“There you are…” Sebek exhaled, the usual force in his voice softened into a murmur as he found you asleep atop a mountain of unfinished papers.
“… Honestly. Must every victory over your work come at the expense of your well-being?” His brow knit with unmistakable disapproval, though his hands betrayed him immediately—one slipping beneath your knees, the other supporting your back with practiced care. “You have neglected proper rest again. Truly… you humans possess a remarkable talent for alarming those who care for you.”
You stirred as he lifted you with effortless ease, instinctively curling closer in your sleep. “…Sebek…”
“Hm?” His gaze fell to your half-lidded eyes, and the stern lecture waiting behind his teeth dissolved before it could escape. “… You may continue sleeping. I shall deliver my reprimand when you are capable of defending yourself.”
“… Though I suspect you will simply apologize, smile, and proceed to repeat the offence.” He clicked his tongue with theatrical disappointment. “Incorrigible, my dear.”
By the time he reached your bed, his steps had become almost absurdly careful, as though even the floor ought to have the courtesy not to disturb you. He drew the blanket over your shoulders with meticulous precision, smoothing a wrinkle that did not need smoothing.
Slowly, his thumb brushed your temple, lingering for the briefest heartbeat, before he leaned down to press a kiss against your forehead—a gesture so reverent it felt less like affection and more like a vow. “Rest now, my beloved,” he whispered.
When he finally straightened, he looked at you for a long, quiet moment before letting out the smallest, most resigned sigh. “… You truly are extraordinary.” The corners of his lips lifted despite himself. “You have somehow managed to make worrying over a human feel like the greatest honour I have ever been entrusted with.”
“The day's burdens have made far too many demands of you already. Allow them no further audience tonight. I shall remain here… and should sleep itself prove discourteous enough to abandon you, then I shall simply remain awake in its stead.”
a/n🍨: it's 6:10am and i have not slept because apparently my assignment and my inability to close my eyes decided to form an alliance against me. i have to wake up at 8:00am so wish me luck ┐( ʘ̆ ᗜ ʘ̆ )┌💥honestly i think Sebek fics are scientifically proven to spawn when i'm sleep deprived because why else would my brain go "yes, now is the perfect time to make a knightly man aggressively romantic." anyway~ remember to eat, warm, happy and fulfilling meal (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hello! Glad to see your requests are open(◍•ᴗ•◍)❤
May I ask a sebek x f!reader? This happens after the book 7 party, like where sebek dragged the reader for some alone time after all what happened (They're already dating). A fluff of where the two of them dances/waltz the night away—with nobody else around. Just the two of them( ◜‿◝ )♡
P.S
-I'm really in love with your works hehe. Have a merry day/evening (≧▽≦)
Nocturne For Two
pair: sebek zigvolt x fem!reader
[twst masterlist] 🍨 [masterlist]
a/n 🍨: I might have accidentally made this way longer than I originally planned😭 But I genuinely had so much fun writing it that I just couldn't stop. There were multiple moments where I had to put my phone down because I was giggling and kicking my feet over Sebek being such a sweetheart. I hope you all end up smiling (or blushing) as much as I did while writing it!
If some of Sebek's memories felt familiar, that's because a few of them are callbacks to my older Sebek fics. Since they're already dating in this story, I wanted those little moments—the sandwich, the coat, the "emotional support alarm clock" nickname—to feel like shared memories they've built together over time. You don't need to have read those fics to understand this one, but if you have, hopefully those references make their relationship feel a little more lived-in.
As for the progression of the story, I wanted this to feel like Sebek finally allowing himself to breathe after everything that happened in Book 7. The opening is meant to show how everyone in Diasomnia notices he's been carrying the weight of recent events and quietly encourages him to step away from his duties for just one evening. From there, the picnic becomes a space where he can simply be Sebek instead of "Lord Malleus's retainer," and the final dance is his way of expressing everything he struggles to put into words. Sebek has always been someone whose actions speak louder than his feelings, so I thought ending the night with a waltz beneath the moon felt like the most natural confession he could offer without ever needing a grand speech.
Thank you to the you, lovely requester for trusting me with this prompt, and reading my humble and messy writing. I hope this little moonlit evening gave Sebek the happiness he deserves🩵💛🩷
The upheaval that had swallowed Diasomnia a month prior had, at last, settled into something resembling peace.
The jubilant peace of festivals and the triumphant peace sung by victorious knights, but the quieter sort—the kind that drifted over old castles after storms had exhausted themselves. The halls still bore faint reminders of frantic nights; students spoke softer than before, paperwork accumulated in neat towers upon ebony desks, and the lanterns seemed to burn with gentler flames, as though reluctant to disturb the silence they had earned.
Life, as it always insisted upon doing, continued.
Sebek continued with it.
He stood beside Malleus at every meeting. Organized reports before anyone requested them. Corrected mistakes before they reached his liege's attention. Completed errands with such unwavering precision that one might mistake him for a machine wound too tightly to falter.
Nonetheless something was... absent.
Lilia noticed it first.
There were pauses now.
Tiny invisible pauses between Sebek's words, where his beautiful gaze wandered toward some distant thought before snapping dutifully back into place. His declarations no longer shook the rafters. The dorm had grown so accustomed to his booming voice that the absence of it rang louder than any shout.
Silver noticed next.
During daily training and patrols, Sebek no longer filled the air with lectures about proper knightly conduct or enthusiastic praise of Lord Malleus. Instead, he simply worked. Efficiently and quiet enough that the rustle of leaves beneath their boots often became the loudest sound between them.
It was... unsettling.
Malleus, however, reached a different conclusion.
Had he burdened his retainer too greatly?
The thought lingered long enough that, on a quiet Friday evening, he summoned Sebek to his chambers.
Moonlight spilled through the arched windows in long silver ribbons, painting the polished floor with pale reflections. A fire crackled lazily in the hearth, its warmth unable to quite chase away the cool breath of the autumn night.
Sebek greet without hesitation.
"My lord."
Malleus regarded him for a moment before speaking.
"Sebek... you have seemed rather subdued these past weeks." His voice remained calm, though his eyes searched the young retainer’s face with quiet concern.
"Your enthusiasm has lessened. Even your voice no longer competes with thunder…Is something troubling your mind?"
Sebek's back straightened instinctively. "N-No, my lord! There is nothing of concern. As your retainer, I am merely striving to lessen your burdens after everything that has transpired. I failed to contribute as much as I ought to have, therefore I have sought greater efficiency in my duties."
