#Please pardon the cluttered table

[amethysia]

So, since July of last year, I've been slowly making some custom dolls for myself!

Today, I finished Julie~

There is more to be done with her, like making her red dress, creating a foam bump to give her more hair height (I tried back combing/teasing it, but the Shimmer Locks hair is too high quality to be ratted lol), and make even more cute outfits.

But honestly, it's been a really fun and cool creative journey! I never thought I'd ever re-hair a doll, let alone paint new eyebrows for one! I have more progress pics on my insta, but I'll post some of those here in the future.

I am also working on Wally and I hope I can style his hair well enough and get a fun picture for Clown's birthday~

Side note: I adore brushing/combing her hair xD it gives me flashbacks to some of my favorite dolls as a kid, like Lady Lovelylocks~

Thanks for reading if you got this far, lol

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 19

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: in the words of Miley, we won't stop.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at the mirror, at the woman you don’t know. The faucet runs as you’re tempted to splash the water over your face and wash away the stranger. As another diner enters, you twist off the tap and shake off the trance. You grab a strip of paper towel and dry your hands, tossing it before you exit.

The interior of the restaurant is just as pleasant as the outside. The back wall has flowers and vines painted across it as all the others stand it bright pure white. The tables are thick wood and edged with matching benches and chairs. You’d almost rather be inside than out.

As you come outside, the sun glares in your outline. You approach the archway that opens onto the patio and stop short as another figure meets you there. The new arrival is only a tall silhouette as the daylight stands at their back.

“Pardon, ladies fir–” The nicety is swallowed down halfway and your name bubbles up in its place. You don’t recall Mr. Laufeyson even saying your name; it was always ‘maid’ or nothing else. “Ah, there you are.”

Silence. The light limning his figure shifts and he comes clearer. His sights narrow as he considers you and he runs a hand down his lapel. His lips part slightly as if he means to say something but his teeth snap shut at second thought. He flutters his fingers, speechless and you wilt. You know you look silly, like a little girl wearing her mother’s pearls.

“Uh, Mr. Laufeyson,” you address him awkwardly and glance around. You can feel him staring as you clutch the seams of the dress and rock on the balls of your feet, “we… we’re just over there.”

You point through the archway then follow the gesture. You step through as he follows, his soles softly touching the boards of the patio. You pull your fingers from around the fabric and ball your hands to fist.

As you near the table, he gets closer. You can feel him looming as a growl grits from his throat; ‘what is he…’ He doesn’t finish the question and instead clears his throat.

“Allow me,” he goes to step forward as your eyes meet Frigga’s glittering green irises and Thor cranes to follow her gaze. He stands as you close in, waving away Laufeyson’s reach as he grips the back of your chair.

“Lady,” Thor bows his head gallantly, “we were worried you got lost, rather you’ve found my brother.”

“I might have this seat,” Loki insists before you can sit, “why don’t you sit with my mother?”

“She’s fine as she is,” Frigga insists, “all her things are there.”

Your barely touched cranberry juice weeps in the tall glass and the shopping bags clutter under that side of the table. You peek at Mr. Laufeyson but only get a glimpse of his throat as it tightens. You quickly put your head down and sidle around to sit in the chair. Thor pushes it in under you.

“Well, sit, we’ve been waiting,” Thor insists as he draws his hand away to clap his brother’s shoulder. You only catch a sliver of Laufeyson shrugging him off before stomping around to the empty seat. “We’re starving.”

“And what is he doing here?” Laufeyson asks his mother as he ignores his brother.

“Loki,” she reaches to touch his sleeve, “please, you two are too old for this.”

“For what? You didn’t tell me he was coming. It’s only decent–”

“Brother, please,” Thor leans forward as he clasps his large hands together, “I’ve come to make amends. I’m not too sure what I’ve done, but whatever happened at father’s, I never meant to drive you out.”

Laufeyson lashes Thor with a venomous look. His jaw ticks and his cheek twitches. He's about to boil over, as if the apology is an insult in itself. He takes a breath and lets it out, unlocking his jaw.

“I apologise for keeping you all waiting,” Laufeyson evades a direct response, his eyes flitting over to you, “I lost track of time.”

Your eyes cling to his as the tension drains from his brow and he tilts his head slightly. Again, he seems as if he means to say something, and unlike himself, he restrains his thoughts. He looks down at the waiting menu and you do the same. You imagine there will be a lecture for overextending his mother’s generosity.

As you peruse the selection, a tense silence invades the table. You all focus on the listings, a necessary distraction. As you keep your eyes on the menu, hiding from the other diners, you feel a tickle along the side of your leg.

Thor’s hand rests on his thigh, knuckles pressing against yours as he sits wide on the seat. You try to ignore the touch, assuming it's unintentional and focus on the menu. He slowly shifts and turns his hand, brushing his fingertips along your skirt. You squirm and bend your leg over the other to elude him.

You settle on a simple dish; caprese on a croissant. You sit up and reach for your drink, Thor’s hand lingering on the edge of your chair. What is he doing?

Your ears are alight and you feel the sweet about to break through on your forehead. You sip and your eyes meet another pair. Laufeyson has a finger pressed to the menu but he’s unbothered by its contents. He’s watching you.

You bite your cheek and put your glass down. There’s a sheen of gloss left on the rim. You take the folded cloth napkin and dab your around mouth, paranoid of a smear. You ring the fabric as you lower it to your lap and glance over at Thor’s tapping fingers, crawling closer yet again.

The table jolts suddenly. Frigga gasps and Thor grunts. He sits up and rescinds his hand, his attention flashing across to his brother. The two glare at each other.

“Apologies,” Laufeyson makes a show of rubbing his thigh, “I had a cramp. Did I get your toe?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Thor grumbles, his thumb circling against the side of his knuckle.

“You two,” Frigga tuts, “please, you’re making a scene.”

“It was an accident,” Laufeyson insists, “I was in a car for far too long and now my muscles are all knotted.”

“I keep telling you, you need a proper regiment,” Thor intones, a taunt in his tone, “at our age, we need to stay active.”

“I’m active,” the black-haired brother rolls his eyes, “don’t presume you know anything about me or my life.”

“Hm, your house may be big but roving the halls like a ghost isn’t exercise,” the blond chortles.

Laufeyson huffs and shakes his head. He returns his attention to the menu as you stare at the table. You don’t quite understand. You don’t have siblings so you don’t know where this kind of animosity would come from. While your dad isn’t entirely loving, you know why he is the way he is. 

But these two, they have everything anyone could ever want and they only seem bitter. They have a family, they have wealth and all that comes with it. All that and they expect even more.

“You know, Loki, it would do you well to get out more,” Frigga suggests, “it’s a lovely house but so… grim, these days. Perhaps you might consider an update. That might help–”

“I get out,” Laufeyson insists, “please, have I only been invited to be lectured?”

“Well, darling,” Frigga squeezes his elbow, “we didn’t see you for a whole year after the divorce. We worry–”

“Don’t,” he commands, “I’m fine. The divorce is well past done. I’m over it, so why can’t you move on?”

“Ah, but it is hard to get over a lady like Sif–”

“Shut up!” Laufeyson snaps at his brother, “don’t–”

“Loki,” Frigga girds, “please.”

“No, I do not want his opinion on my wife. On my marriage. Can we stop beating this dead horse, already?”

You make yourself as small as you can. You shouldn’t be there. You’re hearing things you have now business knowing. You look around and the image of running out of the restaurant glints through your mind. It’s tempting even if it would be a bit insane. 

“So let’s talk about something else,” Laufeyson sighs, “how was your day, mother? You two seem to have been quite successful.”

“I’d say,” Thor agrees as you feel him look at you.

“Oh, it was wonderful. Eliana took care of us, isn’t her hair lovely?” Frigga preens, “and she’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she? Everything looks so lovely on her. Dear, didn’t you have a good day?”

You gulp and peek up. You pick your nail and nod, “yes. Thank you. It was… very nice of you to include me.”

“Ah, she is so polite,” Thor booms as his hand once more goes to the back of your chair. “How do you put up with him, sweetheart?”

You frown and shake your head, “huh?”

“My brother? How can you do it?”

“She is rather adept at her work,” Laufeyson sneers, “I am the least of her tasks.”

“I wasn’t asking you, was I?” His brother retorts.

“I… I do my job,” you press your palms flat to each other.

“I’d call him hard work, indeed,” Thor guffaws.

“Thor,” Frigga hisses, “be nice.”

“I am,” Thor says defensively, “I kid. Gods, it isn’t my fault he cannot take a joke–”

He grips the chair as he lets his thumb stroke the back of your collar. You sit forward slightly, wiggling to the edge of the chair. You bring your hands to hug your glass. Laufeyson fidgets with the cutlery wrapped in a napkin.

“Jokes are usually funny,” Laufeyson utters and shifts in his seat, “where is the damn waiter?”

👠

No words are exchanged as you approach the car. Mr. Laufeyson is particularly dour as he opens the door for his mother, then you. He sweeps around to claim the driver’s seat and turns the engine so it whirs softly. He steers out into the lull of traffic, twisting his hand on the leather wrapped wheel.

“That was a lovely lunch,” Frigga breaks the frigid sheet of silence, “wasn’t it?”

“Food was good,” Laufeyson agrees.

She exhales as you shrink down, hoping to blend in with the shopping bags.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you two could make up. After what happened–”

“Mother,” Laufeyson breathes and his eyes glance in the mirror, “we’ll talk about this later.”

“And what about your father?” She prompts.

“I said, later.”

“Mm, yes, sorry, darling,” she apologises again, “why don’t you leave me off at the house and take her home? It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only four-thirty,” he replies.

“Yes, well, we did a lot of running around. I’m certain the darling could use some time. She has her father to worry about.”

“It’s alright, I don’t–”

“No, no, you’re right, mother, it has been a very long day already,” Laufeyson interjects.

You clamp your mouth shut. You’re a marionette being pulled between their strings. It’s not about what you want. You’re not heard. They take you out and put you away like a toy.

“Dear,” Frigga chimes, “thank you so much for today. I had a lovely time.”

You don’t realise at first she means you, not until Laufeyson says your name. Again. Maid. Call me maid, that’s all I am.

“Oh, no, thank you, Frigga,” you say, “it was really nice of you to bring me. I…it’s really too much.”

“Not enough, dear, not enough. I hope the next time I’m in town, we might have another day out,” she trills.

“If you like,” you concede.

The rear view mirror stares back at you. Laufeyson’s snakish gaze makes you squirm as he idles at a light. Have you said the wrong thing? A honk comes from behind him as the light turns green and he quickly presses on the gas.

You sink back into silence, this one airier. You watch out the window as the car rolls through the streets and you take it all in. You’ve lived in this city your whole life and you haven’t seen half of it.

He arrives at his gates and opens the gate with the switch clipped behind the rear view mirror. He drives through and the doors unlock loudly. Frigga gets out and he does the same as he helps her sort through the bags on the other side of the back seat.

You’re startled as Laufeyson bends to peer through, saying your name a third time. You flinch and look at him as he holds a cluster of bags.

“I’ll be only a moment to get mother settled,” he explains, “feel free to move to the front.”

He closes the door and leaves you to mull his unprompted explanations. You could stay as you are but that feels weird. He would be like a chauffeur or taxi driver. That’s awkward and you’re already torturously strange.

You let yourself out of the car and slide into the front seat. Frigga’s perfume clings to the suede as you pull the seat belt down. You watch the leaves of a lush tree rustle as you wait. As the driver’s side opens, you let out a squeak.

Laufeyson swings inside and pulls the door shut. He adjusts himself as he fits his long legs under the wheel and grasps the wheel with one hand. You turn your head straight and stare off at the house’s facade.

“Thank you for driving me, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur.

“Mm, it is no issue,” he assures as he slowly shifts into gear, the car lazily following the arc of the driveway back to the gate.

You flick your thumb nervously against your index. Your foot wiggles and your knee jitters. You can’t sit still.

“I hadn’t a chance to mention…” he begins, pausing to consider his words, “you…” he leans forward to look both ways before continuing onto the avenue, “you look very… nice.”

“Oh,” you still yourself and focus on the dash, “thank you, Mr. Laufeyson. You’re mother’s a very kind woman.”

“She is,” he says, “I… I knew she would know best.”

“Um, if it’s too much, erm, you can take the clothes back–”

“Nonsense, keep them. They are for your work,” he rebuffs coolly.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He doesn’t reply. Only sighs. You carry on without speaking. You wouldn’t want to distract him from driving. You're still waiting for that lecture. You steel yourself for the words; ungrateful, selfish, lazy...

The car grows suffocating. He pulls into your neighbourhood and slows before your house. You swiftly hit the button on the seat belt, ready to run inside. 

“I could help with your bags,” he offers.

“N-no, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s… okay,” you say a bit too quickly. You wouldn’t want him to see more than he already has. Besides, your father was never fond of visitors. “Thanks.”

“Right, yes,” he accepts, “regular hours tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hm,” he hums but does not comment. He sounds almost disappointed.

“Have a good night,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“You too,” he mutters so quietly you’re not even sure he truly spoke.

You open the back door and gather up the remaining bags. It’s awkward as you slide them out with a loud crinkle. It feels unearned.

“You know,” he turns, his hand on the headrest of the passenger’s seat, “I did tell you a dozen times about the clothes.” He looks you up and down, “much better.”

He unhooks his arm from the seat and turns back to face the windshield. You nod, struck dumb and mute, and elbow the door shut. You turn and head down the overgrown walk and climb the creaky steps of your father’s porch. You pause at the top and glance back as the car remains unmoved.

Through the tint, you can see Mr. Laufeyson’s shadow. It looks almost as if he has his head on the steering wheel, gripping it as he hunches forward. The light must be playing tricks on you. You turn and continue on to the front door.

You hesitate to enter as the dingy siding feels you with guilt. Here you are with a handful of shopping and a belly full of gourmet food. Don’t forget where you come from, it’s where you’ll always be. Fancy clothes or not.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

*Jade enters to see if the rumors of a certain fox beastman entering his dearest bird’s nest was true. Unfortunately for him, the sight of the two from Playful Land was, indeed, real. He whisks a startled Miss Raven off to the side with a fake smile.* Hello my dearest…would you please tell me why you have such unsavory characters brought here? Would you like for me to remove them right away? I shudder to think what would happen if they overstay their welcome and take further advantage of your precious, kind heart. *He bows low to look you straight in the eye* It would be my pleasure to be your bodyguard.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

Jade’s lip curled as he surveyed the state of the attic.

Normally Raven’s space was already a cluttered mess (“It’s not a mess,” she would often argue. “Don’t call it that. It’s organized chaos.”). It had somehow managed to devolve since he had last (ahem) “invited” himself over. Her book stacks had been knocked over, stains of a non-ink origin decorating loose papers.

A thin, hard mattress had been laid out across the room from hers. Upon it, Fellow and Gidel lounged, happily digging into plates of food they had secured from the cafeteria. Crumbs and other loose bits scattered around them—sure to attract ants. They had kicked their shoes off, exposing socks with holes like swiss cheese (Fellow’s big toe poked out).

Their belongings were hastily shoved into a corner pile. All mismatched, patched up clothes and the bare essentials.

How slovenly.

Jade returned his attention to the quivering young lady before him. Miss Raven stood at a stature much smaller than his (so much so thar he had to bend down to meet her at eye level). She stood up straight, the feathers in her shawl puffing. It was a bird’s attempt at intimidation, as he had come to learn.

“They are my guests. I have willingly taken them under my wing, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.”

“Oya, such kindness and generosity.” He grinned, revealing two rows of sharp, pointed teeth. “You truly are your uncle’s child.”

“Coming from you, that doesn’t sound like much of a sincere compliment.”

Jade chuckled softly. A large hand landed on Raven’s head, playfully ruffling her hair. “I say this out of concern for you. Both you and I are aware of your… tendency, shall we say, to fall for crocodile tears and pleading.”

“Thanks for the tip, buddy,” Fellow called from his seat. He spoke with a mouthful of roasted chicken. “But we’re all good. How’d ya think we wormed our way in here to begin with?”

“How dastardly of you. This fellow is quite dishonest, isn’t he, Miss Raven?”

Fellow stopped chewing. “… You NRC brats never change, hmm? It hurts to be gossiped about and have kids sling mud at my pristine reputation.”

“Pristine reputation? Pardon me, but I seem to recall a mass kidnapping and shady dealings with the criminal underworld.”

“Hey, you’re pretty shady yourself so I don’t wanna hear that outta you!!”

“J-Jade…!” Raven sputtered. “Are you TRYING to fuel the fire?!”

