hiii I was wondering if I could request headcanons for pomefiore with an orphaned fem reader, but since she was little she was like an older sister/mother to the little ones in her orphanage ^^ that would be all tenkiuuu and have a good day <3
β¦ Grace in Gentle Hands
It wasnβt a really secret you kept, not exactly. You just didnβt go out of your way to explain where you came from,most people didnβt ask and you never thought there was much to say.
Youβd mentioned it once in passing to Vil. Something small. Something like, βBack at the orphanage, the little ones used to sneak sugar cubes out of the kitchen just like that.β
He paused. Just a beat. Barely a flicker of his eyes as he turned toward you. But you were already moving on, collecting the cups from the table after a dorm event, humming quietly under your breath.
Vil didnβt press. He didnβt need to.
Because over time, he noticed. How you always took the initiative when no one else did. How you carried an invisible checklist in your head,who needed what, who hadnβt eaten yet, who was one bad day away from falling apart. You never acted like it was a burden. Just something you did, like breathing.
It was in the way you kept the dorm running when others didnβt notice what was breaking. You always knew. You always stepped in. Quietly. Intuitively.
One afternoon, in the soft golden light of the Pomefiore lounge, Vil finally asked.
"You said you were the oldest back at your orphanage. What was that like?" His voice was calm, but the question was not casual.
You paused, arms folded, gaze lingering on the window. βBusy, mostly. Loud. There were too many of us for the staff to keep track of. The little ones clung to the older kids. And I guess... I just knew someone had to step up.β
βWas that someone you?β Vil asked, even though he already knew.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. βYeah. I got good at braiding hair, stitching buttons, patching knees. Breaking up fights before they got too loud. Making up stories at bedtime. They used to call me βBig Sisβ even when I wasnβt the oldest anymore.β
It wasnβt a boast. It wasnβt even nostalgia. Just a quiet kind of truth. Youβd grown up fast because there was no other option. You didnβt know what it meant to be a child who was taken care of. So you became the one who took care of others.
Vil was quiet after that. But not distant. If anything, something in his expression had shifted,like heβd added a new piece to the puzzle of you.
He didnβt pity you. That wasnβt his style. What he did instead was more subtle, more practical.
He stopped letting other dorm members pass their responsibilities onto you under the guise of βsheβs used to it.β He began asking you if you wanted help, not just assuming youβd manage alone.
And perhaps more notably, he didnβt compliment you for being βso matureβ or βso selfless.β He never praised your sacrifices like they were pretty ornaments.
Instead, he treated you like someone who had carried too much for too long and didnβt need more weight,just a place to set it down.
One evening,e you were helping organize the wardrobe racks, as usual,Vil adjusted the collar of your outfit with practiced hands. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the rustle of fabric. Then, without preamble, he spoke.
"You deserve to be taken care of, you know."
You blinked, startled. "Huh?"
"Youβre always looking out for everyone else," he said simply, gently brushing a loose thread from your shoulder.
You tried to laugh it off, but he held your gaze.
βYouβve done more than your share. Let someone look after you, too.β
You looked down, unsure what to say. But his hand found yours, squeezing lightly, and for once, you allowed yourself to lean into the quiet comfort of someone who saw you,not the caretaker, not the stand-in mother, but you.
And maybe, for once, it felt okay not to be the strong one.
Rook had known many kinds of performers in the grand theater of the world. Loud, brash ones who made declarations with their voices, and quiet ones who spoke volumes in the spaces between words.
You were one of the latter.
From the moment he met you, he was intrigued. Not because you sought attention but because you never did. You flowed through life with a quiet competence,patching uniforms, comforting younger students after a bad potion class, stepping into arguments like a gentle current calming waves.
Rook, naturally, began to observe.
And one day, just as casually as a sigh in the wind, you mentioned it.
βBack at the orphanage, I used to do this all the time. The little ones would cry after nightmares. I got good at singing them back to sleep.β
He stilled. Just for a second. A pause as soft as a feather falling. Then his eyes softened not with pity but with something deeper. Recognition.
βAh... la grande sΕur. I see,β he murmured.
You didnβt explain more. You didnβt need to. Rook didnβt ask for stories you didnβt offer.
Instead, he watched more carefully.
He saw how your hands moved like youβd spent years brushing crumbs off faces and tying laces. How you automatically guided younger students away from dangerous spells. How you noticed when someone hadnβt eaten, hadnβt slept, hadnβt smiled.