His words were polished as usual.
"Hm." The soft hum belonged to neither agreement nor disbelief as it belonged to Lilia.
The older fae drifted into the room with effortless grace, balancing a steaming bowl whose contents shimmered with an alarming shade of violet. The fragrance was... ambitious.
Across the room, Malleus visibly stiffened.
"...Lilia."
"My, my." Lilia smiled with the innocence of someone who had absolutely not prepared culinary warfare. "You still make that face every time."
"...Experience has taught me caution."
"It builds character."
"I have sufficient character."
"It can always build more."
Before Malleus could formulate a diplomatic refusal, Lilia had already placed the bowl into his hands.
Sebek watched the exchange with disciplined composure. Only the faint twitch near his brow betrayed that he, too, silently prayed for his lord's survival.
"Now then." Lilia turned back toward him.
"Your answer wasn't particularly convincing." His crimson eyes softened as he looked at Sebek.
"My answer...?" Sebek echoed, a quiet crease touching his brow, as though the words themselves had stumbled upon unfamiliar ground.
"Mhm."
Lilia folded his arms with unhurried ease, the sort of patience only centuries could cultivate. His smile lingered—and knowing.
"Those are the words of a dutiful retainer."
His gaze rested gently upon the young knight.
"But they are not the words of Sebek."
The sentence settled between them like the last leaf surrendering to autumn.
No one spoke.
Only the hearth dared to break the silence, each crackle sending amber sparks sighing upward before they vanished into the chimney's dark throat. Beyond the stained-glass windows, the wind wandered through the ancient trees, coaxing their branches into a low, whispering hymn—as if the forest itself waited for the answer Sebek could not bring himself to give.
Malleus let the spoon hover only a breath from his lips before lowering it once more, untouched. Whether it was caution born from experience or the weight of the conversation before him, even he could not have said.
"Lilia is right."
His voice flowed through the room with the gentle certainty of moonlight spilling across still water—never demanding, never accusing, merely illuminating what had long been there.
"You have stood beside me with unwavering loyalty."
There was no distance in Malleus's gaze now, none of the quiet majesty reserved for a prince addressing his retainer. Instead, it softened with the familiar warmth of centuries-old oaks sheltering a weary traveler, steadfast and unspoken.
"As your liege..." He paused, the words settling with measured care. "...and as your friend, I wish to return even a fraction of the kindness and devotion you have so freely given me."
Silence answered first.
The hearth sighed, folding another log into amber and ash. Shadows stretched languidly along the stone walls while, beyond the tall windows, the wind wandered through the ancient dormitory, stirring the night into a hushed murmur that seemed almost reverent.
"Will you tell us?"
Sebek did not answer.
His fingers drew tighter against the fabric draped over his knees until the leather of his gloves creased faintly beneath the strain. It was such a minute movement that another might have missed it entirely.
"...It is nothing."
The words emerged scarcely above a murmur.
"I merely seek to improve my efficiency. Less noise. More work completed. That is a Lilia's smile did not so much widen as deepen, touched by the quiet certainty of someone who had already pieced together the answer long before the question was asked.
"Is that so?" he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Then perhaps you could explain why Silver keeps catching you staring at the little locket hidden inside your coat."
Before thought could outrun instinct, Sebek's gloved hand rose to his chest, his fingertips finding the familiar outline concealed beneath layers of dark fabric. The gesture lasted scarcely longer than a heartbeat before he caught himself and withdrew, but the damage had already been done.
There are habits the body betrays before pride can command otherwise, and that fleeting touch spoke more honestly than every careful denial he had offered that evening.
Neither Lilia nor Malleus commented on it. They merely watched, allowing the silence to settle over the room with unexpected kindness, until Lilia finally broke it with a voice gentler than before.
"You've been carrying it everywhere lately. More often than not, your thumb finds it whenever you believe no one's paying attention."
Sebek lowered his gaze. The loud confidence that usually shone so fiercely within his eyes dulled beneath the weight of being understood, for there was little use in denying what his own heart had already confessed on his behalf.
"Everything has finally returned to order." Lilia stepped closer, resting a hand upon the younger fae's shoulder. "The dorm isn't crumbling, Malleus is recovering, and the paperwork can survive a single day without you terrifying it into submission."
"So..." Lilia's smile softened into something unmistakably fond, touched by the quiet affection reserved for children who had long since grown yet never ceased being children in one's eyes. "Why don't you take tomorrow off?"
The refusal came almost before the invitation had finished reaching him.
"N—No, Sir Lilia. I do not believe that would be appropriate."
A faint chuckle escaped the older fae, light as the rustling of leaves beneath an evening breeze. "Is that so? I certainly don't recall raising a young man who would keep a lady waiting for this long."
The words struck with far greater accuracy than any reprimand could have. Color rose swiftly across Sebek's ears, creeping toward his cheeks despite every effort to maintain the rigid composure expected of a knight.
"I—I have seen her," he answered, stumbling over the insistence as though it were a shield hastily raised. "We speak every day. She understands my responsibilities and has never once complained. She knows that Lord Malleus and Diasomnia must come first, and she has always respected that."
"Hm."
Lilia regarded him with the thoughtful hum of someone inspecting a particularly transparent excuse.
"That sounds remarkably like the sort of denial young lovers convince themselves is selflessness."
"...Sir."
There was no indignation in the protest—only quiet embarrassment.
"Sebek."
Lilia stepped forward, resting a weathered hand upon the younger knight's shoulder. The gesture was light, almost fatherly, carrying neither authority nor obligation, only the warmth of someone wishing to remind him that devotion need not always be measured in sacrifice.
"Tomorrow," he said with a smile that left little room for argument, "go and spend the day with her."
The following evening arrived draped in velvet.
True to Lilia's insistence—however impossible it had seemed to refuse—Sebek had sent you a handwritten invitation, asking if you would meet him in Diasomnia's secluded garden after sunset. Weekends left the castle grounds unusually tranquil, and after consulting the weather more times than he cared to admit, he had concluded that the night would be far kinder than the morning. Dawn belonged to bustling students and the chatter of birds; the evening, beneath an open sky and the quiet blessing of moonlight, belonged only to the two of you.
He had prepared everything himself.
Several neatly cut sandwiches rested inside a borrowed tupperware so they would not lose their shape on the journey, accompanied by butter cookies still carrying the faint warmth of the oven and bottles of chilled fruit tea nestled carefully within a wicker basket. Every corner of the cloth had been folded with almost ceremonial precision, as though each careful movement could somehow express what words so often failed to.