“Fufufu. I’m afraid that, as a merman, this concept of ‘fire’ is foreign to me. I haven’t the faintest clue what you may be referring to.” Jade folded his hands together and took another bow. “… However, if you feel unsafe in Fellow-san’s presence, my bodyguard services are still an option on the table.”

H-He most definitely is provoking Fellow-san on purpose! Then once Fellow-san explodes, Jade will rush in and play the part of savior…!

“I will never, EVER come groveling to you for help,” she insisted through her teeth.

A cruel laugh cut through the tension.

“Looks like you two lovebirds have a lot of feelings to sort through. By all means! Don’t stop on my account,” Fellow jeered with a smirk. “Giddie and I could always make do with free entertainment you go along with our meal.”

Gidel glanced up from the barbecued rib he was gnawing away at. Mild confusion swam in his droopy eyes. It seemed he hadn’t been paying attention for the last several exchanges, only tuning in when his name was mentioned.

“W-We are NOT a live soap opera for you to watch! And nor are we lovebirds!! Lovebirds are small parrots,” she corrected him with a frown, “and I am a raven.”

“I’m certain he was referring to another definition for the term,” Jade suggested, trying to be helpful—or intentionally infuriating.

“N-Nonsense…!”

Fellow rolled his eyes. He leaned over to Gidel. “… Is it just me, or are these two already arguing like a married couple?”

Gidel blinked at him, befuddled.

“Eeeh, never mind. I’ll explain it to ya when you get older. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the show!”

[anonsickficker]

{childe/tartaglia/ajax} office hours [short_scenarios]

CONTENT BENEATH THE CUT CONTAINS MENTIONS OF {ERUCTATION}, PLEASE BE WARNED!!!

Just as you're about to enter his office, you hear Childe attempt to mask a belch with a decently faked cough. It's much too obvious to fool you though. Childe had previously personally allowed you to enter his office freely, and though you're not sure of the reasoning for this rule, you utilise it freely, delivering documents to him when need be.

"Pardon my intrusion, Young Master. There is a new case of a few business owners in Fontaine who have refused to repay their long overdue loans for the past six months.", though this isn't a main concern to the Fatui, you speculate that Sir Pierro may be doting on Childe, what with all of these overseas cases. Childe has been known to enjoy travelling, after all.

Childe sits behind massive piles of documents, all stacked atop his spacious desk. You watch as he hiccups into his fist, struggling to regain his breath as he places another hand on his chest. His cheeks grow redder than before, but he pushes his embarrassment to the side and clears his throat, in hopes to distract you from his lack of an appropriate response to your report. You only meet his eyes, not daring to blink or look away, as you've heard of the severe consequences that the other Harbingers have been known to dish out to your coworkers for acts of impudence. Childe doesn't seem like the type of person to berate you for such minuscular acts of disrespect, as per your past experiences as the attendant of the Eleven Harbingers.

"Sorry,", he catches another belch on its way out, closing his mouth and covering it with his fist, "would you mind putting that to the far right of my desk? Next to the pile of requests, thanks."

He seems to watch you expectantly as you place the neatly bound papers where he'd told you to, and you notice his face drop out of the corner of your eye as you proceed to situate yourself on one of the plush couches in this office. There are documents cluttered over the low coffee table as well, and this is admittedly the first time you've seen Childe so swamped with work before.

"Your assistance isn't necessary, attendant. You may leave."

His strained voice is concerning, as if he's got something stuck in his throat. You're not sure what's happened to him, but overeating is your first and most likely assumption, as Childe has consistently been invited to business meals since his return from his long trip to Liyue. He presses his hand further into his chest, hiccupping once again with his mouth sewn shut.

"My apologies, Young Master. Sir Pierro has instructed me to assist you while you complete your work. I am prohibited from taking my leave until I have properly fulfilled my orders.", although it's muffled by the inside of his forearm, you hear Childe belch thickly again whilst you speak, and you can't help but feel a little pity for the man.

"Then, come here.", he beckons you to approach him with a casual wave of his hand. You lift yourself from the couch and make your way to face him in front of his desk.

"Water."

"Pardon?", you say, but a simple 'pardon' is nothing but a complete understatement of a word to express your disbelief.

Childe nods towards a glass bottle of water, tilts his head upwards, and opens his mouth wide. You don't see a serving glass around, and Childe seems to pick up on your visible confusion.

"Just pour it into my mouth. That is the only way you'll be able to help me. Then be off,", he smiles like an angel, and for a second you forget about this man's numerous unforgivable crimes against humankind, "I don't need anything other than that."

He opens his mouth once more, exposing the pale length of his neck. You start to pour the contents of the bottle into his mouth, as slowly as you can, watching his Adam's Apple bob up and down as he swallows the steady stream. Honestly, you're sort of amazed at how he hasn't choked a single time throughout this entire ordeal.

Eventually, you notice that Childe has started to let the liquid pool in his mouth, and it fills up fast- almost too fast for you to react. You turn the bottle back upright, almost fascinated at the fact that only a few slivers of water from the entire liter remains. Childe wipes the excess droplets off his chin with the back of his hand.

You place the bottle back onto his desk, and step back to watch Childe swallow the rest of the water in one borderline sickeningly loud gulp, then exhale through his nose. While his mouth is still shut, he buries the lower half of his face into his forearm to let an uncontrollably long and airy belch rip through his esophagus.

"Shit, excuse me, sorry about that.", though it's barely noticeable, you see his face flush as he raises his head out of his arm. He burps a few more times, smaller and quieter behind his closed mouth, as you wait for your orders.

"You-", Childe hiccups, and he's almost too late to clap a hand over his mouth, but he manages, "you may leave now, attendant."

You bow your head as thanks, and he responds with a slightly distorted 'have a nice day' as you exit the Eleventh Harbinger's office.

But at this point, do you really still need all of these formalities?

its another short scenario! it is low quality like the rest of the post on here... 🙇‍♀️ childe is very cute when he tries to seem competent 😊 hes probably the type of person who only breaks down panting when hes alone 😢 anyways, childe is cute!

[desdemonafictional]

How to Live Forever

"Ah, well, not really live forever," said Arsène Lupin, the first of his name. He spun the magnification of his monocle and peered closer into the mechanical workings of the lock he was disassembling.

Perched on the worktable beside him, the boy who would eventually become Arsène Lupin the Third grimaced. "It's either forever or not forever, it can't be both."

"Right as ever, my boy," said Arsène Lupin. "Let me start again. Will you hold the tumbler back for me a moment?"

One small finger obligingly pressed into the byzantine silver workings.

"I have heard it said that legends never die," Arsène Lupin began. "It certainly seems to be true. How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know. Older than Papa was, I guess."

"A serious answer, now, if you please."

The boy frowned at him, rapidly tapping the fingers of his free hand against the tabletop. His small mouth pinched. "1905--accounting for training, three years, five years--um, you were probably born around 1875? So you'd be about 80."

"Do I look like I'm 80 years old?"

The boy lifted his chin. "Yeah."

Arsène Lupin laughed, deep and wheezing with a slight crackle, and then had to readjust his monocle as it slipped down his cheek.

"Don't laugh at me," ordered the boy, looking furious.

"Pardon me," said his grandfather, smiling.

He worked for a while in silence, trading tiny hooks out of his toolbox for equally tiny screw drivers, peeling apart wafers of metal.

Eventually, he said, "You know the story of the velveteen rabbit?"

"I'm too old for that stuff," the boy said.

"Love is powerful," said Arsène Lupin. "And fear. It is best to be feared and loved, but of the two, love is better."

"That's not what he said," the boy interrupted. "That's Machiavelli. He didn't say that. He said it was better to be feared."

"Mm."

"He did!"

Arsène Lupin set aside his tools and turned to the boy. "There's a certain law of nature," he said, "which says that heroes and villains may never die unless that death is satisfying. Robin Hood can never waste away ignobly on the floor of a peasant hovel. King Arthur can never die of old age. Julius Caesar is murdered with great ceremony; Cleopatra takes her own life. On and on, into the forgotten annals of history, the tale goes on."

The boy thought about this, and then nodded. This all seemed true to him, and natural.

"Belief is what does it," said Arsène Lupin. "Belief, and love, and perhaps fear. People have to believe in you the way that they believe in justice, and mercy, and God. Hopeful, without evidence, desperate for the promise of a world that makes sense."

"And you will die, one day," he went on, "but not until people believe it's right that you be dead."

He lifted the keyhole from the table, reduced now to a skull-shaped hole in a panel of silver. Through its gap, the cluttered nonsense of the workshop was reduced to a single clear vignette.

"If you give your life up to the story," Arsène Lupin said, "the story will protect you."

He turned, key panel in hand, and peered at his grandson with one glittering green eye.

"For a while, anyway."

[nincompoopydoo]

Please more Theseus x reader. Anything Theseus x reader.

FOR OLD TIMES' SAKE

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x reader WORD COUNT: 1.1k SUMMARY: Theseus attempts to convince you to leave your desk. A/N: enjoy some ✨Theseus content✨Please let me know what you think. gif by @movie-gifs from this gifset support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERLIST

"Well, what do we have here?"

You shift your weary eyes from the parchment within your hands to the figure standing by your desk. Through strained eyes, you could barely perceive the man before you yet at the sight of the recognisable curl of his hair and drawl of his voice. You know exactly who it is.

Theseus Scamander, an intelligent wizard with an odd love for hickory woolen coats, beams down at you, brows raised with slight amusement. He stretches his fingers, tapping on the edge of your desk. "You should really leave this desk."

You can't help but scowl, gaze fixated on the way his index finger meets the corner of the mahogany desk. "Pardon me but this," you gesture to the scatter of documents laid across the surface of the table, barely any space for your elbows to rest. "This is all because of you."

Theseus clicks his tongue with disapproval followed by a deep sigh, blinking up to the ceiling. "Darling, you do know blaming my actions, which was done with every right intention, will do you no good."

You purse your lips, not even attempting to hide your now apparent glare. "Don't call me darling, Scamander."

This seems to have made the wizard even more amused than before. He casually props himself by the edge of your desk, much to your dismay. You maintain your gaze on him while his eyes flit around personal objects and ornaments that surround you. A peek through the window of your life outside of the Ministry.

While you busy yourself in the effort of shoving him off the table, begging him to leave you in peace before you lose your patience and all sense of your composure, Theseus has taken notice of a framed-photographed. You and four boys, moving with delight and laughter. You look younger when photographed. The weariness of your eyes ceases to exist.

He plucks the photograph from all the clutter, your photographed smile surrounded by boyish ones becomes clearer to his sight. You merely groan.

"Scamander—"

"So, these boys...are your brothers?" His question is coated with pure curiosity with a hint of tease, albeit he genuinely does want to know.

You eye him for a moment before articulating words that reflect the true sarcastic witch you are, a trait you inherited from your mother. "No, I'm just a serial bigamist."

Theseus laughs in response to your tone of hilarity. "You are married. Is that why you refuse to mingle in my presence?"

You scoff, cheeks burning at his words. Your hands reach out for the picture frame, yet he manages to hurl away from your grasp. You huff with frustration. "You're being utterly nonsensical. Now, give that back to me—"

"Or am I not husband material?"

In a swift movement, your wand emerges within your grasp. The photograph flies from his grip and into the open drawer with one quick swoop.

You maintain eye contact, cautiously tucking your wand aside. "Frankly, you're the last man I'll ever marry."

Your bickering words pierce straight to his heart. It's friendly banter, he knows it, but any man deemed worthy in your presence is the true winner in a life full of disappointments of love and kinship. His faltering smile isn't perceptible, but your sharp eyes are bound to catch the shift in his mood. Thus, he tries his best to maintain a smile.

"Famous last words."

Your cheeks are still burning. Furiously.

"Is there anything I can do for you, or are you here just to pester me?"

“Definitely the latter. Come away with me.” Theseus says, leaning over to only snatch the parchment away from your fingers. He places it aside and watches the turn of your brows.

“What?”

Theseus lifts himself from the desk, shifting in his stance. “Let me take you to dinner. Leaky Cauldron—we could have that steak and kidney pie you always crave.”

If you know any better, he was seeking to distract you from the wrongs he had done that nearly cost you your job and was assigned with stacks of paperwork to mend the mistakes of a mission he led. Now, he is tempting you to leave your desk.

Frankly, he is very convincing.

“And why would I accept such an invitation, Scamander?”

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks in hopes of concealing his sudden need to fidget with his fingers, nearly squirming under your unwavering stare. The last thing he wants is to upset you. “Well, take it as an apology gift. Order whatever you want. It’s my treat.”

You laugh, it comes out like a puff of hot air. “Wouldn’t be much of a gift if I was paying, wouldn't it?”

Right. You’re quick, sharp, and painfully witty. Charming, to say the least. This is the longest the two of you have spoken without having to argue about unnecessarily placed criticisms towards one another. You are blatantly stubborn, and Theseus tends to forget to put aside his arrogance and proneness to be annoyingly priggish in the name of law instead of doing what is truly right. You have always been the perceptive Auror. Merlin, you might as well be running the whole department.

Yet, there always has competition between the two of you. All for a pretentious raise in terms of money, power, and position. You used to be friends during his days of Auror training. Great friends, actually. You were as immaculate and beautiful as you are now.

You still are.

He finds himself raising his brow, beckoning you to further accept his proposition. It's true, your mind needs rest. Paperwork is after all only made for fresh minds.

You exhale deeply, leaning back into your chair as your fingers tap against the carelessly placed quill in thought. With a beat and another sigh, your eyes find him once more. “Very well. I’ll have dinner with you. For old times’ sake.”

He nods, lips curving into a smile. “For old times’ sake.”

The chair creaks as you push it back to stand. It echoes against the walls and through the emptiness of the office, merely lit by your desk lamp and a light fixture by the corner of the place. You collect your coat hung over the back of your chair and tap him on the shoulder. “And I am capable enough to pay for my own meal, Theseus.”

For the first time in many years, you call him by his first name—no dreadful tone to it. Truly content.

He watches you eye him with the turn of your head, shoes clicking against tiled floors as you pass him and make your way towards the lift. Theseus laughs, trailing behind you. “Suit yourself, then.”

[trollishly]

Valkyrie Pt. 5 • Ivar X Reader

A girl shows up bloody and beaten to Kattegat. The Queen and her sons take an interest in the girl, especially Ivar.

Warnings: Gore, Swearing, Mentions of sex, Angst, Anything you'd expect from Vikings

The harsh chilled wind of Kattegate’s forest whipped the the thick furs that laid upon her shoulders. The forest seemed to be alive, as the trees whined and creaked as the gusts only became stronger. Her breathing became heavier as she quickened her pace towards her desired destination, ambitious for what she seeked.

Her eyes light up as they finally fell upon the individual, though she couldn't help but shiver as her feet finally met the front of their seated position. 

“The Queen...“ Slightly bowed the being, words slurring from their twisted lips. “Ancient One,” Quipped Aslaug as she tucked her gown to kneel before him, “you know why I am here, we’ve spoken of this matter before.“ Rushed the Queen in a desperate manner. The Seer let an exasperated grunt, his grotesque tongue running along his lips in thought. “The girl from your vision, you speak of her, you’ve spoken to her.” Hummed the cloak individual, while Aslaug only nodded hoping for him to continue.  

"Well what is it that is troubling you my Queen?" Aslaug rolled her eyes slightly, "I wish to know if my visions are once again correct, or am I mistaken and she is actually a threat to my kingdom?"

"You ask difficult questions, always questioning." He grinned, "However, I shall give you comfort by saying that what you see, is in fact true my Queen." Aslaug let out a breath of relief she hadn't known she was holding, refraining from smiling, which she found herself doing more often as of late. "The gods have blessed us with a great gift..." Croaked the Seer, "A Valkyrie." Spoke the two in unison.

•••

Soft knocks echoed throughout the quaint room, and with nobody acknowledging it, a hush voice followed. "I'm coming in." Spoke Ubbe as he push the door open which dragged along the uneven floor.

There laid Frode, in bed and struggling to inhale evenly. His glazed over eyes drifting to look at the intruder. Ubbe watched as the boy clench his hand firmer around the one that laid upon his, the hand belonging to non other than his sister.

Y/n was slouched against Frode's bed, half her weight on her knees and the other on the edge of the bed. She looked as if she hadn't slept for days, which was half of the truth. If it weren't for Y/n's recent episodes of passing out, she would've been up like usual, her sleep schedule being far from healthy.

