers across his expression. That's never been there before.

His jaw tightens, that one neck vein bulging out. The same one that strained when he decided it was a good idea for you to sit on his back while he did push ups.

The baby shifts again, stretching one leg within the loosened swaddle. Jack’s hand hovers automatically over its tiny torso, not touching, just ready. Even though there's nothing in this room that could possibly harm it.

Like he’s anticipating a fall that hasn’t happened yet.

“A natural,” he repeats, quieter.

“At being a dad,” you clarify. Stupid. He knew that. Yet your tongue was growing heavier by the second.

And the room was growing smaller. It wasn't physically possible, but you swore he was drawing closer.

Or were you leaning in? Not sure why you wanted him to understand so much, but emotions are weird like that sometimes.

Jack rises slowly to his full height. He fills the space without trying. Solid, steady, grounded. But his ears angle back just slightly, betraying something fragile underneath. He takes a step back from the bassinet, and then another, and another - until his calves hit the edge of his bed and he sits.

“It’s just an assignment,” he says.

The words are strict. Meant for himself rather than you.

You’ve heard them before. Various tones across classmates. Worried. Bored. Joyful. By the second day they all conjoined to focused and part of a new norm everyone was sharing for a week.

But these sound rehearsed. Like they're just sitting at the back of Jack's mind and taunting him.

You kick off his desk, stopping just at the edge of his space. Knees almost touching, his head at level with your ribs. It's not often you get to be the taller one but now's not the time to tease.

You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that you’re sharing the quiet, saudade that Jack's been beating himself with since the start of this experience.

“Is that what it feels like?” you ask.

His gaze drops to the bassinet, and he deflates. Because Jack's an awful liar.

And he knows it, "No."

The baby’s chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths.

“It feels…” He exhales slowly through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. “It feels like something’s depending on me.”

He doesn't hate it. Not in the slightest, you realize.

Jack enjoys being dependable and trusted. The way he watches his mini is nothing short of devoted, but for someone who's structured around protecting what's worth keeping safe?

What about his own heart?

Ah.

“I can’t ignore that,” he continues, a few words missing but they're there in his clenched fists. “Even if it’s temporary.”

Your heart aches in a way you weren’t prepared for on the way here. You expected cute aggression and to embarrass yourself terribly with the image of Jack stuck in your brain for the rest of the day.

You got the second part, because this isn't a conversation you'll ever forget. Not today, tomorrow, next week, or even in the next decade.

He runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall back to his side on the mattress.

“It reacts to me,” he says, exasperated. “It sleeps better when I’m here. It quiets down when I talk.”

You think about every time you’ve seen him murmur something low and steady, voice rumbling under the cafeteria chatter until the baby settles.

“I keep having to remind myself it’s not real,” he admits. “That it disappears at the end of the week.”

Jack's golden eyes flick toward you, up and with a vulnerability you'd never seen before. Strong, callused hands hover in the air by your sides. He's looking for an answer that he knows you're unable to give.

“But my brain doesn't care about any of that," heavy hands settle over your hips and he leans in. Jack's forehead burns hot even through your uniform button-down, and he hides there.

Your hands settle, laced in his nape and offer the comfort you came here to give. Even if there weren't any words or answers to make the truth any blurred.

He must have known with that perceptiveness of his. You wouldn't stop by just for some paperwork. Not when you see him every day without trying.

Not to check the swaddle.

Not to admire how attentive he is.

You came because you knew this would cost him something more than a bad grade or a few sleepless nights.

“You’re allowed to care,” you say softly. He presses further into you as a response. Barely so, because you were still just friends but also something else now. His hands hold you securely, but he's holding back.

“I know.”

The way he says it sounds like he doesn’t know how to do anything else, because he's tried.

The baby makes a tiny puffing noise in its sleep. Jack’s dominant hand moves without conscious thought, brushing against the bassinet and tugging it towards the bed's edge. His cheek presses against your stomach, one eye opening to watch. He reaches forward to pull the baby's leg completely free.

It was a restless sleeper apparently. Blanket bindings be damned.

“You’re going to be okay when this ends?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s not real,” he repeats and draws his hand back to the rim. His grip is knuckle-white, a stark contrast in strength to the other which is still holding you.

But the words sound lighter now.

“Being a natural doesn’t mean it won’t hurt,” you say gently.

His gaze snaps to yours. Chin poking against your middle and eyes narrowed under hoods. It's hard to accept pain, you realize. A lesson in itself. Maybe Trein isn't so crazy with this assignment after all.

You don’t look away, and push his bangs back between his ears with your palm.

“It just means you’re doing it right.”

Something in him softens.

You see it happen. The white grip turn back to its normal chestnut color. Along with it is a look in his eye - the one he lingers with after a good practice or when he gets a call from home. Or on the first day of a new semester, where he comes back to campus and you give the key back to his room. All plants accounted and cared for.

His gaze returns to the baby, and for a moment the firmness drains away. What’s left is quiet devotion. Fierce and steady and heartbreakingly tender.

“I just don’t want it to feel alone,” he admits.

This was never about grades.It was never about proving he could handle responsibility.

It was about making sure something small and vulnerable never felt as it was. No matter its origins. It was about caring for something even though it had nothing to give in return and permanence nonexistent.

“It doesn’t,” you thumb the height of his cheek. “Not with you.”

He goes still under your touch.