Lilia had, of course, offered to help.
The offer had been declined with remarkable speed.
Silver, with the weariness of someone preventing an inevitable catastrophe, had gently redirected Lilia elsewhere, while Malleus—whose recovery remained everyone's greatest concern—became the older fae's newest culinary audience instead. It was, Sebek silently admitted, a sacrifice worthy of admiration.
Left alone with the quiet of the kitchen, his thoughts wandered despite every attempt to discipline them.
He remembered the first sandwich he had ever made for you. You had stared at it with such sincere astonishment before asking which café he had purchased it from, utterly convinced no one capable of shouting battle cries with such conviction could possess hands gentle enough to prepare something so delicate. The bewilderment on your face had lingered with him far longer than the recipe itself.
Then there had been that chilly rainy afternoon before either of you had gathered the courage to call the other beloved. Without thinking, he had draped his coat over your shoulders, only to spend the remainder of the walk insisting that he was merely preventing you from catching a cold—that your health was important to Lord Malleus's peace of mind, and nothing more. Looking back now, he almost wished the earth had swallowed him whole before allowing such transparent excuses to escape his lips.
A quiet laugh slipped from him before he realized it.
His gloved hands paused over the basket.
There was also the nickname.
"My emotional support alarm clock," you had once declared with a sleepy grin after the two of you had crossed paths every morning for at the hallway without fail. Somehow, what had begun as coincidence became routine, and routine became the brightest part of his mornings before he ever understood why.
The memory lingered upon his lips in the shape of an unconscious smile.
"So this is where your thoughts have wandered." Your voice, soft as the evening breeze threading through the ivy, drew him gently back to the present.
Sebek looked up.
There you stood at the entrance to the secluded garden, where moonlight pooled between flowering hedges and silver lilies bowed beneath the weight of dew. You wore a smile that seemed almost unfair in its ability to quiet every restless corner of his heart.
For the briefest moment, he simply stared.
"...Beautiful."
The word escaped before he could stop it.
Heat gathered instantly beneath the tips of his ears, but retreat was no longer possible.
"I mean..." His throat tightened with familiar embarrassment before he surrendered with a small cough. "...Hello."
Closing the distance between you, Sebek slowed, as though afraid that even the gentlest movement might disturb the fragile peace the evening had woven around the two of you. Before reaching for your hand, his fingers paused at the fastening of his glove. With practiced care, he tugged at the leather until it slipped free, revealing the warmth of his bare hand beneath the moonlight.
It was a small gesture—one few would have noticed—but to Sebek, it felt strangely significant, gloves belonged to knights and retainers, while bare hands belonged only to those they trusted.
Only then did his fingers find yours.
His touch was warm, calloused from years of swordsmanship, yet astonishingly careful as his hand folded around yours. Their fingers intertwined with effortless familiarity, fitting together as though countless partings and reunions had quietly taught them the shape of one another. Holding your hand both precious and grounding, Sebek raised it before leaning down, as he pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss against your forehead—a gesture so reverent it bordered on a silent vow.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice scarcely louder than the rustling leaves overhead. "For spending your evening with me."
His thumb traced a small, absent circle across the back of your hand.
"I... have been looking forward to this."
Your smile softened into something impossibly warmer.
"So have I."
He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and, with a shy nod toward the neatly arranged blanket waiting beneath the moonlit arbor, offered, "Come. Please... sit with me."
Conversation came as easily as breathing.
Perhaps it was because there was no audience to perform for, no duties demanding Sebek's unwavering attention, nor any expectations beyond simply existing beside one another. Time, usually so rigid beneath the weight of obligations, unraveled gently between shared stories, quiet laughter, and the comfortable rhythm of voices that had long since memorized each other's cadence.
Sebek listened far more than he spoke.
It was a side of him few ever witnessed. The boisterous knight whose declarations could shake castle walls became remarkably quiet in your company, content to watch your expressions shift as you recounted your week, occasionally nodding, occasionally asking a thoughtful question, but most often listening with the sort of attentiveness that made every word feel cherished.
The moon climbed steadily above the garden, its pale light spilling across the blanket in silvery pools.
You glanced upward before a smile tugged at your lips.
"The moon seems brighter tonight. Did someone make sure Malleus didn't... accidentally do anything?"
A cough escaped Sebek before the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"I believe Lord Malleus is currently occupied ensuring Sir Lilia does not invite himself to our evening."
"So your entire family's conspiring to make sure this date actually happens?"
"You could certainly put it that way, dearest."
"...The tupperware?" Your gaze drifted toward the neatly packed basket before settling on the container resting carefully beside it.
"Lilia insisted I return it afterward. It is, apparently, one of his most treasured possessions." Sebek followed your eyes and gave a small, almost embarrassed nod.
"My, my." You tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. "Borrowing Lilia's precious tupperware? You're going to such lengths for me, sweetheart."
A faint blush crept across Sebek's cheeks, though he cleared his throat as if professionalism alone might banish it.
"It is merely the bare minimum," he replied with practiced dignity. "Your favorite sandwiches and cookies would have suffered considerably during the walk here had I carried them less carefully. Proper storage was simply... the most logical solution."
"Mhm." You leaned just a little closer, your smile softening with unmistakable fondness.
"I like that."
His ears flushed a deeper shade of crimson.
"...You do?"
"I do."
All the discipline Sebek possessed, he had yet to discover any defense against being praised by the person he loved.
The night continued to slip quietly onward, unnoticed by either of you.
The basket gradually emptied between laughter and stories, half-finished conversations wandering into comfortable silences before finding their way back again. Somewhere beyond the hedges, crickets carried the evening upon their tiny wings while the moon climbed higher still, pouring silver over the gardens until every flower seemed dusted with starlight.
Neither of you noticed how close midnight had become.
Sebek gaze drifted toward a pocket watch just as its hands neared twelve. Soon, he would have to escort you back to your dorm before the night surrendered itself to morning.
...Already?
The thought lingered with surprising disappointment.
For a long moment, he simply looked at you.
The moon adored you.
He could think of no other explanation for the way its pale light gathered upon your features so tenderly, softening every curve of your smile until you seemed less like someone standing before him and more like a dream the night itself feared to awaken from.
"...My dear."
His voice came barely above a whisper.
"If..."
He cleared his throat, suddenly discovering that asking this was somehow more frightening than facing an army.
"If you would indulge me..."