"Is she asleep?" Asked Ubbe, stepping further into the room. Frode tried to speak in denial, however, he found himself unable to speak, his voice caught in his throat as another fit of coughs erupted from him. With Frode at a loss, he was not able to warn Ubbe as he reached out to shake his sister awake. Y/n flinched harshly from his touch, rolling away from him and onto her feet. They both stood still, however, Y/n seemed to be on guard due to his presence. Ubbe tilted his head, trying to catch the girl's gaze, but she seemingly refused, not wanting him to see her at her weakest, as her eyes were red and puffy from her night's worth of crying over her brother.

"Sorry to disturb, but my mother asked me to invite you to come eat with us." Ubbe simply said, "I would of sent a thrall, but it seems you've scared them all half to death." Chuckled the man as he refrained from coming any closer.

"No, but thank you." Replied Y/n, turning to tend to her little brother once more. Frode quickly grasped his sister wrist and pulled a pleading face at her. "Y/n, you were never one to deny food, please go. I promise I will be fine." Comforted Frode as he begun to push Y/n away. "You need fresh air, you shouldn't be near me. I am not well," he paused briefly by taking a breath as he tried not to cough, "with you still being injured, it could become deadly if you were to stay near me and get sick." Finished the boy, relieved to see that his persuasion was beginning to work as his sister's frown lessened.

"He'll be fed and watched yes?" Questioned Y/n as she turned to face Ubbe. He nodded reassuring her, "A thrall will tend to your brother's every need."

Y/n began to debate in her head, not for long though, as her thoughts were interrupted by a loud growl that came from her stomach. "Okay." Agreed Y/n begrudgingly, as she came to pushed the hair from Frode's face before leaving the room with Ubbe following closely behind.

•••

"Uh- pardon?" Stuttered Ubbe shaking himself from his trance. Y/n spoke up and repeated herself, "I said, the Queen is very generous. All of you are, you could have left my brother and I to die." Expressed Y/n as she kept her head facing fowards as she walked alongside the prince.

Ubbe blinked down at the girl, inspecting her appearance, which he did more often than he'd like to admit, especially in the little time he was in her presence. "You should thank the Queen, yourself." He said, looking away when he caught himself staring. "She knows something we don't- a-and I trust her enough to follow her blindly. Not only because she is my mother, but because I believe she is fit as ruler." Spoke Ubbe, his tone indicating he said more than what he intended to.

Y/n's forehead creased slightly at the mention of his mother's knowledge of the unknown, but let him be, by keeping silent as they finally made it to the hall.

Bickering could be heard from a table of cluttering cutlery, a whine drawing the attention of Y/n. "Mother. Tell them to stop tormenting me." Mischievously spoke, who Y/n now knew as Ivar, as he held a hand of a thrall, who sat rigid beside him. His head was lolled to the side as he looked pleadingly towards his mother with a pout.

Ubbe walked ahead of the girl, a snort coming from him due to his little brother's banter. This causing everyone's eyes to not only land on Ubbe, but Y/n as well. Ubbe eyed a seat from across the room, rounding the table and sitting besides Hvitserk, who's eyes kept flickering between Ivar and Y/n curiously, as he continued to shove food into his mouth.

At the speed of which Thor would strike his hammer, Ivar shuffled in his seat, removing Margrethe's hand from his lips and dismissing her with just a wave of his arm. Y/n stood quietly, unsure with what to do with herself, before realizing something that could have been crucial.

"My Queen." Announced Y/n as she bowed her head in respect, looking at her through the thick of her lashes. "Morning Y/n. I am pleased to see that you've joined us once more. Please, take a seat beside me." She said, gesturing to a spot in between herself and Sigurd. As Y/n approached, the Queen gave Margrethe a narrowed side glance, "Get our guest a chair." She stated firmly, causing the thrall to panick as she left her spot beside Ivar and walking towards the nearest chair. Both her and Y/n reached for the chair, clutching it at the same time.

"Please, there is no need." Y/n said gently, lifting the chair from Margrethe's grasp and placing it in its spot. The slave just stepped back and scanned Y/n's form before looking away in a submissive manner.

As Y/n took a seat, the Queen continued their discussion before Ivar had been interrupted. "Now Ubbe, when will you have children?" Asked the Aslaug as she gestured to him with a napkin in hand. He grinned, "I probably already have!" He joked causing the others boys to break out in laughter as he pick at his food to throw it towards his mother. "No I'm serious, each and everyone of you should have a woman by now, even married." Spoke the Queen genuinely, as she looked to each of her boys. All of them eyed each other before shrugging without a care and focusing back onto their food. The Queen pinched the bridge of her nose as she shook her head, turning to face her attention to Y/n.

"It seems my boys are far too immature to have a wife, let alone children, don't you think Y/n?" Smiled Aslaug at the girl, which made the boys pause in their gluttony. Y/n found herself a little caught off guard, as she was never the one to get romantically involve, spending most of her time training or raising her brother.

"I don't believe my opinion would have much value my Queen." Began Y/n as she kept her attention solely on Aslaug, "But since they are the King and Queen's children, heirs are expected from them..." Aslaug seemed pleased with Y/n's answer as her lips quirked slightly, "Hmm, and do you have a husband, or lover, for that matter?"

Y/n cringe internally, knowing what Frode would say to the Queen if he had the opportunity. "I don-" However, Aslaug cut her short. "I'm speaking nonsense aren't I? Of course you would. You are a very beautiful young woman, and a shield maiden I assume?" Rambled the Queen which seemed suspiciously intentional. Y/n's mouth was left agape momentarily before she quickly closed it, "Yes, I am a shield maiden my Queen." She said keeping her answer curt.

Hvitserk began giggling cheekily, as he watched the way Ivar strained himself by pressing his palms against the bench. Pushing his torso upwards as he leaned on the table, in hopes of getting a better view of his mother and Y/n as they conversed. Sigurd scowled at his little brother's enamored behavior. Still upset at his earlier possessiveness of Margrethe, especially after she had confided in him the night before.

"As I was saying, you don't need to love the woman to breed with them." Explained the Queen, making Y/n bow down to eat her soup as she try her hardest to block out the conversation; one that she had already deemed as a personal family matter. As Aslaug continued to chatter, Y/n's eyes scan the room as she spooned the food into her mouth, making accidental eye contact with Hvitserk as he copied her actions. He grinned at her as the soup messily dribble down his chin, until an aggressive voice broke his playful staring.

"What is wrong with you?" Quipped Ivar as he now leaned further onto the table staring daggers at Sigurd, "Nothing is wrong with me," spat Sigurd making Hvitserk and Y/n glanced at each other, with Hvitserk widening his eyes at her humorously. "I just wanted to know if she has love anyone except Harbard..." Silence followed making Y/n sit up uncomfortable, "You remember Harbard don't you?" Sigurd continued sparing everyone a glance but his mother.

Ubbe sat stoney still and so did Hvitserk, but Ivar pushed on, with his arms now crossed loosely, "Of course she has loved another," he stated to Sigurd while nodding. "She has always loved me... isn't that right mother?" He urged while smiling at his mother, his eyes briefly catching Y/n's, who was sat just behind Aslaug from his position. However, the Oueen didn't speak and just nodded as she swallowed her drink discreetly.

Y/n's eyebrows raised at Aslaug's reaction, wondering as for why the Queen wasn't being more reassuring to her son, "She just pities you Ivar, just like the rest of us. Y/n probably feels sorry for you too, especially when you look at her with so much desperation." Ivar flinched at Sigurd's words, anger and embarrassment building within him. "and sometimes, we wish mother had left you to the wolves." He smoothly said, as if it weren't something completely vile. Y/n couldn't comprehend how someone could be so cruel, mainly to their family.

"Sigurd!" Demanded the Queen, with Ivar continuing to glare at his brother trying to sort his feelings internally, "What?" Was all he replied with, before resuming his breakfast.

Y/n found herself wanting to put Sigurd in his place, but refrained from doing so as nothing but consequences would come from it. A drag of a chair turn Y/n's attention back to Ivar, as he was now standing tall at the end of the table. This caused Sigurd to haphazardly throw his spoon onto the table, scoffing at Ivar's display.

Ivar began scooting from his seat, supporting his weight briefly on his mother's chair, with her cooing at him to calm his temper. Her attempts went unnoticed as he continued, with his left hand wavering, before it had finally landed on the back of Y/n's chair. Ivar and the girl gazed at each other, with her turning within her seat to make room for the young prince. Ivar was now hesitant, mainly now that he was the closest he had yet been to Y/n, not helping himself as he caught of whiff of her aroma that furthermore attracted him to her. Ivar's forearm gently grazed Y/n's hair as he pulled himself from one chair to another, as he heard Sigurd still taunting him.

"Come on Boneless!" He teased as he stood from his chair now that Ivar was near. Everyone was now standing, Y/n situating herself just behind Ivar. Bowls and utensils fell to the floor as Sigurd pulled a chair from underneath Ivar making him collapse with a painful sounding thud. Y/n reach down to help him, but pause as Hvitserk gestured to her not to from the corner of her eye.

Ivar's frustrated huffs filled the room, his nostrils flaring as he forcefully began to drag himself towards his target. Sigurd's harmful jabs continued, with the Queen now walking up towards Ivar and passing Y/n, who couldn't help but stand and watch how this would play out.

Sigurd seemed to grow tired of this little game, quickly turning and pushing the doors of the hall open, making the bright light bleach the room with a stark white wash, highlighting Ivar's enraged features.

Ivar chased Sigurd out of the room causing a loud scream to rip from his throat, with the Queen attempting to hold him back.

•••

End of part 5.

•••

Notes: Thank you all so much for 50 followers! Had to finish and post part 5 today for you all!

Tags: @youbloodymadgenius, @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog, @midnightmystic

Ask to be tagged!

[courtlyharlequin]

Amaranthine

Warning(s): female reader, mentions of anxiety, slow burn (I think), 17K word count, self-indulgence, Vivi’s Vil brain rot with no plot,  not proofread

Summary: There was this monster inside your head. It went by the name of Anxiety. To you, it was, and always be, more so of a parasite you couldn’t live with, but you also couldn’t live without. It looked after you in the strangest of times. For the most part, it was a hindrance, cluttering your mind with dark and bitter thoughts, assuming the worst in people you’ve never met before, jumping to conclusions, and crying over the smallest things. It made you extremely aware of yourself and others, for better or for worse. That was Anxiety, the monster in your head. The exact moment in time when it nestled instead into your mind is unknown to this day, festering in the back of your mind. Then there was Vil Schoenheit, your lover, your soulmate, and most importantly, your pillar of support who cheered you on in his own way. He taught you how to tame Anxiety. But alas, a monster will always be a monster.

A/N: It’s my birthdayyyyyy~ so I made a very, very, very self-indulgent fic for myself. While I did write it as a reader insert, it pertains to my mental health, particularly my anxiety, and there may be aspects of it that you may not understand. That is okay. I wanted some feels with Vil on my birthday because I have a case of Malleus syndrome;;;

A/N²: To clear things up, the reader in this fic is female. She is not Yuu (I usually write the reader as Yuu and yes, I’m aware they can be two separate entities). She likes to scrapbook, bake, and wear lolita clothing. She also attends NRC though her dorm is left pretty open-ended. However, it might not make sense if you’re in Pomefiore. This might not work if your birthday is in March either. I’m sorry asdfghjkl;

Disclaimer: Please note that this is not a fanfic that romanticizes mental illnesses. A significant other cannot solve everything. They shouldn’t solve everything. They aren’t meant to fix you; they’re there to bring out the best in you and be by your side when you need them to be. By no means, is it their job to help your completely overcome your mental illnesses. It’s a common trope in fanfiction and gives off mixed signals to me. This self-indulgent fanfic of mine is not meant to give anyone false hope. It is simply a love story that I always wanted to experience. Think of it as my own anxiety story. The only thing real about this is some events like the presentation meltdown though my partner eventually turned into my middle school bully so I just replaced him with Vil because Vil>>>>>>

[ Present Day, Vil’s Bedroom ]

Fwip!

You flinched. You looked up. Vil had flicked your forehead. His eyes were filled with worry, brows creased and his lips strung in a frown.

“Fairest, is something on your mind?” he asked.

“No. Not at all.”

“Hold still for a minute. This lip tint is watery,” he said in a stern tone, tilting your chin upwards

He lined your lips in red and handed you a small mirror.

“Beautiful, my love.”

You stared at your expression. Vil was right. You were beautiful, all dolled up in this getup. You were prettier than usual, that’s for sure. However, the look isn’t for you or your hollow eyes. He snapped his fingers.

“Fairest,” he paused, sitting down on his bed, patting the space next to him, “Come here.”

You obliged.

“Now, talk to me. Don’t deny it. Something is on your mind. You’ve been zoning out all day. If you need a break just say so.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I was just thinking…”

“Thinking?”

“Yes. About the past and whatnot. Trivial things! No matter,” you dismissed, leaning onto his shoulder.

Vil crossed his legs, “How could I help you if you give me such a vague answer?”

Had he truly forgotten your special day, the only day you were willing to break out of your shell and be showered in compliments and praise without feeling like an alien? While you didn’t have a cake to share and you were certain that he wouldn’t want to eat it either, you expected he would remember the date as your lover of seven months now. So far, he only asked you to drop by his room for makeup practice as he just landed a part-time job as a makeup artist. Not that you minded of course. He made you feel beautiful, one of the many reasons you loved him.

“I don’t think it’s something you can help me with. I was thinking about middle school and—”

“Don’t waste your time with those fools.”

“I told you it was trivial.”

You nuzzled against his shoulders.

“It’s been hard lately, you know? I’ve been overthinking again. About silly things. Group projects, you know? Presentations too. Ah, there was this one person who told me to shut up because of a misunderstanding and everyone laughed and I felt— But you mustn’t hurt them!”

You clutched his arm. His posture had stiffened. He gave you a blank expression though his eyes told the whole story.

“I felt a little out of place. Things were going fine until they showed up. It’s not their fault, don’t worry. I was excited to talk to them, but it ended up going downhill. I felt like I was overstepping my boundaries. It was embarrassing,” you continued.

“I know you don’t like it when I say this but it’s not as bad as you think it is. Know that you made progress compared to your pot– first year self,” Vil said, squeeze your hand, “If you want help with your presentations, then I’m here for you— as always.”

Straightforward as always. He never tolerated things he deems piffling, but you were glad he didn’t pity you, not one bit.

“I’m sorry for bothering—”

He placed the tip of his index finger on your nose.

“What do we say instead of apologizing for something we cannot control?”

“T-Thank you.”

“Go on now.”

“...for listening to me.”

“My pleasure, Fairest.”

His finger shifted as he cupped your cheek with one hand, leaning in to kiss your forehead. He must’ve forgotten your birthday, but you mustn’t going to ruin the mood. You watched his back as he gathered his makeup brushes. Vil was a busy man though that was something you were used to as his lover.

[ Two Years Prior, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Are you just going to sit there while everyone picks their partners, little potato?”

You flinched at the sudden comment. Potato? You had a name. Did you do something to be labeled in such a way? Moreover, what was the Vil Schoenheit doing standing in front of your desk? You prayed for the conversation to be brief. Part of you also prayed for him to ask to be partners.

“What are you staring at? Answer.”

You shook your head. This was bad. You were staring at him for too long. While you were dying from embarrassment, you let your gaze linger for a little longer. He was gorgeous. You loved how his blonde hair transitioned into a pale lavender, complimenting his violet eyes, eye makeup, and fair complexion.

Vil snapped his fingers before your field of vision.

“I know you aren’t mute. Answer.”

“Probably…” you said.

“Hah? That won’t do, potato. I’ll be your partner then.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘I’ll be your partner’. Now, move over.  We’re in direct sunlight here and it won’t do any good for our skin if we sit there everyday for so long even if we are indoors.”

You nodded, sliding one seat over. He sat down next to you, arms and legs crossed. He seems mad, concerned with something, something else. His body language didn't match his facial expressions though he wasn’t hard to read. 

“Why me?”

You bit your lip, cringing at your own inquiry.

“You seem responsible enough to be my partner for this project,” he said, propping his head on his elbow, turning to face the blackboard.

What did he mean by that? Sure, you were responsible, but were you worth noting of? You were decent, not the best but not the worse either. Failing a class meant coming the topic of conversation when a teacher asks you to stay after class for a brief checkup or tutoring sessions. Excelling in a class meant being called out on your exemplary work by teachers. Anxiety was not equipped for either circumstances therefore it tried to help you maintain your grades discreetly. But Vil noticed, indicating that you were overachieving. Perhaps you should purposefully miss a few questions on the next quiz. You got a perfect score last time. It wouldn’t hurt. However, you were partnered with Vil, someone who strived for perfection, someone who stood out against a crowd. The phrase goes “...like a sore thumb”, but Vil stood out like a well polished and manicured appendage. He was beautiful, so beautiful that one had to stop for a moment to admire his beauty.