“I get wet at the thought of you // Being a responsible guy // Treating me like you’re supposed to do // Tears run down my thighs” - Tears, Sabrina Carpenter

Everyone assumes Trey is safe. Dependable. The calm one with gentle hands and patient smiles, the boy who cleans up everyone else’s messes before they even notice they’ve made one. And he lets them believe it, because it’s easier that way. But you know better. You notice the amusement hidden behind his half-lidded gaze, the way he enjoys watching people squirm just a little under his attention. Trey likes being reliable because it gives him control — it means people trust him enough to let their guard down. Especially you.

Trey knows how much power there is in being the one person you never doublt.

“What? You’re looking at me like that again… careful, sweetheart. You make it awfully tempting to bend the rules.”

“All the pills that you take // Violet, blue, green, red - to keep me at arms length don’t work //You try to push me out, but I just find my way back in // Violet, blue, green, red - to keep me out. I win.” - Cinnamon Girl, Lana Del Rey

Cater has spent so long making himself easy to consume. Smiles, selfies, jokes, perfectly curated pieces of himself handed out to everyone around him — enough to keep people entertained, but never enough to let them truly touch him. And then you come along and ruin the balance entirely. You notice the cracks beneath the filters, the moments where his grin strains at the edges, the loneliness he buries under endless distractions. He keeps trying to redirect you back to the surface, laughing things off whenever you get too close, pretending vulnerability is just another joke. But every time you slip past his defenses anyway, there’s a part of him that feels relieved.

Cater pushes because he’s terrified of being known too well and abandoned for it after, yet he can’t stop leaving the door unlocked for you. Maybe that’s why he self-sabotages so often — because if you leave after seeing the real him, at least he can say he expected it. But if you stay? Then maybe, for once, someone chose him and not the version he performs for everyone else.

“You know you’d have an easier time if you just gave up on me already… so why do you keep coming back?”

“How can we go back to be being friends, when we just shared a bed.” - back to friends,sombr

Ace tells himself it just sort of happened. That somewhere between all the bickering, the late-night walks back to Ramshackle, the dumb arguments and easy laughter, things got complicated. But lying awake beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of your body beneath the blankets, he realizes that isn’t true at all. It was never just friendship for him. Maybe he knew it from the first day he decided to get under your skin for no reason other than wanting your attention fixed on him. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back, even when he could’ve walked away a hundred times over. Ace doesn’t really understand when wanting to make you laugh turned into needing to be the person you looked for first, or when teasing you started feeling dangerously close to flirting.

All he knows is that sharing a bed with you — hearing your breathing in the dark, watching you shift sleepily closer without thinking — makes pretending impossible now. Because friends aren’t supposed to want like this. They aren’t supposed to feel their chest ache at the thought of going back to “normal.” And the worst part is that Ace doesn’t think there is a normal to return to. He’s always wanted you. He just finally ran out of ways to joke around it.

“…You ever think maybe I was doomed the second I met you?”

“I’d give you the sun if you asked me. You could have all of the time. You could have the stars and the trees. When dividin’ up the universe. You could have mine.” - J’s Lullaby, Delaney Bailey

Loving you feels almost holy to Deuce. Before you, he spent so much of his life convinced he was inherently wrong somehow — too rough around the edges, too angry, too reckless to ever truly become the kind of person he wanted to be. Everyone told him changing was difficult, that redemption had to be earned piece by piece, but you looked at him like he was already worth believing in. And that changes everything. Because once Deuce lets someone into his heart, he loves with his entire body and soul. There is nothing careful about it. He would give and give until there was nothing left of him if it meant keeping you safe, happy, smiling beside him.

The frightening thing is how easy it feels. One soft glance from you and suddenly every impossible task becomes manageable, every burden worth carrying. He’d hand you the stars without hesitation if you asked, not because he thinks you’d demand it, but because loving you makes him want to offer the universe itself. Somewhere along the way, you became proof that he could be good — not because you fixed him, but because you saw goodness in him before he could see it himself. And now Deuce clings to that faith with everything he has, terrified and grateful all at once, like losing you would mean losing the person he’s trying so hard to become.

“I don’t care how hard it is… if it’s for you, I’ll do it. I swear I will.”

“Pulling your face close, wanting the inmost. // Show me I’m not afraid of you now, I’m not afraid of you now. // Villain and violent. Infant and innocent. // Baby, both arms cradle you now. Both arms cradle you now.” - forwards beckon rebound, adrianne lenker

Leona cannot remember the last time someone touched him gently without wanting something in return. Most people approach him with caution or ambition — fearful of his temper, respectful of his status, eager to gain from his favor. But you touch him like none of those things matter. Your fingers brush over the scar beneath his eye without hesitation, comb lazily through his hair while he rests beside you, trace the sharp lines of his face like you’re memorizing something precious instead of dangerous. And it undoes him more thoroughly than he’ll ever admit aloud. Because beneath all his teeth and claws, beneath the bitterness and exhaustion and violence simmering under his skin, there is a part of him still aching from years of being treated like something second-best. Something too much. Too difficult to hold carefully.

Yet you cradle every fractured piece of him with impossible tenderness, and suddenly Leona finds himself wanting — selfishly, desperately — to keep it. To keep you. He isn’t afraid of you hurting him physically; he knows he could protect himself from almost anyone. What terrifies him is how easily you’ve slipped past every defense he had, how devastating it would be if you decided one day to take your warmth back. So he holds you close in quiet moments, heavy arms wrapped around you possessively, silently promising something you haven’t fully realized yet: no matter how vicious the world becomes, you are safe with him. Always.

“C’mere… quit lookin’ at me like that unless you plan on stayin’. I don’t think I could let you go now even if I tried.”