Sebek rose to his feet before extending his bare hand toward you, palm open, waiting with the same patience he had always offered whenever the choice belonged to you.
"I haven't practiced in quite some time," he admitted with a sheepish smile that scarcely anyone else was ever privileged to witness. "But... I thought it would be a fitting way to end our evening."
A pause.
"...May I have this dance?"
You looked at his waiting hand before lifting your eyes to meet his.
There, standing beneath the moon, was not Diasomnia's loudest knight, nor Lord Malleus's ever-vigilant retainer.
There was simply Sebek. A young man asking the person he loved to dance.
"I suppose," you murmured, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips, "but I'll be the judge of that, my sweet."
You stole one last bite of your sandwich.
Sebek laughed—a quiet, startled sound that escaped him before he could stop it.
"My dear..."
Before you could answer, his thumb brushed gently across the corner of your mouth, sweeping away the tiny breadcrumb that had stubbornly remained upon your lips. The touch was featherlight, lingering for only a heartbeat before he withdrew, his ears already blooming crimson as though he'd only just realized what he'd done.
"There."
His eyes darted away for the briefest moment.
"...Much better."
You slipped your hand into his.
His fingers closed instinctively around yours.
Slowly, he stepped closer with his other hand settling with almost reverent care against your waist, afraid that holding you too tightly might shatter the miracle of having you there at all. Your free hand found his shoulder, and for one suspended moment neither of you moved.
The world seemed content to wait.
Then Sebek began to hum.
It was a melody you recognized immediately, one he had absentmindedly hummed during walks across campus or while waiting outside your classes—a simple waltz carried not by perfection but by familiarity.
"I want to lead." You spoke as you starting the foot position to lead the dance.
His expression betrayed the faintest hint of panic before melting into helpless affection.
"...As you wish."
The two of you drifted across the garden.
Paired with flawless elegance with a mix of the easy grace from two people who had long since learned to trust one another more than their own feet. Every gentle turn drew another laugh from you, bright enough to rival the stars overhead, and every time your eyes met his, Sebek forgot the next step entirely.
Your laughter blossomed once more beneath the sleeping garden, bright enough that it seemed to coax the flowers into swaying along with the waltz. It unraveled every careful thought Sebek had tried so desperately to keep in order, until the measured rhythm of the dance dissolved beneath the far louder cadence of his own heart.
He had meant to count each step, to follow your guide with the composure expected of a knight, yet every graceful turn stole another fragment of that resolve. The moon caught upon your smile, silver threading through your hair as you laughed again, and Sebek realized—with no small amount of despair—that he had forgotten where his feet were supposed to go.
"My apologies..."
"You've stepped on me again, dear."
"I... have?"
"You have."
The laugh that escaped you was so warm, so utterly unrestrained, that it robbed him of every defense he possessed.
"I fear," he murmured, the corners of his lips lifting despite his embarrassment, "that my greatest adversary this evening is not the dance..."
His voice trailed away. It was you.
Or rather, the impossible way you looked at him.
The music existed only as a quiet hum upon his lips now. The garden, the moon, the castle beyond the hedges—everything receded into a distant blur until there was only your hand resting in his. Your breath mingling with his own, and the gentle rise and fall of your steps as though the two of you had become part of the same heartbeat.
Almost without thinking, Sebek slowed.
His bare hand remained firm intertwined around yours, but the gloved hand at your waist drifted upward with hesitant reverence, pausing for the briefest instant silently asking permission before his fingertips brushed against your cheek. His thumb traced the soft curve beneath your eye with impossible tenderness, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before lingering there, warm against your skin.
You leaned ever so slightly into the touch with a smiled, the triumphant smile that followed one of your victories over his stubbornness.
This one was softer and quieter.
It bloomed upon your face with such effortless affection that your eyes curved into crescents, another laugh escaping you like the first note of a song only the night was privileged enough to hear.
Sebek simply... stared.
The world had surely made a mistake.
How could anyone be permitted to look so breathtaking?
His lips parted, but every eloquent sentence he had rehearsed during lonely evenings abandoned him without mercy. The knight who could proclaim his loyalty before an entire assembly now found himself incapable of uttering anything more sophisticated than the truth laid bare before him.
"...You're..."
"Hmm?"
His voice caught.
"...so breathtaking."
The confession escaped in scarcely more than a breath.
"I..." A helpless laugh left him, equal parts wonder and surrender. "Forgive me, my dear... I cannot seem to stop looking at you."
His cheeks had long surrendered to crimson, yet he made no effort to hide it.
"When you smile..." His thumb caressed your cheek once more, almost absentmindedly reassuring himself that this moment truly existed. "...everything else disappears."
At some point, the dance simply ceased, though neither of you could have said who had stopped first. Perhaps it had been you. Perhaps it had been him. Or perhaps the waltz had merely surrendered, finding itself hopelessly outmatched by the quiet gravity that drew the two of you together.
Sebek remained where he was, his hand still cupping your cheek as though it had forgotten any other purpose. His thumb wandered in slow, absent circles against your skin, savoring the warmth beneath his fingertips with the careful reverence of someone committing a miracle to memory.
You answered him with nothing more than another laugh and that unbearably gentle smile—a smile so luminous that the moonlight itself seemed pale beside it—and he could only gaze back in helpless silence, wondering how something so simple could leave his heart so utterly defenseless.
He had devoted his life to becoming a knight worthy of Malleus. He had spent years perfecting his swordsmanship until every strike became instinct, every lesson etched into muscle and bone, every oath carried with unwavering conviction. Now standing before you, with your fingers still laced between his and your face resting so trustingly in his palm, all those triumphs seemed to drift quietly into the distance, like stars fading before the coming dawn.
For no accolade, no honor bestowed upon him had ever compared to this single, fragile moment—the indescribable privilege of being close enough to watch you smile because of him, to hear your laughter carried upon the night air, and to realize with a tenderness so profound it almost frightened him that if happiness possessed a face, it had always looked exactly like yours.
Quick update: it is 3:32am and i am fighting for my life editing a sebek request because my own writing is making me flustered. Sebek has completely broken my brain in this fic (i'll post maybe in 3 hours)~~ ALSO i’m awake waiting for the World Cup match at 5 AM.