That was Vil, your partner. You could feel heavy stares in your direction. They were directed at Vil, but you couldn’t help feeling nervous. You fiddled with the ends of your hair, fixating your eyes onto your textbook.

You flinched when Vil pushed your back lightly. You shot him a widened stare, opening your mouth to ask him why he touched you. He placed a finger on your lips.

“Bad posture isn’t good for you. Straighten up and pay attention.”

Heat rose to your face as you adjusted your posture. 

[ Library ]

“Mind telling me what this is, potato?” Vil said, throwing a stack of papers onto the table.

Your shoulders tensed. You set your textbook down, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s our project.”

“No. It’s your project.”

“I wrote your name on it too so don’t worry about it. I don’t mind sharing the credit.”

“It’s not about the credit. It’s about the integrity. I dropped by Crewel’s office hours today with a question about this project and he told me that we had already turned it in. Fortunately for you, I’m good at improvising so we’re off the hook. I got our project back so we can work on it together.  Scoot over so we can get started. I’m assuming you also did the slideshow, but I–”

As usual, you complied to his demands, allowing him to sit next to you. He was a bit too close for comfort. Your peers could manage with this proximity so you probably could too if you took deep breaths every now and then. 

“We only have a day left, you know.”

“I know.”

“So why bother?”

Vil clicked his tongue, throwing his French braid over his shoulder as he slid the stool closer to the desk, “I bother because we’re a team.”

He paused, pondering, “I don’t like things being handed to me either.”

“That’s gold especially since this is coming from someone who’s always too busy to even reply to my texts,” you replied.

As soon as those words left your mouth, you bit your tongue. Was that too much? Should you have just listened to him? Kept quite? How will he react? Will he shame you on social media? Spread rumors? Tell Crewel?

“Listen here, potato. I work various part-time jobs and I run a club. I apologize for my poor time management, but I am here now. You, on the other hand, have only sent me one text pertaining to scheduling and this assignment during the three weeks we had to do it. We are both at fault, got that?”

“Yes,” you murmured, pulling out your laptop.

“Wonderful. You won’t have to rewrite everything. Just subtracting here and adding some words there for smoother transitions. It’ll sound better.”

You bit your lip. You were hoping that because you made the entire presentation, Vil would take up the speaking part out of guilt. Unfortunately for you, he was too self-righteous to give in. He can’t be persuaded either. His eyes were glued onto his own laptop, typing the evening away.

You’ll have to make due.

[ Presentation Day, Alchemy Classroom ]

From the brief time you’ve interacted with him, you knew that Vil was meant to be in the spotlight. He shined brightly, you could feel his charisma even from the back from the classroom. His performance was worthy of a standing ovation. You could never compete with him, let alone get through a single presentation. You had made it through all of your slides, but every time Vil spoke, you felt out of place. Your hands were shaking and you were on the brink of tears. Your peers must think you were incompetent. Their intense stares were unbearable. Did they pity you? Or Vil?

“It’s your turn,” Vil whispered.

You refused. His hand twitched as he grabbed your shoulders. This exchange was awkward enough yet your silent plea for help didn’t reach him.

“Go, potato.”

“No.”

He enunciated his words, “It’s. Your. Turn”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand,” you cried.

Vil’s expression softened. He reached for you and you braced yourself yet it never came. He huffed and proceeded with the rest of the slides.

Ah… crying in the first semester as a first year in high school? Because of a presentation overwhelming you? Wonderful. You’ll never be able to live that down. Should you transfer to RSA then? No, that won’t do. They had mandatory choir classes or so you heard. Maybe an ordinary high school from your hometown then? But what if the headmaster disapproved?

You meekly walked up to Crewel, “I’m going to the infirmary.”

Your instructor only nodded with reluctance. Dissatisfaction was written across his face, but turning down a frantic student in tears for an unknown reason would be frowned upon. You heard him mutter something about the puppies this year being too sheltered. You gave Vil a second glance before heading out. He brushed you off and continued with the deliverable. 

You were hopeless.

[ Infirmary ]

You pulled the covers closer to your face, hiding behind your hair. He was there. Why?

“(y/n),” he said.

You inched away from him. He finally called you by your name. Not by “potato”. Why were you a potato in the first place? Was it because you were beneath dirt? Were you that ugly to be beneath him?

“Are you just going to stay here forever? Curfew is soon. You should hurry and get to the mirror chamber.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same, potato.”

 You were beneath him. The tears won’t stop falling. You were trembling.

“What did I do this time?” he sighed.

His voice was firm. He must’ve been irritated by today’s stunt.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just leave me alone... please.”

The blanket shrouded your eyes. How pathetic. How could you let him of all people see you in such a miserable state? You’ve only seen his social media profile once or twice. Was he the type to post and gossip about others?

The mattress sank as Vil sat down. You hugged your sides.

“Fine then. Be a stubborn potato.”

“... You honestly did nothing wrong. I’m the problem. I can’t function as a human being. I can’t talk to people. I can’t- Well, I can but it’s...”

“Difficult?”

“Yeah.”

“What is there to be scared of? Follow that trick where you pretend everyone is potato.”

Is that where the potato shtick came from? How reassuring. His tone was unchanging in pitch. Was he trying to comfort or criticize you?

“It's more complicated than just being shy. It’s tiring. I don’t have a clear mind. I worry too much. I spend my days in fear. I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Vil pulled the covers off your small figure. You turned to him in a haze.

“I believe the term is ‘anxiety’, potato,” he said.

“Y-Yeah. Was it obvious? It probably was. Pretty silly now that I think about it, but anyways curfew–”

“Did you think I was stuck in some era where I don’t even acknowledge mental health? And would look down on you because you have anxiety? Please. Give me more credit than that. I’m not close-minded. You’re still a person and you have feelings. So you have anxiety. What of it? Certainly no less of a person.”

Oh how your heart fluttered.

“Get up. You can stay at the Pomefiore dorms tonight. I should get you cleaned up. I can’t stand the sight of those red and puffy eyes…. Cheer up a bit, will you?”

He held out his hand. Was this his way of apologizing? It wasn’t his fault you crumbled in the first place so why? What did he want? Did he want to help you out to boost his reputation?

“Why are you helping me?”

“You clearly need help don’t you?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes or no, potato.”

“I can’t burden you more than I have,” you shook your head.

“I talked it over with Crewel. You’re fine.”

“I suppose I’m not excused either.”

You shrugged off the blankets and took Vil’s hand.

“No, you are. He seemed to be under the impression that you were actually ill,” he said, tapping his finger against his cheek.

“Then–”

“Leave it for now. We can discuss this over tea. After we clean you up though.”

“Do you pity me?”

What if you sounded desperate? What if you sounded needy? Was that needy? Would he change his mind? 

You clamped a hand over your mouth. Vil squinted at you as if he was trying to inspect a stain on a fine textile. He proceeded to grab your cheeks, squeezing them. He exercised his authority.

“I. Do. Not. Remember that. I don’t stoop that low. Good grief.”

“Then... what’s the price?” you cried.

“Excuse me?”

“Your time is valuable, isn’t it? You’re clearly busy. Why are you wasting your precious time on me? Shouldn’t you be compensated for the time I’ve wasted?”

“Yes, my time is valuable, but we can talk about compensation another time.”

He let his hand go, leaving you to gasp in sheer terror. So forceful… he scared you. What did he want from you?

“You coming, (y/n)?”

“Yeah.”

[ Pomefiore Dormitory, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Hold still. After you cleanse your skin with this superfruit cleanser, you have to apply this fir extract to exfoliate. It’ll sting, and it’s even worse when you get it in your eye, so be careful. Try not to move too much, potato.”

Vil dabbed the cotton ball on your face meticulously. You felt like a celebrity with your own hair and makeup team.

“There. All done,” he beamed.

He spun the chair around so you faced the vanity mirror.

“Beautiful. One hundred points for you.”

You gripped the hem of his shirt. He shouldn’t say things like that and expect you not to combust. What’s more was that this attire was incredibly lewd. What if someone came in and got the wrong idea? What if they spread rumors? You were wearing nothing but his shirt after all. It was long enough to reach your knees, but it was his shirt regardless.

“What do you think, potato?”

“It’s nice, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’s not for me?”

“Well, I think it does,” he said.

You patted your cheeks. Soft. Oh dear, you were soft.

“Ah, ah. Don’t touch,” he scolded, prying your hands away.

Goodness you were hopeless.

“Eh? Stop crying. No! Don’t rub your eyes either. Let me get you some tissues.”

Annoyance was etched into his speech, but his actions betrayed his words. He never left your side; he wiped your tears with his own thumbs. You held his wrists tenderly. His touch was like a thousand butterfly kisses.

“I’m sorry. I just… Annoying… Nobody… I’m not.. You…”

He sighed, “Don’t apologize for your feelings. You’re not that annoying as you think. Instead, why don’t you try saying thank you?”

“Thank you?”

“Yes, something like ‘thank you for listening to me’. That shouldn’t be hard for you now, is it?”

“Thank you… for not being annoyed with me.”

Vil palmed his face, “Not that bad. We’ll work on it. Twenty points for you.”

You sniffled and broke out into a small fit of laughter. He smiled too, standing up straight. He towered over you. He was a giant. You watched his back as he approached his bed, fluffing up the pillows.  His heels clicked and clacked against the flooring. He was still in his school uniform. When was he going to sleep? Didn’t he say he wanted you to stay here? People would really get the wrong idea now. You tugged at his sleeves. Vil turned to you, waiting for you to speak.

“I’ll be going now.”

He grabbed your wrist, “Stay.”

You pulled away from him.

“No, not like that. I’m not going to do anything to you, potato. You really have to stop associating me with other potatoes. I meant stay for some tea. Of course, if you really feel uncomfortable then you’re free to go, but at least let me walk you back.”

“I’ll stay,” you said.

“Wonderful. Give me a moment to fix the bedding. The tea should be ready by then.”

When did he prepare the tea? When you were bathing? When you were changing into his pajamas?

“Vil, if I do stay the night, where will I be sleeping?“

“We have one spare room left over since one student never showed up to the ceremony so you can sleep there.”

You sighed, shoulders at ease.

“Did you honestly think I would let you sleep here? No, potato, I need my beauty rest.”

“No, not at all.”

“You are terrible at lying.”

“I’m not dirty minded I promise!”

“Did I say you were?” he smirked.

Vil had a frisky side to him… how unexpected. Nevertheless, you were relieved. You had insomnia already. If you had to sleep next to Vil… you would never see the dawn again.

“Potato, your tea.”

You jumped.

“Careful! It’s hot and these pajamas are made of silk. I dare you to stain them,” Vil scolded.

You nodded. He handed you a tea cup. 

“I was hoping to talk some things over with you, but it’s getting late. You can take this to the spare room down the hall and relax. Self-care time if you will. Here’s a bag for you to put your dirty clothes in. You can drop it off in the morning to the ghosts for laundry. When you get the chance to change, return the top to me. Capeesh?”

“Capeesh...” you mumbled, turning to the door, fumbling with the tea cup.

“(y/n),” he said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t disturb my beauty sleep.”

“Got it.”

“You didn’t let me finish, potato. You can disturb me if you need help with anything else regarding your anxiety. I won’t do things on your behalf, but I’m there to hold your hand. Just not during my beauty sleep, okay?”

“Okay…”

Vil was not lying when he said he wouldn’t treat you any less of a human. Even if there was a monster in your head, Vil treated you like he would anyone.  Perhaps he wasn’t so bad. But how could he say such things with a straight face? It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. 

No, no, (y/n). You mustn’t catch feelings for someone this quickly. If anything, you were in love with the idea of him, his kindness, how he helped you out and cared for you. But was it even kindness?

Even if these feelings weren’t spawned from the idea of loving him, Vil would never return them. He seemed to be the type to be into someone independent. Or at least someone who was not broken. 

Mainly the former, it would seem. He didn’t pack your clothes even though he was the one who demanded that you strip, plunging you into a rose petal and lavender sprig bath. Admittedly, it was relaxing. He said something about lavender having a calming effect earlier. You smelt nice too. 

Maybe for today, you could be comfortable in your own skin. Just this once. You smelt really nice.

[ Four Weeks Later, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Alright, puppies. We have another lab project. The details are in the packet. You are to concoct a potion using the ingredients we learned about this unit. Any potion is fine, but Amortentia is forbidden– as usual. This project will be due in two weeks. You will present your findings to the class in small groups. You can choose your partners. You were good puppies for the last few weeks so I’ll let you choose this time. Do not disappoint me,” Crewel said, cracking his whip.

You watched as the class swarmed into a chaotic mass. Students laughed and embraced one another. You scanned the crowd, looking for someone as unfortunate as you, someone without a partner.

“(y/n). Would you like to be partners?”

Oh. Vil. After all this time, you were baffled by the fact that he continued to interact with you after your meltdown weeks ago. What’s more is that he even followed you back on Magicam. He engaged in conversations with you, asking to check answers with you despite passing tests with flying colors just as you did. You never minded per se. Vil always had something to say. He wasn’t talkative, but he was captivating and civil with a hint of sarcasm. He had a lot to critique. Moreover, you two were from different worlds. Whenever he shared stories about his life, from modeling to troublesome classmates, you felt like a child with a new toy. You were immersed, zoned out of your surroundings, your focus on that one, single thing. In turn, you shared your own anecdotes, anxiety struggles and small victories— to which he celebrated with you through small, almost satirized, cheers and affirmations. 

You were comfortable around him. Anxiety kept you from advancing your acquaintanceship to a friendship, but you were more than happy with sharing homework answers and making small talk. Vil most likely wanted to work with you because, as he said so before, you were reliable. Or was it responsible? Whatever the word was,  you were useful to him. You were noticed in the best way possible. A twisted way to put it, but that’s simply how you felt.

Vil was not what Anxiety said he was and that was more than good enough for you.

“Sure,” you said.

“Wonderful,” he smiled.

You slid over as he took a seat next to you. Away from the sun, just as he liked it. You remembered your first encounter well.

“We’re presenting in small groups this time so you don’t have to worry that much about it,” he paused before continuing, “We can practice. When are you available?”

“Any time, really, I don’t have any clubs.. Or part-time jobs.”

“How does this Friday sound then? I’ll ask my manager to clear my schedule for that day.”

“You don’t have to clear your schedule. I can manage even if you come back late… Just don’t come to me the day before the deadline?”

Were you being too bold with this request?

“Friday then,” Vil said, flipping through the packet, “What type of potion do you want to make?”

“You can choose. I’m not really sure.”

“No, you are sure. You keep staring at that one page. I know you’ve read everything the moment it was handed to you. You certainly weren’t zoning out either.”

If there was anything worth noting about Vil over the short time that you’ve known him, it was that he was observant. Profoundly observant. Perhaps even more than you.

Vil clicked his tongue: “Spit it out, potato. I won’t judge you. I don’t have much of a preference either. We can compromise if we don’t agree.”

“Amortentia,” you winced.

“Now, that we can’t do,” he waved, “Didn’t you hear the professor say?”

“I did, but the structure of this potion is so intricate. I want to try.”

“Aphrodisiacs are prohibited. We can’t do it.”

“I know. I can dream though.”

“Do you have a boy in mind, potato?”

“It’s not like that,” you huffed.

If only he knew. You were head over heels for him– or rather the idea of him, someone who accepted you wholly without ever wanting to tame the monster inside your head. You weren’t sure if you loved Vil for who he was or what he did for you as a classmate. Do mere classmates have afternoon tea in each other’s dorms? Did they engage in small talk frequently?

Vil chuckled, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, potato.”

[ Friday, Library ]

“You’re late, (y/n),” Vil said, leaning against the door frame.

“Sorry.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on skipping out.”

“No, sir.”

“Sir? I’m not that old, you potato.”

You weren’t fond of the session already. While you enjoyed talking to Vil, his strict attitude was oftentimes a trigger for Anxiety. Vil made it rage, rattling against the cage that encasing your heart. It didn’t fancy that. Neither did you.

“Come sit,” he walked over to the desk.

His braid swayed back and forth. You followed him in suit, taking a seat. Vil reached for your shoulders and the small of your back. You yelped.

“Posture is the first step to confidence. If you shrink, you’ll portray your nervousness in the most obvious way possible. Feet flat on the ground and shoulders back.”

You felt exposed, flustered, but not to Vil’s touch. You felt vulnerable to a nonexistent crowd. 

Vil stood up and took a seat before you, staring at you intently.