Bonus because I was torn :p ::

“A little respect for women can get you very very far // Remembering how to use your phone gets me // Oh so, Oh so, Oh so hot!” Tears, Sabrina Carpenter

No one ever disrespects you in his presence. Fiercely protective. One fucking word, one wrong look, and he isn’t fighting but he damn well will put people in their place with a mere glance.

“And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.” — Somethin' Stupid, Frank and Nancy Sinatra

Ruggie has always survived by knowing exactly where the line is. Don’t get attached. Don’t depend on people more than necessary. Don’t want things you can’t afford to lose. It’s practical, really — the kind of mindset you develop when life has spent years proving that stability is fragile and love doesn’t put food on the table. So whatever this thing between you was supposed to be, it definitely wasn’t meant to become serious. Just easy company. A little flirting. Someone warm to sit beside after a long day. But somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling temporary. And that’s the problem. Because now every laugh you give him feels dangerous, every soft touch settling somewhere deep in his chest where he can’t pry it back out again.

Ruggie hates how badly he wants things from you he has no right asking for — your time, your affection, a future he can barely provide for himself let alone someone else. He knows what he has to offer isn’t glamorous. It’s scraps and side jobs and exhaustion and a life built on barely scraping by. Yet none of that stops him from loving you with a fierceness that catches him off guard every time it slips loose. And maybe that’s why he jokes so much, why he grins and laughs things off before they get too serious — because if he says it plainly, if he admits how deeply he’s fallen, then suddenly there’s something precious enough to lose.

“Shaha… forget I said all that, okay? …Unless you were gonna say it back.”

“A stranger light comes on slowly. // A stranger’s heart without a home. // You put your hands into your head. // And then its smiles cover your heart” - Fade into you, Mazzy Star

For Jack, love is not casual. It never could be. Beastfolk understand instinctively what it means to belong to someone — not in ownership, but in trust, in loyalty, in the quiet certainty that no matter how harsh the world becomes, your pack will return to you at the end of the day. Jack always understood that in theory. He understood duty, protection, commitment. But you make him understand it emotionally for the first time. Slowly, almost without realizing it, you become home to him.

The feeling sneaks up on him in small moments: the way his body relaxes the instant he hears your voice, the instinctive urge to stand between you and anything threatening, the overwhelming calm he feels when you run your fingers through his hair and trace over the scarred, guarded parts of him without fear. There’s something unbearably tender in the way you handle him, like you see the strength in him without being intimidated by it. And in return, Jack holds your heart with almost frightening care. Because wolves do not love halfway. Once someone is considered theirs, they are protected with teeth and soul alike.

“…You don’t have to hold back around me. I’ve got you. I always will.”

“When I saw you I knew you were mine. If you leave, I’ll kill you. But, oh dear, I fear, you’ll kill me first.” - May You Never Forget Me, Temachii

Azul knew loving you would ruin him almost immediately. It was there the moment he first looked at you — that sharp, sinking certainty that you would become dangerous to him in ways no contract or deal could ever protect against. Attraction has never frightened Azul before. Desire is manageable. Predictable. Something he can leverage, contain, twist neatly into his favor. But you slip beneath his defenses too quickly, bypassing every carefully constructed wall he spent years building around himself. And the worst part is that he sees it happening in real time.

He notices how possessive he becomes over your attention, how his smile tightens whenever someone else stands too close to you, how every interaction starts feeling like starvation followed by indulgence. It’s humiliating. Terrifying. Because Azul knows exactly what it means to hand another person the power to destroy you. He spent his childhood learning what cruelty looks like when people discover your weak points. Yet despite all his intelligence, all his caution, he cannot stop himself from reaching for you anyway.

You make him greedy. Not for wealth or influence, but for softer things he has no idea how to ask for properly. Your time. Your affection. Your reassurance. He wants every piece of you tucked safely into his grasp where nobody else can touch it. And beneath that obsession lies something even uglier: fear. Fear that one day you’ll realize how desperate he truly is beneath the polished confidence and silver tongue. Fear that you’ll pull away after he’s already become too dependent on your warmth to survive losing it cleanly. But even knowing that, Azul cannot bring himself to loosen his grip. Because if loving you is fatal, then perhaps he’s already accepted the sentence.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? If you asked for my heart, I’d hand it over willingly...and resent you for how easily you could crush it afterward.”

"Every gesture // Every move that she makes // Makes me feel like never before // Why do I have // This growing need to be beside her" - Strangers Like Me, Phil Collins

Jade has always believed people become predictable eventually. Given enough time, every person reveals their habits, their weaknesses, the exact shape of their desires. It’s one of the reasons he enjoys observing others so much — the slow unraveling fascinates him. But you are different in a way he cannot quite dissect, and that alone is enough to capture his full attention. Every small gesture you make seems to uncover something new inside him, something unfamiliar and strangely exhilarating.

Jade notices all of it. And instead of the usual satisfaction that comes with understanding someone completely, he finds himself wanting more. More conversations. More walks beside you. More mundane little moments strung together until they become something precious. It bewilders him, this growing need to remain close to you even when nothing particularly exciting is happening. Especially then, perhaps. Because for the first time, Jade discovers that intimacy is not merely intrigue or amusement; it is the startling realization that even silence can feel endlessly engaging when shared with the right person.

“How curious… no matter how much time I spend with you, I still find myself wanting more.”