UPDATE: 6:35AM FINALLLYY postedddd!!! nOCTURE for two (sebek x fem!reader)
Was just wondering for a request, a reader who has a RBF (resting bitch face), with the first years? (Or whoever you’d like to do)
Maybe just scenario’s of them thinking the reader is mad or smth but they ain’t - or they’re talking abt their first interaction and one of them mentions how when they first met they thought the reader had like one sided beef with them or smth 😭😭
IDK IF THAT MAKES SENSE but if you like the request have fun with it!!
Born to Look Mad, Forced to Explain
pair: Ace / Deuce / Jack / Epel / Sebek / Ortho x GN! reader
[TWST masterlist]🍨 [masterlist]
a/n🍨 : Thank you so much for the request!! I really appreciate it🩵💛🩷 This prompt is actually something I can relate to way too much, AHAHAHA. A lot of my close friends admitted that their first impression of me was that I looked really intimidating or like I was mad at them all the time.
Funny enough, I think that the same rbf also kindaaa helped me during my makeup artist certification classes. Whenever we took photos of our finished makeup looks, my teacher would always tell me, "Don't smile—it doesn't suit you." (what an odd thing to say ngl)😭 And when I was the makeup face canvas for my classmates, they'd say the same thing too. The moment I smiled for the camera, they'd immediately go, "No, no, don't smile. Your neutral face looks better." LIKE… HELLO?? HAHAHAHA
I never thought my serious-looking face would actually be useful for something, but I guess it made me a good canvas for makeup practice. So yes… this fic was written from personal experience. To everyone blessed with rbf, I see you ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✨ i do love smiling more now though ✨🩷
Ace Trappola
The first time Ace met you, you were standing outside the Heartslabyul gardens with your arms crossed, your eyes half-lidded, and a face that suggested someone had personally insulted your ancestors three generations back.
Sunlight was doing everything it could to soften your features yet it failed spectacularly.
Ace made the catastrophic mistake of assuming you were looking at him. Which meant, naturally, he'd somehow already offended you despite not remembering your name, your face, or your existence until approximately seven seconds ago. So he spent the next week mentally reviewing every misdemeanor he'd committed since birth, convinced one of them had finally caught up with him in human form.
Ace: "Okay, seriously. What did I do?"
You: "…Huh?"
Ace: "You've been glaring at me since orientation."
You: "I've… been waiting for the kettle to boil."
Ace: "…That's your waiting face?"
You: "That's just my face."
Ace: "…I've been apologizing to you in my head for nine days."
Deuce Spade
Deuce noticed your expression before he noticed anything else about you. There was something almost judicial about it, as though you had already read the entire tragic novel of his former delinquency and reached a deeply disappointing conclusion. Every time your eyes landed on him, he straightened his posture like he was appearing before the world's sternest school principal.
Eventually, he became absurdly polite whenever you were nearby. Doors were held open. Chairs were pulled out. Homework was completed suspiciously early. Ace thought Deuce was relapsing into being weird.
In reality, Deuce simply believed you were one sigh away from reporting him for crimes both committed and hypothetical.
Deuce: "…Can I ask you something?"
You: "Sure."
Deuce: "…Do you… not like me?"
You: "…What?"
Deuce: "You always look mad."
You: "…I'm thinking about soup."
Deuce: "…Soup?"
You: "I really like soup."
The revelation somehow made less sense than the imagined grudge.
Jack Howl
Jack had always trusted his instincts. They were sharp and dependable things, inherited from generations that survived on reading the smallest shift in another creature's posture. So when he first met you, standing by the track field with a face carved into permanent and magnificent disapproval that every instinct he possessed unanimously agreed:
You did not like him.
It didn't help that every time he looked up during practice, there you were, expression unchanged, staring vaguely in his direction while actually watching a bird perched on the fence behind him.
Jack interpreted every accidental glance as silent evaluation. He ran harder. Trained longer. Picked up every stray water bottle after practice because maybe—maybe—you'd finally think he was respectable enough to stop glaring.
Jack: "Can I ask you something?"
You: "Sure."
Jack: "…Have I… done something to upset you?"
You: "…No?"
Jack: "Then why do you always look at me like that?"
You: "…There's a crow that plans to steal someone's lunch every afternoon."
Jack: "A crow."
You: "Yeah."
Jack: "…I've been competing with a bird."
Epel Felmier
Epel was taught by Vil that smiles can meant war. The polite and noble ones. The sort that looked sweet while quietly arranging your funeral flowers. So when he met you—wearing the facial expression of someone attending the execution of joy itself—he assumed you were exactly that type.
Every interaction became painfully courteous. He greeted you with courtesy . Thanked you for things you hadn't done. Apologized whenever you happened to exist within the same hallway.
Vil eventually noticed Epel looking like he was negotiating a peace treaty every time you walked by.
Epel: "…Did I offend ya somehow?"
You: "Why would you say that?"
Epel: "Ya look like ya wanna poison me."
You: "…I was trying to remember if I left my laundry in the dryer."
Epel: "…That's the face ya make thinkin' about laundry?"
You: "Yeah."
Epel: "…Yer laundry got the face of a blood feud."
Sebek Zigvolt
Sebek considered himself an excellent judge of character. Unfortunately, he was also catastrophically dramatic.
The first time your eyes met his, your expression remained perfectly still—the same expression you'd worn while eating breakfast, reading a book, and blinking. Sebek, however, interpreted your naturally stern face as a declaration of ancient hostility.
Surely you had detected some imperfection within him. Surely this was a challenge. Surely destiny had selected him for psychological combat. Silver listened to this theory for nearly fifteen minutes before deciding sleep was preferable.
Sebek: "I DEMAND TO KNOW WHY YOU REGARD ME WITH SUCH CONTEMPT!"
You: "…I'm sorry?"
Sebek: "YOUR CONSTANT GLARE!"
You: "…but I'm just squinting."
Sebek: "…Why?"
You: "The sun?"
Sebek looked up and yes indeed that the afternoon sun was directly in your eyes. Now he refused to speak for the next twenty minutes out of pure embarrassment.
Silver, from somewhere nearby:
"I told you."
Ortho Shroud
Ortho approached your expression scientifically.
First scan classified it as Angry: 82%.
Second scan classified it as Annoyed: 76%.
Tenth scan simply displayed: :(
He began quietly reviewing every interaction you'd ever had together, convinced he had unknowingly hurt your feelings. Idia found him making spreadsheets titled "Possible Social Errors (?) Of Y/N" and wisely chose not to interfere.
Ortho: "Y/N, may I ask a question?"
You: "Of course."
Ortho: "Are you upset with me?"
You: "…No?"
Ortho: "My facial recognition software says you look unhappy."