“Now, deep breath. Scan the crowd and focus on a point behind them, away from their eyes, but still in their direction. Remember to look around occasionally so it’s not obvious that you’re staring at the back of the room. You don’t have to make direct eye contact.”

You nodded sheepishly and obeyed. It wasn’t difficult. You could stare into his eyes forever. You hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward if you kept your gaze fixed on his.

“Shall we begin?”

[  Two Weeks Later, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Hold still, potato,” Vil hissed.

He held your jaw steadily as he applied a glossy red lip tint onto your lips. In a classroom. In public. How many people were staring at you two? What did they think? Did they think you were his plaything?

“I don’t see the point in dressing up.”

“Please. Lip tint and a few touch ups isn’t ‘dressing up’. Plus, you’ll feel more confident if you look confident. Own it, my friend.”

Friend? You were his friend? You could feel your cheeks getting rosy. At the same time, you felt a surge of adrenaline. Was it confidence? You were on cloud nine, feeling unstoppable. If he said so, then Vil would be your first friend at Night Raven College outside of your dorm. 

But… what if he didn’t mean it?

No, no. he meant it. There was no need for Vil to lie. For him, lying was pointless. It was a waste of time; he preferred to get straight to the point even if it might be harsh on someone’s feelings. You’d learn to accept that his words come from honest intentions.

Crewel blew his whistle, signaling start time. Students flocked to their not-so-small groups. Vil had volunteered for the both of you to go first despite your protests, saying that it would be best to go first so you would not overthink and compare your presentation to others. 

“I’m Vil Schoenheiit.”

He squeezed your thigh. The gesture was of chaste intentions, you were sure. Your leg was the only place he could touch in hindsight. Or so you assumed. Regardless, it set your insides on fire, but it made his presence known— as if to say “I’m here, don’t worry.”

Your breath hitched: “And I’m (y/n) (l/n).”

[ One Day Later, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Potato, what are you doing here? It’s the weekend.”

You hugged your sides. He was sweating. You’ve never seen Vil in anything but his school uniform, Pomefiore’s dorm uniform, and pajamas. There he was… standing right before you in a stormy gray tank top. While he was wearing pajama bottoms, the look was foreign to you. What should you say? You never knew he worked out.  Were those weights heavy? Is he training for a certain role?

“I have something for you: a small thank you gift for yesterday,” you said, brushing past your thoughts.

“Oh? You don’t have to thank me. I wanted a good grade too so don’t think too highly of me… Simply improving is enough.”

You shook your head, “I insist. I want to do something for you too. I would feel guilty if it were any other way.”

Vil rested his palm on your head. You looked up at him attentively. The height difference between the both of you was immense. Compared to Vil, you were a dwarf.

“What is it that you want to show me?” he sighed.

You jumped with excitement, handing him a small container. He took them.

“What’s this?”

“Open them.”

“Alright, alright. Such a demanding potato…”

You watched him gingerly pop off the lid to reveal your culinary creation. Your eyes wandered back to his violet orbs.

“Potato, what is this?”

Did he honestly not know or did he think you were jesting?

“They’re oatmeal raisin cookies. I made them myself. It’s all organic ingredients, I promise. There’s apples in it too. I know you watch your diet, but I think it would be okay if you ate just one. At least?”

You scratched the back of your neck while Vil stared at them in bewilderment.

“Just one.”

“Yay~”

His furrowed eyebrows softened as he took a bite, “Not bad, potato.”

He placed it back in the container and closed the lid. Your heart sank. Was it just for show? Were they bad?

“Don’t take it personally. They are delicious. I don’t eat too many sweets though. I… also have a meeting with my producers after this. So perhaps later, my dear.”

“Oh alright.”

[ Someday– Your Birthday, Alchemy Classroom ]

You weren’t sure what kind of strings were pulled or if this class had free seating, but Vil gradually sat closer and closer to you. Now, his seat was next to you. He said that it was because he could not stand the other potatoes near his old seat and that he’d much rather sit with a friend who helped him stay on task– which in turn made your heart melt.

Answers weren’t the only things you two shared now. You often brought snacks to share with him. You brought healthy ones like apple crisps and celery sticks for accommodate the diet of your classmate. He only consumed workout smoothies in the morning. He would drink one before he went for a run with no post-workout smoothies to make up for the calories he burnt. For someone who claims to life a healthy lifestyle, Vil was oftentimes too busy to keep up with it. He rose when the sun kissed the tips of the hills. Granted, he could have risen earlier so he could consume his post-workout meal, but his work trails later in the night. Sleep was important to him. Between balancing his beauty sleep and fitness regime, he frequently came to Alchemy with his hair still wet from a morning shower, his eyes caked with concelaer, and an empty stomach.

The first time you offered him something to munch on and regain the calories burnt, he declined. But as these days became more frequent, Vil caved.  

“Potato.”

He slumped against his desk– a rare sight from the Pomefiore student.

“You should stop pushing yourself,” you said, taking out a container.

He shook his head.

“A break would be nice once in a while, Vil.”

He rolled his eyes, slipping off his gloves to take off the lid. God, he was so stubborn. He was going to burn out one day.

“I don’t mind sharing food with you, but you should pace yourself. Take a day off”

He shook his head again. Why though? Did his schedule not allow him to? Vil worked late sometimes, but was it worth it?

“Potato.”

“Hm?”

“Do you have anything aside from these cookies?”

You inhaled sharply, closing the lid and shoving it in your bag. They might have crumbled, but you didn’t want him to know. 

“Unfortunately, no sorry,” you sighed, clutching your bag’s handle.

“Fine then. I’ll just eat one then.”

“No.”

“Why not? “

“It’s not healthy for you.”

Vil lunged for your bag. His stomach growled. You did your best to stifle a giggle. 

“You just said it was alright to take a break,” he said.

“You can’t have them.”

“How come?”

“They’re for me…” you whispered.

“Come again?”

“These are mine.”

He hummed, clearly not buying into your excuse. Perhaps excuse was not the right word because they were for you. They were self-indulgent treats that you made for yourself around this time of year. They were self-indulgent with a miserable origin. 

At this point, he was gripping your wrist. Since when was VIl this forceful? He never crossed any boundaries. He was never nosy. Was he concerned? Or did the madness of hunger consume him?

He was akin to a stray kitten. You were the one to offer him food in the first place. There were two cookies. One wouldn’t hurt.

“Fine. Just one. Please don’t eat the other though. I’d like to eat one on my birthday.”

“Birthday? Potat–”

You put your hand over his mouth on impulse. He was going to throw a fit with you for placing your “breeding ground for bacteria”  on his face, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you pleaded, “But, yes, today is my birthday.”

Crewel’s footsteps echoed through the room, “Silence, puppies!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vil hissed under his breath.

“I’m not big on birthdays. The attention is too much– plus, rarely anyone celebrates with me.”

“You honestly remind me of that one miserable Diasomnia first year from the class next door.”

The conversation was left at that.

[ A Few Hours Later, Courtyard ]

“Potato.”

“Vil?”

Where did he come from? How did he find you? Class had ended a few minutes ago. What’s more is that you only saw him every other day due to the Alchemy schedules. It was the only class you had with him. You never saw him outside of class, aside from rare encounters in the cafeteria. You ate in the library to avoid people so that was partly your fault too.

“Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

“I won’t take no for an answer. You are the birthday girl, after all.”

He struck his signature pose, one hand on his hip and the other pointed, barely touching his cheek. When did he develop this again?

Wait. What did he just say?

[ Pomefiore Dormitory, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Here. This is an anxiety journal. Think of it as a diary to write your thoughts down in case you don’t have anyone to talk to”

“Vil, I can't take this,” you said, pushing the notebook away.

“I insist.”

“Still…”

“You said you didn’t celebrate. And that others didn’t celebrate either, no?”

“Yes…”

“If you don’t put yourself out there and let people know, then how are others going to celebrate? And then you go mope around and eat cookies all by yourself in the library with the ghosts?”

Was he watching you? You were sure that there was no one there when the ghosts sang you happy birthday.

“I never said I was moping. I don’t care if I’m all alone. I don’t mind at all. I’m perfectly okay with that. I don’t need to be acknowledged or receive any gifts of pity so please just leave it at that…. I appreciate the gesture though.”

He leered. You took a step back. Was he angry? Why? This doesn’t concernto him. Why was he getting angry?

“I care. So take it.”

You caved, taking the journal. It was similar to the Pomefiore dorm leader’s grimoire: leather bound, decorated in gold decals in floral patterns and peacock feathers. It was pretty. You were a fool. A sensitive and broken fool. You were crying over a notebook, a gift put together at the last minute with tender loving care by a classmate you barely knew. It had been a long time since you felt this happy, this acknowledged.

Vil grimaced, “Oh stop crying already. I told you that I was here for you.”

He embraced you. It was awkward, but wholesome. You never hugged him before. He was warm. Perhaps a little bony for it to be of any comfort, but that was most likely due to the position you two were him. His head pats were stiff. It was ill at ease, but endearing.

Vil was your friend. Though not the closest, you treasured his actions. You weren’t sure how he put up with you. Or why even, but all you were concerned in at this moment was that he cared. It would be lovely to not assume the worst in people for once.

[ Present Day, Vil’s Bedroom ]

What would Vil surprise with you this year? He hasn’t mentioned anything yet.

The makeover was nice, but you weren’t big on makeovers. Did you get to keep this dress? It was embellished with lace and frills– fancy. It was white, pink and floral like the Heartslabyul croquet court. You felt pretty albeit out of your own skin. Vil hummed a soft song whilst cleaning his makeup brushes.

Would that be all?  It was your first birthday as a couple. Were you ungrateful if you asked if there was anything else? His schedule was tight. What would he say if you mentioned that today was your birthday? What would he say if you asked if he had forgotten? Would you sound narcissistic? 

Would he say the same thing he said to you when you were second years?

[ One Year Ago, Someday– Your Birthday, Hallway ]

“Vil!”

You were so excited to see him again. You couldn’t stop yourself from running up to him.

“(y/n).”

“I haven’t seen you in forever. How are you? Congratulations. It’s a bit late though. How’s being Pomefiore’s new dorm leader treating you?”

He brushed his hair off his shoulders. Ah... a new hairstyle. He was wearing the barette you made for his birthday. You missed the French braid, but you felt that he was more relaxed when he let his hair down (literally).

“Rook. Guide the baby potatoes back to our dorm. Give us a moment,” Vil said to the person he was walking with.

Rook, you assumed. He was bizarre with his exaggerated features and hat. You were certain that the accessory violated campus dress codes. Needless to say, he was beautiful in his own way– just like any Pomefiore student.

“Oui, Roi du Poison. I shall leave you with ta chérie~” he breathed, prancing away with the first years.

“Ta what now?”

“Don’t mind him,” Vil said, “I am doing well, thank you, (y/n).”

No “potato” this time? Not even once? You hadn’t seen him since your second year started, only keeping up with his life through Magicam and story replies. Sometimes, he messaged you to check up on you or ask to compare answers for Alchemy and Potions. You packed snacks for him though that routine eventually ceased as Vil began taking better care of himself, opting only to run when he had the time.

You missed those days, but his well being was more important than your own selfish feelings. You had grown fond of that nickname since he used it so often. It was a term of endearment. It saddened you that he called others potatoes as well.

“Happy birthday by the way,” Vil said.

“Oh! You remember?”

“There you go again. I don’t have the memory of a goldfish– of course I remember. Though I don’t have a gift for you this time around.”

Did you offend him? Did you sound needy? You weren’t asking for any presents. Did it come off that way?

“I don’t need anything so it’s fine.”

Or rather, you didn't expect anything.

“Good grief. It’s your birthday. Chin up. Have the attention on yourself for one day. It’s your day after all. Anyhow,I would love to chit chat more, but my schedule is tight. I cannot dilly dal–”

You reached for his hand, “W-Would you like to hang out at a café sometime then?”

You cut him off. Was that too abrupt? Rude? Uncalled for? You should have let him leave even if you did miss being around him, being friends with him.

“Huh?”

“You don’t have to. I was just thinking that maybe we could spend some time together and catch up. We haven’t seen each other in person too much. I’m not comfortable with too much attention either so yours is more than enough.”

God, what were you saying? That was cringe-worthy. You prayed that he would decline your impulsive proposal.

“I don’t see why not. Very well then, (y/n). Text me the details so I can adjust my schedule accordingly.”

Wait. He agreed? Was he pitying you? No, no. Stop doubting him. Vil was your friend. He must’ve missed being around you too.

[ One Month Later, Cafe Rosé ]

When he said he was busy, he meant it. A month had passed since your birthday and just now were you able to meet up.

You sat in the café idly. He watched you consume your third plate of strawberry shortcake. You glanced at him then at your growing pile of dishes. He squinted. Should you stop?

“Don’t.”

Did he read your mind?

“No, I’m not a mind reader.”

“But you did it again.”

“Your expressions are easy to read. Do yourself a favor and don’t feel bad if you  enjoy something and I don’t. Someone who makes you feel bad for getting excited about something– something harmless, something you enjoy, is the worst kind of person. Enjoy your cake, birthday girl. Don’t let me, or anyone for that matter, stop you.”

Vil sipped his hand-pressed superfruit smoothie vehemently.

That was oddly inspiring despite having relevance to your self-esteem and cake. Funnily enough, you did feel better about yourself.

“Excuse me? May I get three more slices of this cake? And another teapot, please?” you called out to a server impulsively.

What on earth were you doing? Was that rude? Did she find you demanding?

“Anything else?”

“That’ll be all for now.”

You turned from the waitress, bringing your attention back to Vil. You cocked your head to the side: “What?”

“Consume cake in moderation, you potato.”

There it was. You’ve been waiting all semester to be called a potato. Pomefiore first years have expressed a strong dislike for the nickname. You, on the other hand, treasured it. Time and memories were built into that nickname.

“It’s fine. I’m paying anyway so don’t worry.”

“You are not paying on your birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday though.”

“We’re here for a belated celebration.”

“So an unbirthday?”

“No, no. Don’t bring the Queen of Hearts’s rules and gimmicks into this,” Vil waved his hand.

He set his smoothie down, The ice shifted, echoing throughout the café.

“I want to pay. I wanted to go here in the first place.”

“Think of this as my belated birthday present for you, atonement for not getting you anything or talking as much we’d like.”

“Vil, I don’t require anything from you. You’re busy. You don’t have to talk to me everyday. I think I would combust if you did. My social battery would drain.”

“That’s reassuring.”

The waitress cleared her throat. Vil nodded, sliding his glass to the further end of the table. She placed the cake slices in a neat triangle before setting the teapot down in the center. Then she followed up with the teacups–one for you, one for Vil. He raised an eyebrow at you. Your server gave a polite bow and dismissed herself.

“Eat one slice. Then I’ll let you pay,” you beamed, sliding him the plate.

He glared at the confection, “Alright.”

[ March, Pomefiore Dormitory Hallway ]

“Bonjour, bonjour! What brings you to our humble dorm?”

Rook was his name right?

“Hello, Rook. I was hoping–”

He scared the living daylight out of you. Where did he come from? Why was nobody else around? You spun your heel and scanned the hall. It was empty.

“Echanté, mademoiselle! Let me guess!”

You yelped, falling backwards. Where did he come from? He was behind you a moment ago. His eyes widened as he lunged for you, hooking his arm around your waist, catching you before you made contact with the ground.

“Careful, careful, little fawn,” he chuckled.

Fawn?

He set you straight then pointed at you. His gloved index finger barely touched the bridge of your nose. This man, Rook, was sending your nerves in a downward spiral. 

He smiled at you, resuming like nothing ever happened: “Let me guess– you’re looking for your darling Roi du Poison?”

“Darling… Roi du Poison? Who? Vil?”

“Oui.”

“No, he’s not.. we’re not. We’re just friends. I’m looking for him though bec–”

“Are you here for compensation?”

Rook set Anxiety loose. With a few words, he sent shivers down your spine. Compensation. Would your friendship end the moment you fulfilled his request? It had always been in the back of your mind. The thought of Vil using you to make him feel better about himself shatters you into a million pieces. The thought of owing Vil something for helping you, for being your friend, was heart-wrenching. Was it pity after all this time? Was it so wrong to want to hang out at yet another café? You looked forward to those every month– ever since your unbirthday date. Was your relationship that superficial?

No, it wasn’t a date. You wanted it to be, but it was not a date. You never quite shook off those romantic feelings you felt when you saw a different side to him. Beneath the surface of the poised, strict and sometimes narcissistic prefect, Vil was extremely hard working, passionate, and observant. He was the greatest friend you could ever ask for. You can’t say that he was your best friend, but he was close. If he didn’t feel the same, then that was okay with you. You weren’t even sure if it was love. You’ve had this debate with Anxiety before. It kept telling you that you were in love with the idea of him fixing you. That was not love.