“Two Lovers // Forbidden From One Another// A War Divides Their People // Built A Path To Be Together // Yeah, uh, I forgot the next couple of lines but, uh, then it goes // SECRET TUNNELLLL // SECRET TUNNELLLLL/ THROUGH THE MOUNTAINSSSS // SECRET SECRET SECRET - Jeremy Zuckerman, ATLA

C’mon. Ding, ding, ding - is this thing turned on? *knocking on your brain*. You’re from some weird other world and he’s a eel just swimming in the trenches until you came and he gobbled you right up. He might have a secret tunnel dug under your dorm. You don’t know what he did those three days you were gone. And honestly? Floyd doesn’t really care whether the attachment makes sense or not. He likes you. A lot. Enough that being separated from you too long makes something restless and sharp coil inside him.

He’s spent his whole life bored of people once he figured them out, but you? You’re like a mystery box he keeps digging through, finding new things every time he thinks he’s reached the end. He doesn’t really care that you “shouldn’t” fit together — if anything, that makes it more fun. You became his favorite person in the entire world, and Floyd has never been good at letting go of things he likes.

“Shrimpyyyy, if you disappear on me again, I’m seriously gonna lose it. Maybe I should just keep ya with me forever instead, huh?”

“Kiss me out of the bearded barley. Nightly beside the green, green grass. // Swing, swing, swing the spinning step. // You wear those shoes and I will wear that dress.” - Kiss Me, Sixpence None The Richer

Kalim has spent his entire life surrounded by expectations heavy enough to crush a person. He was born into responsibility before he was ever allowed to simply be a child, raised constantly aware that his life would never fully belong to him. Every meal tasted for poison, every decision watched carefully, every future plan laid out long before he had a say in it. Yet somehow, when he’s with you, all of that fades into the background noise of the world. Loving you feels wonderfully simple in a way nothing else in his life ever has. You don’t look at him and see status or obligation or the heir of the Al-Asim family — you just see Kalim. Loud, affectionate, overly excitable Kalim, who wants to dance with you under lantern light and laugh until his stomach hurts and experience every beautiful thing the world has to offer with your hand in his.

There’s a kind of freedom in that which feels almost miraculous to him. For perhaps the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a plan someone else drafted; it feels like something he might actually get to choose for himself. And if he gets to choose, then he wants you.

“C’mon, dance with me! I wanna make so many happy memories with you that we’ll never be able to count them all.”

“Where did you learn what it means to reciprocate? // And how much can I be expected to tolerate? // So I started to think 'bout the plans I made. The debt unpaid. // And you can't just call a spade a spade. // I watch the moon. Let it run my mood. Can’t stop thinking of you.” - Tek It, Cafune

Jamil has always understood restraint. Not as virtue, but as survival. Every emotion, every desire, every private impulse has had to be measured, trimmed, redirected into something acceptable, something useful. He is used to giving without being given anything equal in return — used to the quiet mathematics of obligation where reciprocation is never guaranteed. So when you enter his life and begin to give without asking for permission, without keeping score, something in him becomes unsettled in a way he cannot easily correct.

It follows him into silence, into duty, into the rare moments he finally has alone beneath the night sky. And there, staring at the moon from his window, he finds himself thinking of you in loops he cannot break out of — not because he wants to lose control, but because part of him has already started to. You become both comfort and complication: the only place his thoughts soften, and the only place they spiral. He tells himself to step back, to maintain distance, to preserve the order he has spent his entire life building… and yet he cannot stop returning to you in his mind.

Love, for Jamil, is not gentle. It is cyclical. It is consuming. It is the unbearable awareness that even freedom from you still feels like belonging to you in some quieter, more dangerous way.

"You’re becoming a problem I don’t know how to solve. Get out of my head....please."

“I started running from the love that you gave me. // ‘Cause I was scared half to death. That all I was chasing. // Was perfect perfection. Thank god it was a lesson.“ - Her, JVKE

Vil has spent his entire life running toward perfection so relentlessly that he forgot what it feels like to simply be seen. Not evaluated. Not ranked. Not compared. Seen. So when you enter his life and look at him without the usual awe that edges into distance or fear, something in him shifts in a way he cannot immediately pinpoint.

At first, he tries to treat you like everything else in his world: something to refine, to understand, to perfect. But you resist that logic entirely. You do not fit into his carefully curated expectations, and worse… you make him question whether those expectations were ever meant to define him at all. Vil runs, not because he does not feel, but because he feels too much when he is with you.

Affection becomes vulnerability. Admiration becomes exposure. Yet even as he distances himself, even as he tells himself that love must be controlled or it becomes ruinous, he finds himself learning something unbearable in its simplicity...perfection was never the point. You are not flawless, and you do not need to be. And somehow, that makes you the most honest thing in his life. He begins to understand that what he was chasing was not perfection itself, but the illusion of being worthy of love through it

“If you can love me like this… then maybe...Mm. Nevermind. These thoughts are best saved for when time stands still long enough to reflect properly."

“We’ll laugh until we think we’ll die // Barefoot on a summer night // Nothing could be sweeter than with you” — Home, Matthew Hall

Epel spent most of his life feeling squeezed into shapes that never fit quite right. Too pretty to be taken seriously, too restrained to act the way he wanted, too trapped beneath everyone else’s expectations to figure out who he actually was underneath all of it.

Before you, Epel thought freedom was having people look at him like he had the power to carry any burden, proving he was tougher than everyone expected him to be. But with you, freedom becomes something he feels rather than what he carries. It’s running barefoot through the orchards back home with your laughter ringing through the summer air, dirt clinging to your ankles while the sunset paints gold across the apple trees. It’s being able to breathe without worrying how he’s being perceived for once. Around you, he doesn’t have to force himself into somebody else’s idea of strength or beauty; he can just be. And maybe that’s why loving you settles so deeply into his bones.