You: "Oh don't worry about it. This is just my face."
Processing…
Processing…
Ortho: "Update complete!"
You: "So what changed?"
Ortho: "I have created a new category."
You: "…What category?"
Ortho: Resting Friend Face (Looks Mean, Is Actually Thinking About Snacks.)
You: "…I was thinking about snacks."
Ortho: "Excellent! My data is accurate!"
Could i request what overblot boys react to reader calling them "baby" or "babe" for the first time in the relationship? Like "thank you baby" after they hand you a book or something? I LOVE YOUR WRITING PLEASE
Witnesses Say It Was "Just One Baby/Babe"
Overblot boys x GN!reader
[twst masterlist] / [navigation]
a/n🍨: Hiii~ Halooo~ thank you for loving, reading and requesting my humble writing🩷 this fic is meant to be a quick palate cleanser after my previous lengthy work. I wanted something lighthearted, easy to read, and focused on a simple, silly premise that made me smile while writing it. Hopefully it can be a fun little break for you too🩷💛🩵
Riddle Rosehearts
The afternoon light spills gold across the dorm lounge, dust motes dancing between stacked books and teacups. You thank him so casually—“Thank you, baby.” It slips out like second nature, soft and warm.
His fingers freeze against the spine of the book that he casually passed it to you seconds ago yet now the bluish-gray eyes widening as scarlet slowly crawls up his neck to his ears like spilled ink on porcelain.
“B-Baby?! W-What kind of improper—” He cuts himself off, his voice faltering. Riddle’s grip tightens on the book before he presses it into your hands far too stiffly.
“I-I mean… if you insist on using such… intimate terms… at least warn me first.”
Riddle's lips press into a thin line as he tries to restore some semblance of order, but the unmistakable redness staining the tips of his ears keep betraying him long before he can. No amount of dignity or discipline can conceal just how flustered he truly is.
Leona Kingscholar
The room is lazy with heat, sunlight pooling over his sprawled form like melted amber. He hands you your forgotten handkerchief with his usual half-lidded annoyance. Then you smile—“Thanks, babe.”
The word lands like a pebble into still water. His tail flicks sharply.
“… What’d you call me?” His green eyes crack open wider, studying you like prey he wasn’t expecting to bare its throat.
Slowly, a smirk curls across his lips.
"Heh. Took you long enough." Leona's chin resting against his palm, amusement and satisfaction glinting in his eyes. His posture remains languid, as though none of this truly matters—but the faint twitch of his tail betrays just how much it does.
Azul Ashengrotto
In the velvet-lit office of the lounge, he slides a stack of notes across to you with polished elegance. Your gratitude is easy, sweet—“Thank you, baby.” which instantly made the pen in his hand slips from his fingers and clatters against the desk.
“… Pardon?”
His smile falters—rare, genuine surprise breaking through the carefully crafted mask. His glasses catch the light as he adjusts them unnecessarily, buying himself time. “That is… quite the affectionate term.”
Azul's cheeks tint pink despite himself, and he quickly clears his throat to recover.
“And— I'll have to charge you for that.”
On the outside, his fingers nervously fidget with his gloves. On the inside, he's in the middle of a full-blown spiral.
Jamil Viper
The dorm kitchen smells of cardamom and warm tea; Jamil’s movements are precise as ever. He passes you the star anise you asked for, and without thinking, you murmur, “Thanks, babe.” He nearly drops the spoon in his hand.
“… What?”
His eyes narrow—in disbelief—as he glances at you over his shoulder. There’s the faintest flush dusting his cheeks. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m busy.”
Jamil turns back to the stove too quickly, with his shoulders visibly tense. But there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying how much he liked it.
“You’re troublesome.”
Vil Schoenheit
Backstage mirrors cast everything in silver and gold as he hands you a script with flawless grace. Your voice glides out—“Thank you, baby.” He pauses, lashes fluttering as if you’d brushed a feather across his skin.
“… Baby?”
He repeats it like tasting an expensive perfume, testing the scent of it. His lips curve, elegant and sharp. “How shameless. I supposed it suits me, doesn’t it?”
Vil steps closer, tilting your chin up with practiced delicacy. Though perfectly composed, the warmth in his eyes softens. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, entirely composed with a gaze of satisfaction in his eyes.
“At least your taste in pet names is refined.”
Idia Shroud
The glow of the monitors paints the room in shifting shades of sapphire, turning the darkness into something almost dreamlike. Pixels dance across Idia's face as he wordlessly offers you the controller, shoulders relaxed in the rare comfort of your company.
You take it with a smile. “Thanks, babe.”
“EH?!” He jerks so hard his chair nearly tips over, hair flaring pink with embarrassment. His face goes nuclear red. “Y-You can’t just drop premium-level affection DLC like that without warning!”
Idia covers half his face with his sleeve, peeking at you through his fingers. His shoulders are hunched, practically vibrating. “B-Babe?? Like—an actual romantic dialogue option, babe?!
He is going to replaying that moment on loop forever.
Malleus Draconia
Moonlight spills silver through ancient windows, catching on the dark green of his hair like woven starlight. He offers you a small flower with that quiet, reverent care only he possesses. Your fingers brush his as you say, “Thank you, baby.” His breath catches—subtle, but unmistakable.
“… Baby.”
He repeats it low, almost wonderingly, like an ancient word rediscovered. His lime-green eyes soften, glowing faintly in the dark. “That is what you call me?”
Malleus leans closer, towering with his gaze fixed wholly on you. There’s a rare vulnerability in the slight parting of his lips, the way his hand lingers near yours. “Then I shall treasure it… if it means I am yours.”
"Did you hear what happened to Housewarden Rosehearts?"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hi lovely !! i see your requests are open so may i humbly ask for a malleus x yuu!reader fic, preferably post-overblot? i'd like for it to be super angsty and full of yearning and inner emotional turmoil, especially from malleus's side ( with a good ending ofc ). just smth along the lines of him slowly coming to terms with the love he holds for reader as he does everything he can to make it up for hurting them while blinded by his rage and his grief in his ob state. idk if i'm making sense lol, if it's too complicated feel free to ignore or write smth different. have a wonderful day/night! i adore your writing 💕
The Folly That Eternity Envied
Malleus x Yuu!Reader
[twst masterlist] / [navigation]
a/n🍨: Hi hii~ anon🩷 thank you so much for reading my work and requesting!! I hope I deliver this good enough☺️✨ AHEM SO—I tried to explore what happens after forgiveness becomes possible—when the immediate crisis has passed, but the memory of it remains. In particular, I was interested in Malleus as someone who has lived for centuries and possesses immense power, yet finds himself utterly unequipped to navigate something as fragile and mortal as love.