You shook your head. Vil genuinely was your friend. If those feelings were not returned, then you would still be friends.  He told you time and time again that you should never feel sorry for the way you feel. If so, then would it be alright to tell him one day? And feel terrible about it later?

“He’s here, isn’t he?” you asked.

“Oui~”

“Rook, (y/n),” a voice from the end of the half coughed.

Pomefiore’s vice dorm leader crossed his arms and gave you a smug smile. Vil. He was decked out in a trench coat and a black turtleneck. Stylish as always, but his hoarse voice told a different story. You rushed to Vil’s side.

“Vil, are you alright?,” you tugged his sleeves, “Your eyes are so puffy. Have you been crying? You’re burning up too. You should rest. Go back to bed this instant. Our café rendezvous can wait.”

He staggered: “No. I want to go with you. I finally have the time.. to see you… I have to make it count...”

“No, Vil. You have a fever. You need to rest,” you said, sliding his arm over your shoulders, ready to haul him back to his quarters.

Rook hummed a bird’s song.

“Would you mind helping?”

The height difference between you and Vil was awkward. His legs are dragged across the floor in a languid manner. One could imagine how uncomfortable that was.

“Non non, little fawn! My hands are dirty. Roi du Poison wouldn’t allow me to taint his beauty with such bacteria. Désolé!”

“Can you at least get the door then?”

“Will do, milady,” he bowed before complying to your request.

He held the door for you as you dragged Vil to his bed. You gasped as Vil’s limbs tighten around your neck.

“Would you mind getting the sheets too? Pull them out so I can tuck him in?”

Rook hummed in response. You plopped Vil onto the mattress. Your companion’s eyes widened, hands thrown in the air.

“Mademoiselle! Careful! Roi du Poison is fragile like a flower’s first bloom.”

“He’ll be fine don’t worry. Now if you could–”

Where did he go? You blinked for one minute and the vice prefect was gone.  You shook your head in dismay, turning to Vil and tucked him in bed. He looked so peaceful. His eyes were so distraught and dull before. Did he overwork himself to the point of tears? His room was a mess– shreds of fabric and crumpled balls of paper were discarded on the floor. You could hear his breathing as you made way to his desk.

What’s this? A script? And a sewing machine? What was he making? His sketches were stunning. Was this a side project of his? Was he too busy with films to continue with it? But why were his eyes so puffy?

Whatever the case was, it wasn’t your place to pry. Your fingers trailed off over the sketchbook as you made your way to his bathroom. You didn’t know where he kept the medicine or what kind he used, but it was worth a try to look around.

You opened the cabinet and your face fell. At a glance, he didn’t have anything aside from comesetics. There were a few bottles of potions, but you couldn’t make out the labels. It was best not to guess and check. The least you could do was place a wet on his head to cool down the fever. You peered over the bathroom’s door frame.

He wouldn’t mind. He was breathing heavily. You’ll face the consequences later if it violated his beauty regime. Hurriedly, you grabbed a small towel off the shelf, rinsing it in cold water in the sink. You squeezed off the excess and rushed to Vil, cursing at intervals where the water dripped onto whatever expensive material the flooring was made of. Was it expensive? You couldn’t tell. You placed it on his head gingerly. 

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Holy… what did you just do? You were taking advantage of him when he was out cold. If he was awake what would he say? Why did you do that? Why did that make your heart flutter?

“F-Feel better, Vil. I’ll be going now. Tell me when you wake up,” you sighed, patting your cheeks down.

You were a fool for initiating such an intimate act while someone was sleeping. You were also talking to said someone as if they were listening. It was best to excuse yourself now. Though maybe a little note would be helpful for when he wakes up. Your sleeves dipped. Your eyes went to the source of motion: Vil.

“Fairest… can you stay?”

You were at a loss for words. Vil called you “Fairest”– as if your other nickname didn’t exist. His face was flushed from the heat and his eyes were red and teary. What to do? What to do? What to do?

Vil tugged at your sleeves and pulled you onto the bed. Your mind went blank. You were on top of him, preventing yourself from crushing him with your weight, hands pinned on each side of his head.

“V-Vil?”

He pulled you onto him, then turned to the side, causing you to face each other. The blankets were ruffled, wrapping you two into a contorted position. The towel slipped off his face. You scrambled out of bed. Vil lunged for you, pulling you back in.

“I said stay,” he pouted.

“I know, I was just getting out of bed to get back in. Wait that doesn’t make sense?”

“It does,” he said, lifting the sheets so you could climb in,

You yelped as he pulled you into his chest, “Vil? What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see you today.”

“I’m here.”

“I wanted to go on another date with you.”

Date? Does he think it was a date too? Every single one? Great Seven, have mercy…

“You should rest. We can hang out here if you want.”

Your hold on his waist tightened. You inhaled the faint scent of his cologne. Perhaps to him, this was a fever dream. Stil, all love takes patience– if what you both felt was love, that is.

“Thank you for staying , (y/n).”

“...Do you want to talk about it? Usually you’re the one listening to me, but I’m here for you too. ”

Vil buried his head into your shoulders, “Nothing much. Just overworked. Stress came to me in the form of sickness, unfortunately. How inconvenient.”

He clicked his tongue while you giggled. Even if bedridden, Vil’s mind was as proactive as ever.

“Were you crying?”

“...”

“You don’t have to answer.”

How do you comfort someone? You’ve always been the one comforted, especially from Vil. Were you gaining more from the relationship than Vil did? You wanted him to cheer up though...

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s better to get it off my chest while you’re still here.”

What did he mean by that? You weren’t leaving. Why would you? How could you?

“Do you think I’m more than my appearance?”

He was shaking. Vil was shaking. What could have possibly happened from the last time you saw him? Was he alright?

“Why do you want my opinion? We both know you’re more than a pretty face.”

“Answer the question.”

“Alright, alright. I do think you have a pretty face. You’re gorgeous, very handsome… but you’re also hardworking, diligent, strong-willed, driven, intelligent, observant and more words that I can’t think of to describe how I feel about you. Oh and a great alchemist and friend I might add. Vil, you’re pretty. You’re beautiful. Inside and out.”

Your heart hurt. Calling him your friend didn’t sit right with you. He threw his head back in a fit of laughter.

“Did I ramble too much?”

“No, not at all. I feel much better so thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better then. Whatever happened, I hope you know that it doesn’t define you. If you feel like it does, then remember that I’m your biggest fan.”

Ah, too cheesy. You’ve gotten too comfortable around Vil to think about Anxiety or your verbal filter. When you were with him, words flowed as freely as time.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

He didn’t say anything much about it. Was that not weird for him? Did you offer the solace he was looking for? He merely pulled away from your embrace. You thanked the heavens that his eyes were closed. If he made eye contact with you while you two were still sharing the same bed, you might as well ascend to the afterlife.

“Why do you ask though?”

“Oh I just had a miserable case of self-doubt is all. My manager kept taking roles that type-casted me as beautiful as the main character. I know I’m worth more than my looks- I want to be more than my looks-  but so far the industry has told me otherwise… but thank you, (y/n).”

He stayed like that for a while, inhaling and exhaling softly. Was he sleeping? How much time had passed?

“Vil. I have a question for you. You don’t have to answer if you’re not up to it. I know you have a lot on your mind right...” you said, breaking the silence.

“Shoot.”

“Will I be able to see you again after I compensate for the time I’ve wasted?”

“You don’t waste time. You don’t have to compensate for anything. I’m glad you’re here with me. If anything, I wasted your time.”

“But you said that we could talk about compensation later. It’s been over a year, Vil,” you whimpered.

“What do you mean by compensation?” he asked firmly, opening his eyes.

You choked on your own words. This was a bad idea. It might even offend him. Would if offend him? You wanted to know.

“Our first presentation. My anxiety attack. The infirmary. You helped me. I asked why then you said there was a price and we could talk about it later. But that conversation never came up. Why is that? Why did you come to the infirmary that night? Why did you take me in? Why am I here? Why do you still talk to me?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from spewing all of the questions you had for these past months. You needed to know. You needed your heart to shatter.

He sighed, “Good grief, (y/n). You remember all of that still? It’s not as bad as you think.”

He was offended.

“Please don’t say that.”

He inhaled sharply. 

“My apologies, potato. I didn’t mean it like that. But to answer your question, I felt guilty especially since I was the one who forced you onto the podium and made you redo the presentation because I couldn’t manage my first major acting role and my academics at the same time. I am sorry that you had to suffer the consequences.”

Vil turned onto his back. He brought his forearm to cover his eyes. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Did it hurt his pride? 

“I didn’t think of it like that. I’m sorry that I ruined our project because I couldn’t manage to improvise.”

“You shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“You shouldn’t either. Your feelings are just as valid as mine. Even if you don’t have anxiety, you still can feel anxious and overwhelmed.”

“Touché.”

“And the compensation?”

“You needn’t worry about that. My time is valuable indeed but you’re not a waste of my time at all. You’re worthwhile.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you muttered.

“Hm?”

“What would have been the compensation?”

Vil turned to face you, rustling the sheets, “Are you that curious, Fairest?”

“F-Fairest?”

“Hm, yes it suits you now more than ever. Close your eyes for a moment. This should be quick.”

You obliged, closing your eyes. Vil wouldn’t do something terrible to you would he? He gripped your shoulders and pushed you flat on your back. You felt him shift his leg so he could straddle you. You instinctively cursed yourself in a ball.

“You can relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

You loosened your muscles, trying hard not to burst into a fit of nervous laughter. You were scared.

“Fairest.”

“Yes?”

“How was your day?”

“Well, it was—mmmphhh!”

Vil had told you to keep your eyes closed, but how could you? Not when he was kissing you. You had waited for this moment. You fantasized about it, daydreaming, pining for him on the daily. You never saw it coming. Did he return your feelings? After all this time? You mewled as he bit your bottom lip. You were hot, feverish just like your beloved prefect. Was he alright? He was flushed, coughing as you pushed him away.

“My time has been compensated,” he smirked.

His expression quickly changed, “Hey! Why are you crying? Did I hurt you? That was too bold wasn’t it… Goodness (y/n)...”

You cupped his cheeks.

“Not at all. I’m just so happy that you feel the same.”

“Feel the same?”

You faltered. Was he toying with you? No, he wouldn’t…

“I-I like you a lot, you know. I don’t know of a time I didn’t. You’re so confident and I adore you for that. I love how you’re always there for me, how you always listen to me, and how you lean on me too. I love how you include me and see me no less than anyone else. I love you so much that my heart hurts,” you paused and moved your hands to clutch your chest, “But if it isn’t love then I suppose that’s fine too. I think I might be in love with the idea of you. It might be a little presumptuous here, spouting nonsense to you, but I don’t want to be just friends. Even if I am broken, I want to make you happy so please accept my feelings-!”

Cheesy. Too cheesy! You’re oversharing, (y/n). Stop. It. Death suddenly seemed like a viable option. You loved him so much that you must die. Yes, that was the only way.

Vil kissed you. This time, it was more of a peck.

“This whole time… you… I love you too, Fairest. I accept you and your feelings.  Thank you for being so patient with me,” he kissed the trail of tears running down your cheeks, “You already make me so happy. I love your innocence, your beauty—inside and out as you would say. I admire your strength to help others despite being in a world of your own. I love your selflessness and... your adorable reactions to situations that make you anxious. Please, tug at my sleeves some more.”

You pouted at the last bit. Vil was observant. You’ve come to learn that the hard way. The trait never withered.

He continued: “I will be in your care from now on.”

Ah. He was crying. Smiling too. What a sappy mess of emotions you two were, sobbing in each other’s arms over a mutual confession.

He flicked your forehead, “And don’t you dare call yourself broken. You are not below me and I am not above you. We’re in this together. I love you and you love me and you better love yourself too. You hear me, potato?”

“Yes, but–”

“Did I stutter?”

You pressed your forehead against his, “Will do, Vil.”

He lowered his weight onto you, nuzzling into your neck. You wrapped your arms around his neck and combed through his champagne gold locks. You were sniffling. You were relieved that he loved you the way you loved him. You were relieved that you didn’t fall in love with potential. He loved you for you and you loved him the same. What if you weren’t good enough for? No, no, he said he felt the same. Stop overthinking, (y/n). 

You were drained after all this worrying. Being plagued by thoughts assuming the worst about him and the worst case scenarios concerning your confession consumed your mind. There was not a single day where your head was clear.

You were exhausted. So, so, so tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of Anxiety. Sleep seemed nice right now especially with Vil laying on top of you. The monster inside your head had gone dormant. All there was the thought of Vil being by your side, loving you and Anxiety all the same.

Your consciousness faded.

[ April, Someday– Vil’s Birthday, Pomefiore Dormitory Hallway ]

“Vil. Vil!!!”  you squealed, tackling your lover from behind.

He staggered on his toes, but recovered swiftly. He was tall. The stilettos made him taller. You were up to his shoulders, giggling, slipping under the long sleeves of the Pomefiore dorm uniform.

“Au revoir, Roi du Poison. Mademoiselle (y/n),” Rook chuckled and excused himself.

Vil gave Rook a look of disdain yet the vice prefect skipped along the halls, paying no mind to the daggers coming his way. Your beloved turned to you and smiled.

“Happy birthday~”

“You’re frisky today.”

“I’m excited.”

“I can see that. Thank you,” he pats your head.

“Are you busy?”

“I’m finishing up something. You’re welcome to wait in my room. Might I tell you that you look beautiful today? Red lipstick suits you.”

You followed him into his quarters, seating yourself on the bed, fiddling with the ends of your hair. He called you beautiful. You were giddy over something trivial. It was normal for one to call their significant other beautiful. In truth, he was the fairest, not you. You never minded. You loved watching him flourish in the spotlight.

You watched him undo his bun, letting his hair fall loose. The ends were curled, bouncing on his shoulders. He stepped into the bathroom to shed the dorm uniform off, opting for a black suit with faint floral patterns. Your eyes widened, coming to terms with the fact that he wore no dress shirt underneath the suit.

“You’re eighteen now, Vil,” you mused.

“What of it?”

“Oh nothing. I was just thinking.”

He hummed in response, “Is that so?”

“It feels like yesterday when we were both- what? Fifteen? Nevermind that. It’s silly. Would you like to see your gift now?”

“How does after the party sound?” he asked, lining his eyes with a thick eyeliner.

A thin smirk creeped up on his lips.

The look was similar to the standard ceremonial robes makeup. His silver chain-like earrings, leather choker and red heels threw off the professional look. Vil was striking. From what he told you, his producers had invited him to a party celebrating the release of a film he starred in. It was conveniently on his birthday. He spent the last few weeks convincing you to go with him. 

You gave in, but the thought of attending a social gathering with people you had never met before worried you. Vil reassured you that he would remain by your side at all times. You agreed on the spot, putting on a brave face for his sake. He promised to spend time with you afterwards. Just you and him. He even agreed to eat cake.

“I’m okay with that.”

“Thank you. I know you’re excited, but I want to save all the birthday related things for after.”

He set his makeup down and handed you a container of gel, climbing onto the bed while you got on your knees. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You never let me do your hair.”

“Think of it as a reward for coming along with me.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to worry about that,” you said, letting go of your embrace and popping off the container’s lid.

“I’m thankful, but don’t push yourself for me.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Besides, I want to. You’re going to be busy after today. I want to spend as much time as possible with you today.”

He smiled and helped you push his hair back. Dipping your fingers into the cool aquamarine substance, you combed through your lover’s hair, bringing his bangs back. When you finished, he turned around to kiss you. He caught you off guard, but you leaned into the kiss instantly. It wasn’t passionate nor was it chaste. It was somewhere in between as to not smear your lipstick. You reached for his hair to deepen it, but he grabbed your wrists. Right. You had forgotten. 

“Later,” he whispered.

Your cheeks were dusted with a rosy tint. Later? As quickly as he pulled away from you, Vil slid off the bed. He passed by his mirror, patting down his suit and hair. Then, he extended his hand to you, “Shall we go?”

[ Land of Pyroxene, Venue’s Rose Gardens ]

Vil said it was a small social gathering. A small party. The amount of people was fair to his description, but the setting was overwhelming. It was sophisticated. There were fae servers and ice sculptures. You were surprised to learn that the soirée was held in his homeland. You were expecting a carriage yet he simply led you to the mirror chamber where the headmaster bid him farewell.