Epel always understood loyalty. He understood hard work, sacrifice, doing right by the people he cared about — but devotion is something entirely different and mature. Devotion is the way he catches himself planning futures with you without even realizing it, but doesn't bactrack. It’s wanting to drag you proudly through his hometown by the hand just so everyone can see the person who makes him happiest. The person who makes him feel whole in a way he didn’t realize he’d been missing.

Epel knows meeting you might’ve been the best thing that ever happened to him, even beyond all the opportunities Night Raven College gave him. You are proof that there was something waiting for him beyond Harveston's boarders he grew up stuck inside, something sweeter than the juciest honeycrisp. And now that he has you, Epel would do just about anything to keep the right to stand at your side.

“Quit smilin’ at me like that, dangit…c'mon, let's go grab supper at the diner before I get an apeitite for somethin' else."

“Starlight. I will be chasing a starlight./ / Until the end of my life. // My life. You electrify my life./ / Let’s conspire to ignite. All the souls that would die just to feel alive. // I’ll never let you go.” - Starlight, muse

To Rook, loving you is not gentle thing . It is all-consuming devotion sharpened into something reverent. He has spent his life admiring beauty from afar, studying it, chasing it, praising it in all its fleeting forms. But you are different from every masterpiece he has ever gazed upon before. You are not simply something to observe; you are something that changed him in return. Your existence ignites him down to the marrow, sets every nerve alight until even speaking your name feels like striking flint against stone. And Rook adores the ache of it. The yearning. The hunger. To him, love should burn. It should inspire madness and poetry and reckless acts of passion all at once.

He watches you grow beneath his attention with fascinated delight, nurturing your confidence, drawing reactions from you nobody else can, molding and encouraging parts of you the world might’ve left untouched otherwise. There is selfishness in it too — a possessive streak hidden beneath all his elegant praise. Because while others may admire you, may bask in your brilliance from afar, Rook alone knows the intimate details of your soul. He alone earns the privilege of touching the fire without being burned away by it. And he guards that privilege fiercely. You are his muse, his greatest hunt, the star he would chase until the end of his life without regret.

“Mon trésor… do you realize what you have done to me? One glance from you and suddenly the entire world pales in comparison.”

“Emotions, what are you doin’? // Oh, don’t you know. Don’t you know you’ll be my ruin? // Emotions, you get me upset // Why make me remember, what I want to forget // I’ve been lonely, lonely too long // Emotions leave me alone” - Emotions, Brenda Lee

Idia wishes desperately that he’d never fallen for you at all. It would’ve been easier if you’d stayed another distant person on a screen somewhere — someone he could admire quietly without ever having to confront the horrible, aching reality of wanting. Because loving you drags every ugly, vulnerable part of him to the surface no matter how hard he tries to bury it again.

But you kept getting closer anyway, slipping past every locked door and defensive joke until suddenly you’re everywhere in his life, woven into his routines and thoughts so deeply he can’t imagine tearing you back out again without losing something vital in the process. And gods, he hates it. Hates the possessiveness curling ugly and desperate inside his chest whenever someone else takes your attention for too long. Hates how badly he wants to keep you hidden away where nothing can touch you but him. Hates that his body reacts to your affection, so painfully human despite all the years he spent trying to detach himself from that kind of vulnerability.

Most of all, he hates what loving him would cost you. Because Idia knows exactly what he is — a cursed bloodline, cursed future, a life shadowed by grief and inevitability.

Choosing him wouldn’t just mean dating some awkward shut-in; it would mean stepping willingly into the orbit of someone fundamentally doomed. And despite how selfishly he craves you, there’s still a part of him horrified by the idea of dragging you down with him. You deserve sunlight and freedom and a life untouched by the rot clinging to the Shroud name. Yet every time he tries to pull away for your sake, you smile at him or say his name softly and all his resolve crumbles instantly. He's so pathetic it isn't a joke anymore. But that’s the cruelest part of all... if you ever looked him in the eyes and chose him anyway, Idia knows he wouldn’t be strong enough to refuse you. So he stays trapped between guilt and desire, clutching his feelings like a wound he can’t stop reopening.

“Y-you seriously need better taste, okay…? ‘Cause if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start believing you actually want this. Want me...and you don't. Trust me, you don't."

“Weren’t we the stars in heaven? Weren’t we the salt in the sea? // Dragon in the new warm mountain. Didn’t you believe in me? // … I wanna kiss, kiss your eyes again. // Wanna witness your eyes looking.” - anything, adrianne lenker

To most people, Malleus is a title before he is a person. A prince, a prodigy, a creature powerful enough to inspire fear long before affection can ever take root. But you met him beneath moonlight without knowing any of that, and instead of recoiling, you smiled at him. Spoke to him. Laughed with him as though he were ordinary. Dared to demand a name from him. That memory settles inside Malleus like something sacred. Perhaps, at first, your ignorance of his identity fascinated him because it allowed him a fleeting taste of normalcy, but what truly captured his heart was the fact that you never changed after learning the truth. Your kindness did not lessen. Your eyes did not harden with fear. If anything, you only looked at him more warmly afterward, and Malleus — still young by Fae standards despite the weight of decades pressing against his shoulders — finds himself hopelessly undone by it.

With you, he feels less like an untouchable heir and more like a young man painfully, desperately in love for the first time. In a life marked constantly by distance and inevitability, you become a beacon calling him back from the loneliness waiting at the edges of his existence. He cherishes every glance you give him because your eyes always hold him gently, reflecting not the monster others expect to see, but someone worthy of companionship, devotion… and now, love. And if fate demanded he endure every lonely year of his life again just to arrive at the moment your hand reached for his, Malleus knows without hesitation that he would.