Rather than approaching his overblot as a singular mistake, I also wanted to examine it as the culmination of a fear that had been growing long before it ever manifested: the fear of loss, abandonment, and impermanence. The tragedy, to me, is not merely that Malleus hurt someone he loved. It is that his desire to preserve that love became inseparable from the fear of losing it. As a result, this story is less concerned with redemption and more concerned with remembrance. It is written as a reflection, almost a confession, from someone looking back upon the worst version of himself and trying to understand how devotion can become destruction when left unchecked.
Within my rough palms, I harboured it as a child harbours a balloon—possessively yet tenderly. The prospect of its flight unsettled me more than that of its death. To watch it slip free, rise beyond retrieval, and dissolve into the blue anonymity of distance seemed a crueller fate than hearing its brief report against the air. Fool that I was.
The second time, my foolishness found me again. It bloomed from the mouth of the muse, from a handful of words so carelessly released into the air that they ought to have vanished with the day. Yet wherever I cast my gaze, they lingered.
What was spoken as something ordinary arrived to me as longing; what was meant to pass became something I wished to keep. I gathered each syllable as though it were a relic, preserving it against the erosion of time.
Perhaps that is what fools do—they build cathedrals from echoes. Still, I have always believed that nothing is uttered without the desire to be remembered. And so, maybe, a fool is worthy of remembrance too.
Yet, remembrance is a greedy thing.
It asks first for a name, then a voice, then every gesture ever offered beneath an indifferent sky. Soon enough, it demands an entire life.
So I remember your laughter.
It was remarkable, though not for any perfection. Its beauty lay in its perishability. Your laughter flowered through the air like moonlit jasmine after rain—fragrant for a moment, then surrendering itself to the dark before I could gather it whole. I pursued that vanishing music as a sailor pursues the final star above a drowning shore, while the fog, tender as sleep, folded over the world and left only its sweetness trembling in my chest.
What an absurdity.
A creature such as myself, whose life stretches beyond the arithmetic of kingdoms, is reduced to treasuring a sound that lasts scarcely longer than a heartbeat. Had I been wiser, I might have recognised the danger then. Love, before it acquires its name, disguises itself as curiosity.
I considered myself to be merely interested in you.
Hence, I found myself drawn to the peculiar manner in which you beheld the world. Where others measured worth in power, your gaze lingered upon smaller miracles—the silvering edge of a cloud, the hush before rain, the fleeting bloom of things destined not to last. There was a sweetness in that attention that made even ordinary moments appear touched by some gentler season.
Most dangerous of all was the ease with which you regarded me. In your presence, the titles that had followed me for centuries seemed to loosen and fall away. I was not a prince, a dragon, or the future of an ancient kingdom. Merely a lonely soul who, by some improbable grace, had found another standing beside them at dusk.
How fortunate for me that I possessed centuries of wisdom, and how unfortunate that not a fragment of it instructed me in the governance of the heart.
Libraries had yielded their secrets to me. Ages had unfolded before my eyes like illuminated manuscripts. Yet none contained a remedy for the quiet calamity of affection when it ripens beyond tenderness and becomes hunger.
There is, I think, a peculiar cruelty allotted to those who endure.
We watch flowers surrender their petals to autumn. We watch kingdoms sink beneath the tide of history. Even the stars, those ancient sovereigns of the heavens, must one day spend the last of their fire.
Witness enough endings, and one begins to mistake transience for a promise.
Thus, immortals learn to wait patiently, as mountains wait for rivers. Arrogantly, as though time itself were our steward, destined to gather every cherished thing from the world and preserve it within the chambers of memory.
I believed this once—that all things that lingered long enough beside me would, in some form, remain. A foolish faith.
For love is the one miracle that refuses inheritance.
Then came that night—though even now, I hesitate to name it as one names ordinary things. To call it a night seems an insult to all other nights, which arrive quietly and depart without demanding blood from the soul.
A fracture disguised as an evening with catastrophe that wore the familiar face of time.
Before it happened, I possessed the arrogance of those who mistake devotion for virtue. You see (y/n), I believed myself incapable of harming you.
There are men who believe they are righteous because they have never been tested, and there are men who believe themselves gentle because fortune has never placed another's happiness beneath their hands.
I belonged to both categories. I mistook the absence of failure for proof of goodness.
Then grief entered me.
Never the grief as poets describe it—noble, mournful, and beautiful in its suffering. Real grief is vulgar. It breaks furniture and screams at shadows. It tears apart things it loves because it cannot find the thing it has lost.
Rage—ah, rage is even more deceptive. Rage speaks in my voice. It borrows my memories, convictions, most sacred affections, and presents itself as reason.
That night I surrendered to both.
I looked upon the one person I had wished most desperately to protect and became, by my hand, the thing from which they required protection. Even now, I cannot recount the event plainly, yet the memory does not permit it.
It approaches me in fragments, like a wounded animal emerging from a forest after a storm—hesitant, trembling, suspicious of every movement. And perhaps it has reason to be afraid.
Every attempt at remembrance feels like an act of violence.
Nonetheless, there's one image remains untouched by time. Your face.
Curiously, it was not fear that wounded me.
Fear would have been merciful because fear is simple and understandable. A frightened person merely seeks safety; once danger passes, forgiveness may follow. But what I saw was disappointment.
Such an ordinary word, and yet no language has ever devised a crueler one.
You looked at me as though a great cathedral had opened its doors only to reveal emptiness within. As though what you mourned was not my cruelty but the collapse of your belief in me.
I have endured afflictions older than kingdoms. I have carried sorrows so immense they seemed capable of drowning entire generations. I have watched hopes decay, promises rot, and certainties crumble into dust.
Never once of those injuries reached so deeply. As suffering inflicted by the world wounds the flesh of the spirit. Suffering inflicted by oneself wounds its marrow.
For the first time, I understood something I had spent years refusing to learn: that love and destruction are separated by almost nothing. A single act performed under the delusion that one's intentions excuse one's actions.
And I crossed that distance.
I crossed it willingly, blindly, with all the confidence of a fool pursuing a bright balloon across the edge of the world, never noticing that beneath his feet the earth had already ended.
Afterward, I searched everywhere for forgiveness. Especially from you.