You had the instincts of someone whoβd grown up knowing what it meant to be the only adult in the room before your age reached double digits.
To Rook, it was not just admirable. It was beautiful in a tragic, powerful way.
And so, he decided to honor it not with a grand gesture, but with something only you would truly understand.
During a quiet weekend, he invited you on what he called a βcharmant petit voyage.β You rolled your eyes at his flair, but you went anyway. He led you past the edge of campus, through the hills behind the school, to a small grove of trees in bloom.
Blankets were laid out. A thermos of warm spiced tea. Hand-cut fruit and a surprisingly well-packed meal. No flowers. No speeches. Just peace.
You stared at it all in disbelief. βYouβ¦ did this?β
Rook nodded, watching you with gentle amusement. βOui, mademoiselle. A simple tribute, for a queen without a crown.β
You sat down slowly, unsure what to say. He didnβt push. He poured you tea, let you take it in at your own pace.
After a moment, you mumbled, βYou didnβt have to.β
He smiled, warm and quiet. βNon, but I wanted to. You have spent so long giving. Allow me to return a little of what the world owes you.β
Your throat tightened. You werenβt used to being thanked. Not like this.
Rook didnβt demand gratitude. He didnβt smother you in flowery language. He simply saw you. Not as a tragic figure or a saint, but as a person. A strong, tender, resilient person who had spent so much time being the support beam that no one stopped to ask what you needed.
βNext time,β he said softly as you shared the fruit between you, βbring one of your stories. The ones you used to tell them. Iβd like to hear them.β
You looked at him, surprised. βEven if theyβre silly?β
His smile widened, golden in the dappled light. βEspecially then.β
Epel had always felt like he had something to prove.
Back home, it was his strength,his ability to chop wood, ride, fight, endure. At NRC, it was his identity trying to be seen as more than βcute,β more than Pomefioreβs little apple-cheeked darling. He wanted to be recognized for who he really was.
So when he met you, it was like finding someone who understood that quiet frustration,not through words, but through presence.
You never tried to prove yourself, but Epel could tell youβd been through a lot. The way you carried yourself, calm and collected in chaos. The way your eyes scanned a room like you were always making sure everyone was okay. You were reliable,not in a flashy, showy way but in the way a foundation is strong. Unshakable.
When he found out you grew up in an orphanage, raising younger kids like a big sister,cleaning scraped knees, settling fights, tucking them in with stories you made up on the spot,something in him clicked.
You were like him, in a way. Someone who learned responsibility way too young. Someone who had to grow up before life gave them the chance to figure things out slowly.
Epel didnβt pity you. Not even for a second.
He started hanging around you more,not that heβd ever admit it was on purpose. At first, he tried to impress you. Offering to carry your bags, challenging you to race him through the woods behind the school. Heβd say things like, βBetcha canβt keep up,β even though you always could.
But the more he was around you, the more he just wanted to listen.
You told stories in this unassuming way, as if they werenβt anything special. βBack home, we didnβt have fireplaces, so Iβd light candles and pretend we were telling ghost stories like in movies,β youβd say, like it was just a funny memory. But Epel heard the parts between the words: how you made magic out of scraps, warmth out of nothing. See
So one day, when the two of you were sitting out on the dorm balcony, watching the stars in silence, he offered you a slice of his favorite apple pie. Not the store-bought kind. The real thing. Crust hand-pressed, just like his grandma made it.
You blinked, caught off guard. βYou made this?β
ββCourse I did,β he said, cheeks just a little red. βWanted you to try somethinβ from my home. Figured... maybe you could tell me one of your stories or somethinβ. I dunno.β
You smiled, small but genuine. βYou want a story, Epel?β
He shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. βMaybe. Just one. The kind youβd tell your little siblings.β
And as you spoke, his shoulders slowly dropped, his smile softened. He didnβt say anything right away, just leaned against you while you spoke. When you finished, he murmured:
βI think you've been a real good sister.β
He looked embarrassed the second it left his mouth. βI meanβnot that ya haved to be! Justβyβknow, you take care of people. Youβre real gentle, even when youβre tough. Itβs nice. I like that about you.β
You chuckled, the warmth settling in your chest. βThanks, Epel.β
βYeah. Just thought someone should say it.β
He never said it again. But after that night, he started bringing you more little pieces of his world,an apple from the greenhouse, a letter from his grandma, even a flannel shirt you could wear when you were cold. And whenever you told stories, he always listened. Always close. Always quiet.
Because to Epel, you werenβt just someone strong.
English is not my first language !