“My dearest child of man…I would cross every empty age again, just to stand before you once more. So please, continue to observe this world by my side.”

“But there never seems to be enough time // to do the things you want to do once you find them // I’ve looked around enough to know // That you’re the one want to go through time with” — Time in a Bottle, Jim Croce

Lilia has lived long enough to understand how fleeting happiness truly is. Centuries pass in blinks; people come and go like seasons, precious things slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold them. Yet somehow, loving you makes time feel unbearably short all over again. Suddenly every moment matters in ways it hasn’t for years.

He wants everything with you — every first experience you’ve yet to have, every quiet memory waiting to be made, every tiny insignificant moment other people might overlook. He wants to hear your laughter echo through unfamiliar places, wants to dance with you beneath festival lights, wants lazy afternoons and sleepless nights and a thousand years’ worth of stories tucked carefully away where he can revisit them in the afterlife.

And selfishly, he wants to reclaim parts of himself through you too. To redo old memories with your hand in his instead of ghosts. To experience wonder not as a warrior or a general or an ancient fae burdened by history, but simply as someone deeply, hopelessly in love. Lilia does not intend to waste a single second now that he’s found you. The world has taken enough from him already; he refuses to let time steal this too.

“Fufufu… stay with me a little longer this night, won’t you? There are still so many decades worth of memories I wish to make with you.”

“ Look up at the light // This could be a dream or it could be real // Dive into my mind // And don’t come up for air, you won’t need it here” - This could be a dream , Aurora

Silver has always drifted through life as if he were moving through a dream he could never quite remember upon waking. The world feels distant to him at times — blurred at the edges, softened by sleep, untethered from the urgency that seems to guide everyone else. But you make things clear. When you speak, when you smile, when your hand brushes his and anchors him back to the present, he feels something settle that nervous tick to be better.

He cannot breathe right when you are not near, though he would never say it so plainly; it is simply that your absence leaves the air too still, too empty, as though his body has forgotten how to keep going without the sound of you guiding him through it. If he could, he would let you look straight into his mind, past the silence and the sleepiness and the strange half-formed thoughts he rarely knows how to explain, because then you would understand how deeply he has come to rely on your presence. You are not a burden, not a distraction, not something fleeting to wake from — you are another gentle hand the world has placed in his path, and Silver is grateful for you in the quiet, unwavering way he is grateful for dawn.

“Stay with me a little longer… I feel most awake when I’m together with you.”

“Say I wouldn’t care if you walked away // But every time you’re there I’m begging you to stay // And when you come close, I just tremble // And every time, every time you go // It’s like a knife that cuts through my soul” - Only Love Can Hurt Like This, Paloma Faith

For a solider, love is a curse reserved for your worst enemy. It may bolster your resolve but heavens if it does not carve an achilles heel across every square inch of your heart. Your life is not your own. It is that of your Lord. Yet you dare to promise a piece to your love so selfishly. A piece that is not yours to give. Even if so, it is all you have. You can never promise to offer your whole self as they do.

Love is the most blissful wound. Sebek is stuck on an infinite loop, stabbed over and over and over. It hurts to deny you, it hurts to see you, it hurts to feel for you, it hurts to dismiss thoughts of you — it hurts. Love is the most blissful wound. Love is a curse Sebek has found himself struck by, like a mighty lightning bolt. Yet he is nothing if not a battery ready to be charged.

Well, most of his goals. The ones that don’t involve hauling you over his shoulder and back where you belong. His plan is to grab you by the scruff the first chance he gets, lay it all bare, and cast off the regret of letting you go without a word. 

He also plans to use this ‘opportunity’ to take advantage of his new liberties. No Felena on his back for a bit. Leona low-key wants to see as much of your world as he can. Study its politics from the view of the common man as well as the news. 

When everyone first landed - he took one look at the map and said ‘put me wherever,’ because he knew he wouldn’t stay in one place for long. 

Leona is also pessimist number one on the situation. He doesn’t have much hope of finding you just by travelling around. The odds of it? Close to nothing. They don’t even know for certain if this world is your home. Just a word from the lizard who pulled strings with a tracking spell no one had any idea existed. Leona’s letting the others figure it out. Not because he doesn’t  want to. No. Hah. He has WORDS for your dimension hopping ass the moment someone’s caught a lead. You will be hearing from him. Every grievance. 

He’s just…taking the opportunity to get a better grasp on where you’re from. 

Moving on – he covers plenty of land in a short period. Lion on a mission (not without help. Remember for later). The Madagascar, expanse of South Africa, Nigeria, Sudan. Algeria, Mali, Ghana – however long it takes, he keeps moving. Lives out of hostels. 

Isn’t it funny? This is the lifestyle that would give Ki’faji a heart attack. One of Leona’s few items is a decent quality camera along with a little leatherbound journal. He’ll have plenty of documentation to bring back home and implement. 

It helps that Africa’s general way of life (trade, climate, geography, class system, etc) is closest to the Sunset Savannah. He didn’t intend for the lineup. Guess he just got lucky, or the gods threw him a bone.

The luck continues, because people in hotter climates dress covered for protection from the weather. He won’t give up his chaps and jeans, but goes for a Galabeya (long sleeve, cotton, lightweight but full coverage). Just to be safe, he keeps to himself a lot and doesn’t mingle with locals beyond the necessities. Curls his tail around his thigh under the long shirt and uses his travel sack as a weight to keep it from blowing up. He wears the same sandals we know him to have back in Wonderland. High quality leather really lasts. 