Whenever a stairs in Ramshackle groaned loose from age, it was repaired before morning. Whenever winter winds slipped through gaps in the old walls, the cracks mysteriously vanished overnight. Books long thought lost found their way back onto shelves. Broken furniture mended itself. Wilting flowers bloomed.
Guilt follows a person faithfully, not as punishment but as remembrance. It is love that has survived disaster and clothed itself in the bones of regret.
As times passed, I learned what may be the final lesson of my existence. To love another person is not to possess them. Nor is it to spare them every grief or is it to construct a sanctuary so perfect that pain can never enter.
Love, at its most frightening, is far simpler than that. It is to stand before another human being stripped of every defence, every excuse, every noble explanation, and say the following:
This is the worst thing I have done. This is the ugliest thing I have seen. This is the part of me I most wish had never existed.
If you choose to leave, I will not pursue you. If you choose to hate me, I will not argue If you choose to forget me, I will not demand remembrance. And if, despite everything, you remain—
Every day thereafter will be devoted not to deserving forgiveness, for forgiveness cannot be deserved, but to proving that your faith was not misplaced forever.
When you smiled at me again, I understood this at last.
Absolution belongs to judges.
Mercy shall descends from above. A future freely offered, knowing precisely who I was. For someone who had once mistaken eternity for the highest blessing imaginable, I discovered there existed a greater miracle. The inexplicable mystery of being chosen again by the same person who has already seen the worst of you.
And then being chosen once more the following day.
And again.
And again.
Until, somehow, those repeated choices become a life.
The parfait glass is cool against your fingertips, as if it might absorb the heat of everything you cannot say.
Outside the cafe, people move like they have destinations stitched into their bones—crossing the street, laughing into phones, disappearing into corners of the city as though they are being gently erased and rewritten somewhere else. A woman in a pale coat pauses at the curb. A boy runs after a bus. Someone drops a receipt and does not notice. The world continues its small mercies of forgetting.
And you sit still, as if stillness might summon him.
Sebek.
The name does not feel like a word so much as a reflex of the heart—something that happens to you without permission, like breathing or blinking too slowly when you are tired. You imagine him somewhere far from here, upright as a drawn blade, arguing with duty as if duty were a living thing that could be persuaded by volume alone.
Training, guarding Malleus, or simply enduring the quiet gravity of his family’s expectations—each obligation arriving earlier than affection ever learns to gather itself into words.
He moves through them as though time itself were structured in ranks: duty first, then duty again, and only in some distant, unassigned hour, the possibility of anything softer. As if affection were not denied, but perpetually rescheduled by forces more ancient than his desire to remain human.
Now you are left to understand him in that language of delay—where love does not disappear, only waits behind closed doors it does not have the authority to open. Hence the learned shape of his absences.
They are full—crowded with discipline, with obligation and the relentless architecture of his devotion to others. Yet still, there is a corner of you that keeps knocking on it like a hand against locked wood.
Maybe I should have gone out to see you.
The thought returns again and again, as a kind of stubborn tenderness, like a prayer that refuses to learn humility. If I had walked further. If I had waited less. If I had become faster, quieter—if I had folded myself into the timing of his world instead of my own.
I would do it all again.
The café continues hums softly around you. Cups clink in the background. A spoon stirs something too carefully. Someone laughs too loudly at something that is not that funny, and you envy them the ease of it—the unthinking permission to exist without measuring every second against someone else’s absence.
You want to see him.
Never in the abstract way people say it when they mean “I miss you.” No. It is sharper than that, almost embarrassing in its clarity. It is physical where it has weight. It presses behind your ribs until even breathing feels like negotiation.
Even a text is not enough.
Because a text is a polite ghost. A sentence that pretends it can substitute warmth. You read them carefully, over and over, as if repetition could turn ink into presence:
good morning, (y/n) don’t forget to eat later.
sorry for the late reply I was training
I was cleaning
I was—
Always something interrupted. Always something more important than the space between your fingers and his.
Nevertheless, you keep every unfinished excuse like pressed flowers. As if they might one day bloom into arrival.
You imagine him writing them rushing, posture straight even in solitude, brow furrowed as though punctuation itself is an oath. You imagine his voice in the spaces between words—firm, slightly roughened by exhaustion he would never admit to.
You imagine, and it is not enough.
Your hands lift slightly from the table without your permission, as if your body has its memory of him—of how it would feel to loop your arms around his neck, to rest your weight against the solid certainty of his shoulder. A fragile coexistence of obligation and desire, where what he must do and what he feels are allowed, briefly, to share the same air without conflict.
You wonder if he ever thinks like this too.
Or if he is better at partitioning the heart into neat, obedient compartments.
Outside, a bus sighs to a stop. The doors open like an invitation that forgets it was ever tender, yet soon close like a verdict already decided.
A man in uniform passes the window, and for a moment, your chest tightens with the ridiculous hope that the world has made a mistake—that it has misplaced him here, in this ordinary street with its indifferent traffic and afternoon light.
But it is not him.
Leaving would feel like admitting that waiting has no shape, no logic, no reward. Only motionlessness disguised as faith. Your mouth is slightly parted, suspended in that delicate interval between silence and speech, as if language has come to the edge of you and hesitated there—too shy, or too honest, to cross fully into sound.
Sebek would scold you for that look. For wasting time. For sitting idle when there are things to be done, duties to be fulfilled, strength to be trained.
Because you know him—you also know he would hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, if he saw you like this; a hesitation so infinitesimal it would barely disturb the stern architecture of his composure, and yet it would exist similar to a hairline fracture in polished stone.
For Sebek is not made for hesitation. He is all straight lines and sharpened conviction, all thunder held in the throat of duty. Though even the most disciplined geometry has its secret fault, its almost-imperceptible softness where light insists on entering.
So you press your forehead lightly to the glass. Only to feel, for a moment, closer to wherever he is becoming himself without you.
sorry for the radio silence—i’ve been doing that classic academic lifestyle combo of: part-time mall employee by day, assignment casualty by night, and dean’s list award owner (again) somewhere in between (emotionally unwell but academically functional) ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ
here are some thoughts I scribbled down in the middle of my ongoing mess and emotionally unregulated as intended. the handwriting is doing its own thing because apparently so am i.
i will reply to comments, DMs, and updates soon~ currently just trying to prevent my deadlines from forming an attack against me~
remember to eat warm and happy fullfilling meal ⋆｡°🍲°⋆. ࿔*:･