And here you are. You were in a rose garden differed from Heartslabyul’s greatly as the roses were as white as snow. They grew on pickets and hung over your heads like grape vines. It was scenic, ethereal, like something out of a fairytale. There was also a castle in the distance, adding to the regality of the venue. 

“Vil! Oh thank goodness you’re here. I almost thought you were going to leave me to fend against all of these actors wanting to know more about you,” a stout woman said, scrambling towards him, “Oh? Is this your– ohhhhh–”

“Adella, this is (y/n). Fairest, this is Adella, my manager.”

Vil paused, cueing you for an introduction. He glanced at you.

“Chin up, dear,” he wrapped an arm around your waist, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Breathe. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Adella was Vil’s manager. Like he said, she’s nothing to be afraid of.

“P-Pleasure to meet you,” you extended your hand out.

She took it with a death grip. Sheer willpower prevented you from wincing. 

“No, no, the pleasure is mine. Vil has told me so much about you. And my, he calls you ‘Fairest’ how adorable~”

“What has he told you?”

You heard his breath hitch. Vil’s arm slithered back to his side. Was that too much? You were curious, but what if that made him uncomfortable? You should apologize later. 

“Nothing much. I didn’t even know what you looked like even! His pet name for you suits you so well. Oh! I do know that he frequently asks about his schedule because he said that he wants to spend time with the s–”

“That’s enough now, Adella,” Vil said, crossing his arms and putting his weight on one foot.

Shoot. He was displeased. 

“Yes, yes, sorry. Shall we go greet your colleagues? You are free to mingle afterwards. I know that there was this one actor who was practically begging me to see you. You weren't here yet though so what could I do? Fufufu~”

“Are you coming, (y/n)?” Vil asked, turning his head to see you trailing behind.

You halted and pointed to the dessert table, “You can go on ahead.”

He nodded and followed his manager to the east side of the garden. You made your way to your own destination. While you wanted to go with Vil, meeting Adella set your nerves ablaze and drained all the social energy you had. Plus, you felt out of place when you stood next to Vil.

Compared to him, you could never pull off silver earrings. A pair of red heels simply looked better on him than they ever would on you. Then there was Adella who was also gorgeous with her messy bun and nude lipstick. She wasn’t a public figure yet you felt small around her presence. She exuded a lovable aura that drew people around her.  If you had to meet more people who were meant for the spotlight, celebrities no less, you could never manage through the night. If you avoided strangers, you should be fine. There were cake pops amongst other treats at the table. You were going to have a ball of a time.

You plucked the confection off its stand, examining it thoroughly. It was as luxurious as the party’s decor. The dessert resembled the poison apple the Beautiful Queen from the stories you were told as a child. Gold foil acted as the poison while a red coating of candy melts acted as the skin of the apple. You bit the top off. It was a vanilla sponge cake. Odd for an extravagant event like this as you assumed the flavors would be bolder. Maybe it was the kind expensive vanilla. Were they all the same flavor? You plucked another one from the stand, biting into it. Oh this one was red velvet with a cream cheese filling. Were there other flavors?

“My, my, you sure like the cake pops, don’t you?” a voice cooed.

You turned your head to meet the owner of that sweet voice. He had hair as black as ebony and skin as white as snow. His eyes were a warm chocolate brown. He wore a yellow jumpsuit with a red ribbon which was complemented by a black beret. He strained a smile at you.

“You needn’t look at me like a deer in headlights. It’s okay I like cake pops too,” he laughed.

“Who are you?”

“Eh? You don’t know who I am?”

You shook your head. He blinked twice. 

“I’m Neige LeBlanche, lead actor of the film. But, say, since you don’t know who I am, I’m assuming you’re someone’s plus one? You seem kind of young though...”

He took a cake pop from the stand, peeling off the gold foil.

“I’m Vil’s plus one.”

“Vil? I would have never guessed. I thought he said he wasn’t bringing someone. He didn’t seem like he wanted to either...” he mumbled something and paused, “As expected of my senior! Say, what are you to him?”

You pulled the ends of your hair, “I-I’m his girlfriend.”

“Is that so? He never mentioned having a girlfriend. I always thought he was going to end up–”

“We started dating a few weeks ago.”

“Oh my, that’s–”

“I have to go so if you’ll excuse me, Neige. It’s been nice meeting you. Congrats on the film,” you waved.

“No, no, the pleasure is mine, (y/n). I’m glad I got to meet Vil’s girlfriend. You were so sweet! I hope we can talk some more in the future! Oh I know–You should follow me on MagiCam! We can talk there,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands around yours.

He was so bubbly… You didn’t know how to handle him. Was this interaction not awkward to him at all? Your cheeks flushed as you excused yourself. You held your head down low and avoided eye contact with everyone you crossed paths with. Where you were headed to was a mystery, even to you. Anywhere was fine. Anywhere secluded. Anywhere without people, but close enough to trace your footsteps back to the rose gardens should anything arise.

Of course, that was the ideal scenario. In your situation, nothing was ideal per se. You were lost. You had trudged forward whilst looking at the ground, not getting a good look of your surroundings at all. It was hard to tell where you were. If you had known better, you would say that you were in a children’s book. The rose bushes towered high above your head and the castle was closer than it was before. In the center of it all was a gazebo adorned with intricate floral details. There was also a well to the side of the structure. You made your way to the gazebo and sat down on the bench, gazing upon the beauty of the raven sky. It glittered like a thousand fireflies.

You sighed, “The moon is beautiful tonight.”

[ Some Ungodly Hour, Venue’s Rose Garden ]

“Nghh…”

“You’re awake now?”

Vil? What was he doing here? The moon was high in the sky. It was late. You were resting your head on his lap. You sat upright in an abrupt motion.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Ruining the party by running off and falling asleep, wasting your time when you could have been talking to someone more important–”

Vil put a finger to your lips: “I was getting exhausted of people commenting on my looks anyway. You did worry me by running off though. To think that I had to ask Neige of all people too.”

That last part about Neige. Did he not like his co-star? He ran his hand through his hair while you adjusted yourself into a more comfortable position. You opted to lean your head on his shoulder. Vil reciprocated by placing his head on top of yours, nuzzling it.

“The party is still ongoing so don’t worry,” he said, “Though you could have told me where you were.”

You exhaled. Thank goodness. It would have been embarrassing if it ended.

“Sorry about that.”

“Was it that exhausting for you? I told you not to push yourself for my sake. It makes neither of us happy.”

“At first, no, I wasn’t. I was a bit nervous around your manager but then Neige threw me off for a bit–”

“Neige? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He just asked what I was to you and I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

Your stomach growled. You looked down at the ground. Suddenly the grass below your feet was the most interesting thing in the world. He took your hand firmly. His grip was different. He held you as if he was about to lose you.

“I had talked to everyone I needed to talk to. I’m done for the day and so are you. I would like to celebrate my birthday now with my dearly beloved if she would please.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. There was no room for apologies.

You rose from the bench, grimacing at the soreness and took his hand, following him to the mirror.

[ Midnight, Vil’s Bedroom ]

Was he mad? He said he wasn’t. But then why was he handling you so roughly? Vil pulled you into the bathroom. He turned the faucet on, drawing water into the bathtub. He grabbed a bottle of bubble bath product and rose petals. He emptied the contents and discarded the containers onto the cool tiles. They rattled and echoed. Vil turned to his cabinets, searching for something. Strands of his loosely gelled hair swayed back and forth as he sifted through his cosmetics. He muttered gibberish as he found makeup wipes. Pulling you towards him, he began to wipe the gunk off your face. His motions were rigid, frantic, like he was wiping at a stubborn speck on a mirror. He turned you around and undid your dress’s zipper. The process was akin to a kitten’s first yawn. Slow, drawling yet somehow winsome. The act was intimate. Vil manhandling you was a first. It spawned many mixed motions. The positives outweigh the negatives, but was he alright? His eyes were ready to cry. They were glossy to the rim. When the zipper reached the end of its path, he pushed you aside and tended to his own face with a new wipe.

“Strip and get into the tub,” he instructed.

Strip? That was off-putting, especially from him. He didn’t want to have birthday sex did he? Or would he leave when he was done with his makeup? It had to be the latter. You held your sides, preventing the dress from slipping down your shoulders. But what if he did? What if he wanted to let out his frustrations on you? Was that it? He said he was more worried than upset, but his actions betrayed his words. He was tense. He could burst at any moment. Vil, as he was now, was a time bomb, ticking away. You feared he might break.

Vil snapped his fingers before you. You flinched. As you regain focus into the real world, you come to the sight of your lover in the tub, hair wet and his body leaning against the edge. His clothes were hanging on the laundry hamper. You looked away, excusing yourself under your breath. A tug on the hem of your dress stopped you in your tracks. He had broken. His eyes were red and puffy though no tears trailed down his fair complexion. You knelt down beside the tub, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Vil…”

“Could you stay?”

“In the tub?”

“Only if you want to.”

Why is it that he could always see through you? Was your discomfort obvious? No, no, he was merely attentive. Then again, you were equally observant to everyone, especially towards Vil. Your darling was an open book, an easy read– the merit being that his words rarely matched his actions. He was a novel full of metaphors, eloquent tones and arbitrary words. Underneath the complications, he was as simple as the next composition. He was as insecure as any other person, if not more. To read Vil Schoenheit, you mustn't analyze his speech. Words fail in this case. You had to look for the little things: his weight shifting on one leg, his shoulders tensing, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment, his shortness of breath, his eyes.

In this very moment in time, Vil needed you. He said there was no obligation, but the small frown on his lips told you otherwise. He was aware of your own boundaries, but at times like these, when he needed you most, your instinct to reach for him, to hold him, triumphed over your murky thoughts. There was mutual trust between you and Vil, two profoundly regardful people. One was observant because he had a keen eye for details and all things beautiful. The other was observant because she was wary of the opinions of others.

Vil turned away from you as you let your dress and undergarments fall to the ground. His eyes were closed when you climbed into the tub.

“You never have to push yourself for my sake, Fairest,” Vil said as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your back closer to his chest.

“I don’t mind if it’s for you. I will tell you when I can’t do something, I promise.”

“You better,” he sighed.

You turned around and cupped his cheeks, “What about you? Are you alright? You’ve been so stiff ever since we left.”

You scooped some soap suds onto his hair, lathering and combing though his silky locks while you waited for him to formulate the right words.

“Fairest, do you think I am more than my appearance?”

You stopped mid-caress and nodded. His looks were always a touchy subject. Vil had a severe case of type-casting, a situation where he was only casted for roles with “beautiful” as the main attribute of the character. At first, he was content with them, but as time went on, he felt defined by his appearance. His hard work was futile in an industry that valued beauty over effort. Comments such as “you only got to where you are now because of your face” was a stab in the heart for Vil. He often sought out you or Rook for comfort. It came to the point where Vil frequently declined callbacks.

He continued, “No matter how much I talked to others about my role in the film or attempted to make more connections to those in the industry, they would always comment on my ensemble first. Sometimes they comment on how I look and nothing more.”

“So you feel invalidated for your efforts?”

“Yes, I feel like none of the work I put into getting where I am now. I feel like all I had to do was look pretty and everything will be handed to me… just like Neige. I want to be as pretty as him. I want to be as popular as him. I want to be recognized for my skills and get casted for the best roles. Not superficial ones. I want… I want....”

You embraced him as he choked on his own words.

“This is hypocritical since it’s coming from me, but you should never compare yourself or your efforts or progress to anyone else. You are enough as you are, at your own pace.”

His arms engulfed you. He kissed you, intertwining his tongue with yours.

“I’m sorry,” Vil said, pulling away. 

“I’m sorry too.”

“What did I tell you about saying sorry for something that’s out of your control?”

“But you’re apologizing too,” you laughed.

He snorted.

“But I do feel guilty for leaving you alone though. Maybe I could have said something for your sake. I feel even worse since it was your birthday.”

“We’re both pathetic in that regard.”

You scooped water onto Vil’s head. He did the same for you. You looked him into the eyes before averting your gaze. They were as intense as ever.

“I accept your apology though. In turn, you should accept mine.”

“I can’t. Sorry, Vil. You told me that I should never apologize for how I feel. Neither should you.”

“But I don’t have anxi–”

“You don’t have to have anxiety or anything to have a bad mental health day. You don’t have to have anxiety or anything to feel insecure or worthless. Those feelings are valid for anyone”

“You do have a point there,” Vil said as he tousled his hair.

“I have something for you. It may not be your birthday anymore,” you glanced at the clock, “but we haven’t slept yet so in my mind the day isn’t over yet.”

“What kind of logic is that?”

“Does it still feel like a ninth of April to you?”

“Yes, but technically it’s not.”

“Think of it as a feeling then,” you said and climbed out of the tub.

Vil assisted you in the process and got towels for you both. He languidly dried your hair.  His touch was soft like a ghost’s embosom. You could barely feel his touch. Then, he waltzed over to his dresser and gave you one of his silk pajama tops. While he was getting dressed, you grabbed your gift for him, sitting on the edge of the mattress waiting for him.

Shortly after, he plopped down on the bed. The pillows bounced on impact. You held the gift bag over his chest. He looked up at you then at the bag. Sitting up, he opened it.

“Well?”

Your lover tore through the tissue paper, revealing a small box wrapped in brown wrapping paper, red ribbon and twine. His eyes sparkled like a child on Christmas Day.

He read the present tag aloud: “‘To my darling: Vil Schoenheit. Happy birthday.’”

He undid the bow, careful not to ruin the label. He found the edges of the wrapping paper and picked off the tape piece by piece and discarded it on the ground. It fell with grace. Vil lifted the lid of the box.

“A book?”

“Open it.”

Granted, you were more nervous than he was. Would he like it? Today was not his day. You hoped to make him feel better. If he didn’t like it in the slightest, you wouldn’t know how to feel. You wanted to see him smile. It was his birthday. He did not deserve to feel insecure because of soirée guests. He did not deserve to feel so small when he was your world. In fact, he deserved the world for all that he was. He worked too hard not to. His efforts deserved to be paid off. Perhaps not every day, but for his birthday, he should have. It was his day.

Vil obliged, turning to the title page.

“Eighteen things I love about you,” he read.

You leaned over his shoulder.

“Did you honestly write an essay about your love for me?”

“No,” you said, burying your head into the crook of his neck, “Just look.”

“I jest, Fairest.”

Vil licked his finger and turned the page.

“Ah. A scrapbook? Let’s see… ‘Number one: I love how—”

You put a hand over his mouth, “It’s embarrassing if you read it out loud.”

“I think it’s endearing. Besides, I live for your flushed face.”

You whined and he let out a laugh.

“I’ll spare you. I’ll only read the first one aloud.”

“That’s fair,” you mumbled.

“I hope it is. Anyhow… ‘Number one: I love how you carry yourself with utmost respect. I love how you know your worth. I love how angry you are when you are undermined– because you know you are worth more than what the current situation offers. Your confidence is contagious as it inspires me to acknowledge my own worth, to be bolder and seek opportunities that are on par to my own capabilities.’”

He paused.

“What?” you asked.

“I like how you included a photo of us as freshman potatoes,” he said, running his fingers over the image as if he was wiping away dust.

“You always were always like a star to me, ever since we first met. It was hard to start off this scrapbook without referencing that.”

You twirled the ends of your hair.

“I’m glad that you see me in such a way.”

His voice was so soft, inaudible even.

“Vil?”

No response. He flipped the book to page two. Then to page three and so forth. He was still. His chest did not rise and fall each breath. He didn’t even blink. He stopped at the last page. It read: “I love you. You as a whole– the person you present to the crowd and the person you present to a select few. I love you for every flaw and insecurity. I love and accept you in the same way you love and accept me and more. I promise to love you forevermore– no shunning, no judging, just staying by your side and watching you grow into a person I fall in love with more and more every day.”

He pushed you down onto the bed and kissed you, dropping the book onto the ground.

“V-Vil…”

A sense of déjà vu washed over you.

He was vulnerable. He knew, you knew. His lips were quivering and his eyes were glossy. But did he like it? You tried so hard not to say that you liked him because of his looks. That was a touchy subject for him. Did that last one come off as too cheesy? You were told you were quite sappy on top of having an ability with words but still…

“What are you doing writing a bunch of wedding vows, you sweet potato?” Vil muttered as he cuddled you.

“I didn’t mean for it to come off like that. We’re barely a month into this relationship so that’s out of the question. I’m pretty sure we’re still in our honeymoon phase too. But that’s how I feel right now. So… What if I wrote a bunch of wedding vows to you? What of it?”

You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Hopefully, he didn’t find your sudden confession cringe-worthy.

“I never said it was bad... I feel the same.”