Leona refuses to wear a hat to hide his ears. In daylight, he goes for a headscarf. When moving or at night, he pulls his hair up to help them blend in (sometimes will wrap his braids around them). You have to really look to see them. 

Although, because he’s on the go, his clothes get ruined easily. Again. He discards them and picks up whatever is common in the country he’s stopped in. Leona has no preference. 

It’s odd for him, being in a place so similar to home but not. He’ll order a serving of Mandazi on a whim when his stomach starts to gurgle, not knowing what it is but willing to take whatever’s being sold for a decent price. Then bites into it without looking and realizes he’s had it hundreds of times back at the palace. 

Or he’ll see a tour offered down the Nile River, and decide that a bit of tourism is better than looking at the same streetwares he’s been staring at for two hours. He doesn’t care too much until the guide starts talking about how its predictable flooding acts as a key factor in Egypt’s agriculture and civiliazation. 

Bane turned boon, his people could learn from how others in similar climates adapt. 

He goes through ‘Stone Town’ in Zanzibar, Tanzania - and revels in how Indian, Arabic, and other cultures have converged into this trade hub. He notes ways to help establish better trade within the Savannah, thinking of cities with less investment that sit on convergence points. Ways to mimic. 

The list goes on. For Leona, Life On Earth is an educational opportunity. A once in a lifetime chance to both see some of the lifeblood of where you come from, while also gaining insights on ideas neither his brother or any councilman has the ability to.  

He hasn’t forgotten his goal. Why is he here. Leona’s just a realist, and knows how to weigh his odds. Despite that little leatherbound book being filled with notes for his country, there are entries about a person that have no purpose beyond an outlet for a prince’s roaming heart. 

Location Cairo, Egypt (Starting Point) 

Occupation: Freelance // Side Gigs. 

Pessimist number two, and the main reason that pessimist number one is able to travel around without starving to death. Where else do you think Leona is getting the money to survive? 

Let’s get into the contract that’s sealing Ruggie’s future made of gold madol. 

Ruggie’s mentality is the same as Leona’s. The latter thought he’d go off somewhere cushy to spend his time here, maybe start building a small cushioning for when you’re found – but nah. Ruggie’s right there next to Leona when standing over the world map.

Get in, get out, get going. Leona can make whatever assumption he wants, but the reason Ruggie isn’t killing himself with side gigs is because your world’s money isn’t going to mean anything when they get back to Twisted Wonderland. Which he will be doing, because his grandma is waiting for him. 

Meanwhile – he hopes you realize what’s been put on pause just so he can drag your butt home. Will lecture you, number deux. The moment he realized you went home without letting him at least air out the mush you’ve made of his mind? Yeah. Rare hyena rage and initiative. 

No staying with him. He’s worked too hard to help pull his gran out of the pit to give up. Like Leona though, he plans to let the other ones do the heavy work. He’ll just swoop in once there’s a lead and take the spoils. 

A deal is made. In exchange for all the extra work he does in your world (helping Leona survive and do his research), the prince promises Ruggie a hefty bonus back home. Enough to feed the kids from his village for months, set his family up in a nice middle-class home, maybe get the good channels on cable TV. Basically every commission pay he makes is in Leona’s black book, logged and timed, and it’ll be tripled back to Ruggie in madol once they get back. He isn’t wasting a moment in this world because every second goes towards making life back home secure. 

In a twisted way, you abandoning him also opened the door for him to truly keep you. To want you. He’ll have the funds, the connections, the security – finally. He’ll have it all. 

The one who books hostels, bargains and barters, cooks and gets travel tickets – all of it. He takes gigs everywhere they stop. Washes dishes to pay for their meals, drives a taxi for the two months they stay in Uganda, pawns some of Leona’s neck jewelry at first to make their ends meet but his employer didn’t seem particularly attached. It got them the funds to rent the car and make it all back.

Although...he does need Leona more than he'll let go to the lion's head. Leona's the one who picks up languages like nothing and with all the travelling they do? Ruggie will buy (or swipe) the damn textbooks. Although most languages in your world align with those spoken in subsets of the Savannah. Good thing Leona knows most at an adept level.

Survival is in Ruggie's blood. All his knowledge comes to use while backpacking in a world that will chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful. There are times when he's tempted to go join another group. If he asked Kalim, their fun-loving ‘friend’ would wire thousands in whatever currency they needed. Dude got rich quick…some guys are just lucky. 

Despite being an opportunist, Ruggie won’t do it. No matter how much Leona pisses him off when he forgets that they don’t carry weight here or makes an absurd request. It’s worth it this time to do it without any help. Ruggie doesn’t want to owe anyone ANYTHING once you’re found. He has plans, and no one is getting in the way of it. 

Although…he does lose focus when looking at all the reformation programs put in place across Africa. He sees the way local groups come together to help get underprivileged children proper education and what plans are put in place to aid the impoverished. Ruggie doesn’t give a shit about your world’s history, spoken bluntly. Yet Leona better be making notes on agriculture improvement and aid programs. He might take a glance at that book just to see what ideas are being stored away. 

Unlike his backpacking partner, Ruggie doesn’t try so hard to blend into the shadows. Doesn’t have to when he’s the face man. Keeps his clothing lightweight and modern. Full coverage with the headscarf as well, but sticks to clothes similar to what he’d wear in the slums. Ankle-length cotton pants, plain tunic, travel sack on his back, wallet strapped to his chest under his shirt, weaved moccasins – he keeps his colors in the beige and sage category at all times. Cheaper dyes and less attention. 

Also as the faceman, he’s the one making connections. Nothing long term. Just enough shmoozing to distract a saleswoman while pocketing an extra loaf of bread. Again. He doesn’t plan to stay. Ruggie is not above committing sleight-of-hand crimes while on Earth. It’s the same mentality he’s always had, just a different terrain. 

Overall, he doesn’t care. Not where they go, not who they see, not what they eat or what ‘excursions’ they take part in. All Ruggie wants is to get the call that someone has a lead. Next to his wallet, the only item he holds close to his chest is the phone Shroud gave everyone at the very start. He won’t ever pawn it, and keeps it strapped to his thigh under his pants at all times. 

Ruggie’s patient. He’s used to waiting, but that doesn’t make it any easier. When his feet ache and his thread is close to fraying – he just thinks ‘a little more’ because he’s invested too much from the first moment he made you smile to give up now. 

Location: Bundaberg, Australia 

The lone wolf. Jack doesn’t need anyone on his tail. Wherever no one else wants to be, he will go. The option to join his upperclassmen was there. He remembers Leona watching him with a quirked eyebrow when everyone chose their roles, a silent ‘you coming?’ spoken in a look. Jack appreciated the offer, but too many people in one spot does no one any good. 

And frankly, Jack would rather navigate your world with fresh eyes than do so under authority. This entire situation goes against his principles…and yet, here he is. Following you on yet another adventure. Possibly the magnum opus of it all. 

Pessimist three. It runs in the dorm. Walking around aimlessly is unproductive. He has no idea what the other ‘normal’ guys plan to do. Aka the non-extremeists. In Jack’s opinion, their best bets are those who can climb social spheres easily and put the ah - frankly, criminal - skills to use. The ones with a plan. He heard Riddle muttering about going straight for the western government, and knows Shroud won’t twiddle his thumbs when there’s an entire digital world to explore. Even someone like Cater or Vil. People who can draw a crowd, draw attention; people you know and will recognize on sight even if through a screen. 

To Jack, it doesn’t matter who finds you. Just that he gets the chance to see you again. Hear your voice and say everything that keeps him up past his bedtime. He won’t go home until he hears it straight from your mouth that you’re happy here…without him (with him? Would he stay? He can’t think of that just yet). 

That doesn’t mean he gives up. Jack travels plenty on his weekends. It’s where most of his spare money goes. 

Occupation: Retail Associate 

On the topic of money, Jack doesn’t need much. He works retail at a home improvement store. Think of the ‘Home Depot’. Not really into getting higher up or anything. He wakes up, ties his smock on like any hard working joe, and sets to help out whichever poor middle-aged woman that saunters up to the paint desk with twenty samples and no idea what her 14 year old daughter wants. He learned quickly that it’s usually the most eye-rotting shade of teal. 

He mainly took the job for work in the warmer seasons. It does his mind good to care for the plants or help carry bags of fertilizer for those planting a garden. His manager gets a bit too reliant with it, since no one on his shift ever works out as much as he does. Yet it’s all part of a day’s work. 

He lives in a one-bedroom apartment. Minimalistic style with plenty of plants. He’s not out here decorating to the nines, but Jack wants his house to feel like a home. In a way, he wants you to be proud of him when you finally meet again. If he can manage to make a life for himself in your world, just like you did in his, then it has to stand for something…right? 

Very much a homebody too. The one neighbors call to pant/pet sit or help move furniture. 

At first, he just chose Australia by proxy. He ends up oddly taken with it as the weeks pass by. He gets really into Rugby and as a big guy with a lot of pent up energy? Yeah. It’s not hard for him to find a spot on a local team. Occasionally he sends pictures from work, games, etc to the NRC group chat. That’s the most people hear from him though. 

Curses whatever fucking sadist invented vegimite. It’s the bane of his existence and he can smell it the second someone in the complex opens a jar. On the first day he moved in, a neighborly elderly couple treated him to breakfast. He couldn’t say no to their kindness, neither the steak, eggs, hash, and…vegimite toast. Especially when they saw he liked plants and gifted him some potted hydrangeas.

It…was hard to finish. Yet he managed. 

Jack loves the nature reserves and preserves across Australia. They’re usually where he travels to. His home is on the coast, but he tries to move inwards on long weekends to see all he can. He prefers spots outside big cities so he can go for scenic runs and take in sights.

Does not mess with the wildlife though. He isn’t a fool and wants no part of a thrill seekers lifestyle. Keeps to public trails and that’s it. 

Still a gym-body no matter where he goes. Dresses like he walked straight out of a Dick’s Sporting Goods most days. Cameo cargo pants, slim-fit t-shirts, the same knit cardigan he’s worn one hundred times over, a few good pairs of sneakers, and one tailored suit. Jack’s a quality over quantity kind of guy. He’ll invest in a good pair of Ariat boots for work and never have to buy another pair.

If more than a year passes without word of you…Jack commits. He asks himself if returning without you is an option, because time keeps ticking and he has to be reasonable. Life in Wonderland, or Life on Earth. His radio goes silent – more than usual – and it’s because he has to be the voice of reason after choosing to go at this alone. 

Oddly enough, it’s that elderly couple that convinces him. He takes one look at them from his window, walking hand-in-hand to wherever their destination lies,  and knows. 

Wonderland won’t be home without you, and he’s already made it this far. It isn’t a life without you in it, no matter where he goes. He’s known that all along.