He let the last part of his sentence trail off into silence.

“Do you feel better now?”

Was that out of place? Did that kill the mood? What if you soured his mood?

“Much better, thank you. I appreciate it and… I love you too. I know I don’t say it a lot, but I think you know that already.”

“I do.”

He peppered your face with kisses. Some were on your lips, Others were on your cheeks and forehead and occasionally trailed down your jawline.

“I also have something else for you,” you spoke up, pushing him off of you so you could grab another bag that you left by the foot of his bed.

“You spoil me, Fairest.”

“It’s not much. Just a cake I made for you.”

“A whole cake?”

“A cupcake, I mean. I know you’re not one for sweets.”

“And you left it in my room with no refrigeration.”

You pointed to the ice pack. He nodded. You pulled out a cake box, propping it open on Vil’s hands and told him to hold still. You placed a candle in the center and lit with a little spark of fire magic.

“Make a wish~”

“What am I? Twelve?”

“You have to make a wish.”

“Fine,” he said as he blew out the taper, “I wish to be with you for as long as possible.”

“You can’t say your wish out loud. It won’t come true!”

“Do you have any intention of separating from me?”

“N-No.”

“I don’t see why my wish won’t come true then,” Vil said as he cut the cupcake in half, handing you a piece.

“I guess you’re right about that.”

“Careful. If you get crumbs on my bed, you’re sleeping in the spare room.”

“...Understood.”

[ Present Day, Pomefiore Hallway ]

One moment he was dolling you up, the next he was wrapping a blindfold around your eyes and led you down the hallway to god knows where. You were still walking straight so you only assumed that you were still in the Pomefiore dormitories. Unless you walked through a mirror. Or maybe you simply had a terrible sense of direction. Whatever the case was, it did not change the fact that you were trembling.

“Vil. Where are you taking me?”

He exhaled. You could hear his chest heave.

“Darling, are you scared?”

Like how you could read him like an open book, he knew you like the back of his hand. You nodded and you felt him undo the blindfold. He held the ribbon in his hand and yours in the other. You looked into his eyes for comfort. He was wearing a single French braid. It was nostalgic. It was like you were first years again. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform, but it was enough to stir up fond memories. Instead, Vil wore a casual ensemble with a kimono-esque silhouette. He wore a white dress shirt with a pair of shapeless, high-waisted black dress pants. A cardigan with an ornate pattern accentuated the look, He wasn’t wearing the barrette you made him for his sixteenth birthday either, but you felt nostalgic regardless.

“I still need you to close your eyes for me though,” he said, putting the hand with the ribbon over your eyes, “I know you’re scared, but please hold on for a little longer.”

You nodded and closed your eyes. You felt his hand leaving your face, but the other was holding yours tightly, guiding you to your destination.

“Fairest, are your eyes actually closed?” Vil asked, breaking the silence.

“Y-Yes.”

You had been walking for a few minutes now. Where was he taking you?

“Vil, do you know what today is?”

No response.

“Vil… You’re scaring me.”

“We’re almost there, don't worry.”

Would it hurt to trust him for a little bit? You trailed behind him aimlessly. Your steps lagged behind his.

“You ready?” he asked, cupping his lanky fingers over your eyes.

You nodded. Whatever could it be? Lacking sight made Anxiety rattle against your skull. Was Vil going to push you off a cliff? Send you to your doom? No, no, no. He wouldn’t. That was too extreme, (y/n). Calm down.

He lifted his fingers off of your eyes, whispering a faint “happy birthday” to you. You gasped. Pomefiore lounge decorated with streamers and balloons– color coordinated to match both the dorm’s interior as well as your favorite colors. Rose petals were sprinkled on the ground. You heard Vil step away from you. You jumped as you heard something pop and turned around to find the source. Before you could react, a swarm of confetti went your way followed by a loud “surprise!”

You blinked twice, pulling bits of paper out of your hair..  You stepped forward and spun your heel. Were you dreaming?

“Hey, are you crying? I forbid you from crying. Your mascara is going to smear. Stop touching your face,” Vil scolded, running to your side, whipping out a handkerchief to pat your tears dry.

He had no confetti on his person. He was pristine.

“Vil… it’s wonderful. Thank you. I’m so glad you didn’t forget.”

“How could I forget? You must give me more credit, Fairest. I may not have the time to be with you every day, but I’m not cruel as to forgot your birthday,” he huffed, pulling you into a hug.

He was right. He could have never forgotten. Was he mad that you doubted him? He didn’t seem irritated. It wasn’t like him to forget such an important date. You’ll give him credit for being a good actor; he fooled you well. He ignored you for almost two weeks. Whenever you brought up your birthday, he brushed over it and changed the subject. You were on edge the entire time. A weight was lifted off your chest.

“I know you’re not one for parties, but I figured I’d go all out for a small group of people you are comfortable with. You’re seventeen now. Rejoice, my dear.”

You pecked his lips, “This is fine. Thank you so much.”

Snap!

“Cute~ Hashtag: Vil-Did-Not-Forget. Hashtag: (y/n)’s-Growth Record. Hashtag: (y/n)-And-Vil-Forever. Hashtag: Birthday. And posted! Happy birthday, (y/n)-chan~”

“Ah. Thank you, Cay-kun.”

“Did you have to do that?” your lover asked, hands on his hip.

“It’s fine, Vil.”

He nodded. You hoped he wouldn’t bicker too much with Leona as the upperclassman was lounging a bit too close to the throne for [Vil’s] comfort. You sighed as he went to the refreshments table.

“You’ve grown for much,” Cater said with crocodile tears, hugging you.

“I’m still the same height.”

“I didn’t mean that, silly.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Nothing, much. You just look happier. Anyways, here’s your present. Continue to blossom, m’kay?”

You took the gift: “Alright?”

“Cater. Mind your manners. You’re being rude. According to the–,” a voice called.

“I don’t think I am, right, (y/n)? Tell Riddle for me~” he pouted.

His eyes widened as the complexion of Heartslabyul’s prefect grew as red as his hair. 

“Hey now. Let’s not fight,” Trey, the vice prefect, hurried over to pat Riddle’s back.

You sighed, “There’s nothing to worry about, Riddle.”

You could have sworn you saw a vein deflate on his forehead as he mumbled something about the rules. He handed you a bouquet of roses.

“Happy birthday, (y/n).”

“Let’s take a Heartslabyul selfie to celebrate! Say cheese!”

No one said cheese. The flash flickered before your eyes as you held the flowers close to your nose. Riddle’s eyebrows were scrunched together. He was socially awkward in that aspect.

“Hashtag: Heartsla…”

Cater’s words faded. Since when have you been comfortable taking pictures with him. It was nice. You felt pretty today. Was it because Vil dolled you up to a T? You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest as you walked towards the refreshments table.

“Oi. Herbivore. Watch the tail,” an all too familiar voice groaned.

“Good afternoon to you too, Leona.”

“Here’s your present.”

He handed you a small box and he waved you goodbye. Was he not going to stay? You watched his back get smaller and smaller as he walked out of the Pomefiore Lounge. He wasn’t big on parties either. That was alright.

You continued the refreshments, stopping occasionally and accumulating presents here and there, engaging in idle chatter. Soon, your arms were full of trinkets and parcels. You panted as you set the gifts onto a spare table.

“You’re quite the attraction,” Vil said, sipping on a glass of apple cider.

“I don’t really think I’m–”

“Own it for a day, will you? You look absolutely divine.”

“Thank you, Vil.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “My pleasure, Fairest.”

[durmstrange]

Foolish - Newt Scamander

Hello and happy Monday!  Enjoy a lil Newt fic.

Word count: 2,452

Newt stood in line in Diagon Alley, in the Potions shop, waiting patiently for the customers in front of him to finish their purchases so he could be on his was with his Niffler, that just insisted on joining him in the excursion he was going on. Normally, Newt would cross the line and not allow him to go under any circumstances, but there was an odd feeling in the air that distracted him and allowed the Niffler to join him, in his jacket pocket.

As he stood in like, mildly distracted by the cloudy feeling he had in his head that he was unable to shake, Newt failed to notice his Niffler sneak from his extended pocket, and down onto the floor, scurrying away quicker than ever.  Newt gripped the new cauldron and various supplies in his hands and his eyes searched for nothing in particular.  

With much stealth, the Niffler moved about the shop, dodging the eyes of others as it dashed between legs, snatching low hanging bracelets and necklaces without notice.  It wasn’t until he crawled up the wrong tree, well, actually, person, and he was caught by the scruff of his neck, and shoved into a bag, zippered tight.  

A soft smile played upon your lips as you moved through the store, holding your bag shut and walking nonchalantly, until you reached the stranger in which the creature came from.  With a quick look, you took the stranger’s hand and led him through the shop, half-dragging him.  

“Ah, p-pardon me?” he stuttered out, confused and struggling to hold his supplies in his one hand and pull his other hand from your grip.  

You glanced at him, slightly irritated at him fighting with you, and you yanked his hand a little harder.  “Hush up and follow me,” you told him and led him to an old broom closet, pulling him inside and shutting the door behind you two.  By the time that Newt found his wand and lit the end of it, you were holding his Niffler up, smiling gently behind him.  “I believe he belongs to you, yeah?” you asked him with excitement riddled in your eyes.  

Newt licked his lips, kind of flustered, as he set down the cauldron he held previously, filling it with the other supplies, and taking the Niffler from your hands.  “I reckon so.  ‘Knew I shouldn’t have let you come today, you mug,” he muttered to the Niffler, looking stern and unhappy.  

With a small smile, you shook your head.  “Now, now.  No need to be mean to the little guy.  After all, it is in his nature,” you winked and held your hand out to Newt.  “I am (Y/N) (Y/L/N), potions master.”  You smile as you introduced yourself with bright, shimmering eyes.  

Pocketing his Niffler away quickly, Newt shook your hand hastily, as if he were in a rush.  “Wonderful to meet you.  I am Newt Scamander, magizoologist,” he introduced himself just as quick as he shook your hand.  “Sorry to be rude, but you said potions master, correct?  As in you can brew just about any potion?”  Newt questioned you quickly, anxious to know the answer.  

You nodded lightly.  “That is correct, why?  Does it have something to do with why you are so jittery, or with the Niffler?” you asked him curiously, motioning to where he stored his little friend away.  

Newt turned an odd shade of red, and you were unable to hide your smile at this.  “Er-something like that.  Sorry to ask you of this, but I do have a very ill creature at my-my home who is in need of a particular potion in which I have doubts I can brew.  Would it be too much of a hassle to ask of your help with the potion?  I am more than willing to pay you.” Newt asked you as he picked up his ingredients and cauldron once more, motioning to it as if it solved your dilemma. 

You glanced down at the ingredients in his hands, looking at each root and bug, and odd thing alike and tilted your head to the side.  “I am more than willing to help an ill creature.  I was planning on becoming the Care for Magical Creatures professor at Hogwarts prior to finding my love for potions.  What did you say it was?” you questioned Newt further.  He blushed at your questions and interest and in the dull wand light, it was rather adorable.  

“Ah, yes, about that.  I have a Demiguise who is quite shy, but needs this antidote as soon as humanly possible,” Newt explained to you with his eyes low, trying to avoid eye contact with you.  “I understand if you are unable to help him, or if you do not deem it to be worth it, but even a few pointers would be wond-” Newt began rambling, and you kicked the door of the brook closet open.  

“Hush, now and let’s go!  Your Demiguise needs us, Mr. Scamander!”  You shamed him and moved from the closet, motioning for him to exit.  “Judging by your ingredients, I assume your Demiguise consumed something highly poisonous to him, am I correct?”  Your voice was curious as you took the cauldron from Newt’s hand and set it on a shelf as you walked by.  

Surprised, Newt nodded.  “Correct,” he confirmed as he watched you in complete awe.  You were magnificent, to say the absolute least.  

You nodded and moved through the partially empty Diagon Alley.  Given that school was in session once more, the Alley was far less crowded than usual.  “Wonderful.  Nothing a little Antidote to Uncommon Poisons can’t handle.  Let me just stop by my home quickly, and then we can set off to yours, yeah?”  You asked Newt as you linked your arm with his, causing his face to redden even further.  He nodded, unable to form words, and you disapparated the two of you to your home and shop in London.  You lived above your shop, but had just as many ingredients and potions where you lived than worked.  

Hastily, you moved about your home, gathering ingredients and a collapsible cauldron into your brown leather briefcase as Newt stood in your living room, watching your every move with an odd sense of adoration.  You were so put together and so open with who you were, and you apartment was so neat, but so cluttered with bottles and ingredients at the same time.  But, you knew were every single thing was to a point.  Before long, you shut your brief case and clasped it, looking back at the awestruck Newt.  

“Sorry it is such a mess in here.  I have been meaning to clean out my home and move everything back down to the shop, where my apprentice and sister is now, but I just have a hard time doing it,” you explained with a light blush playing at your cheeks.  The light dusting on your cheeks was the prettiest thing Newt had ever seen.  

Newt shook his head quickly, gazing about the room, craving to see the rest, if he weren’t in such a hurry and on such an important mission.  “No, it is brilliant,” Newt told you with a small smile, and you took his arm once more.  

In a snap, you were in a very messy, contemporary apartment not far from Diagon Alley.  Your eyes wandered around the room, taking in the torn papers, some even scorched, and the overall scattered feel of the room.  It was comforting, in a way, and you enjoyed it greatly.  “Please, do not think this is odd,” Newt pleaded with you as he grabbed a briefcase from his coffee table, setting it onto the floor and unclasping the gold clasps.  “They are in here.”  His voice was hesitant as he stood straight, and stepped one foot into the briefcase with one glance back to you.  

You knitted your eyebrows together, confused, but approached the briefcase with caution as Newt begin to step down further and further in it until you were no longer able to see him.  You peered down into it, and laughed lightly when you saw his gazing up at you.  “You are simply amazing, Mr. Scamander,” you told him as you handed your briefcase down to him, sideways, and began climbing down skillfully and quickly.

He blushed madly, taking your hand to help you down the final steps. “That is very kind of you.  Please, be cautious of the creatures around.  Some of them are rather shy, but I think you should be fine.  If you are uncomfortable at any point, please let me know.”  Newt was insistent and sweet as he set your briefcase down on a large work table in the small half-shack you were in.  

You nodded, opening your briefcase and beginning to work hastily.  “Mr. Scamander, get me a strand of the Demiguise’s hair, please,” you instructed as he watched you intently, chopping and cutting and pouring all kinds of things into your collapsible cauldron.

Without much hesitation, he dashed off at the sound of your instruction and you began brewing your potion skillfully.  You mixed and stirred and added all sorts of things, including the hair that Newt brought back punctually, until almost two hours later, the potion was a light pink-red color and cooling in a glass tube.  You turned to Newt, who had yet to sit down this entire time, and he looked at you with bright, curious eyes.  “Is it finished?”  He asked you before you even had the chance to speak.  

“It is,” you answered with a gentle smile.  “If you go get your Demiguise-” you began, but Newt interrupted you quickly.  

“Dougal.  His name is Dougal,” he told you and your cheeks reddened at the interruption.  

You nodded.  “Right, if you go get Dougal, I will administer the potion, if you don’t mind.  Or, if Dougal does not mind, I suppose,” you corrected yourself and gave Newt a small smile.  The sweet but concerned look on your face made Newt’s heart race in his chest.

Newt nodded and scurried off once more, only to return with his arms wide, but nothing appeared to be in his arms.  You smiled widely at the scene before you, knowing perfectly well that Dougal was invisible in his arms, and it made you giggle softly.  Newt approached you carefully, setting Dougal onto the counter next to you.  

You weren’t quite sure where to look, but you looked in the general direction of Dougal.  “Hello, Dougal, my name is (Y/N).  I am not going to hurt you, I promise; I am only trying to help you,” you explained to the creature as you grabbed the cooled potion and showed it to him.  You held it up in Dougal’s direction and smiled softly, trying to be as comforting as possible.  

What you hadn’t noticed was Newt’s watchful eyes observing every little move you made, from the movement in your eyes to the slight shake in your hands.  It was beautiful, and you were beautiful, and it made his heart lurch in an unfamiliar way.  He bit his lip, watching you so closely that he failed to notice Dougal fading into reality once more.  His eyes widened, surprised that he opened up to allow you to see his true form.  

The wide smile that formed on your face was indescribable as you grabbed the plastic syringe you had brought with you, drawing some of the colored potion from the beaker into the syringe and showing it to the wide-eyed creature.  “See?  I’ll just put this in your mouth, okay?” you continued to ask Dougal and moved to him slowly, opening his mouth with your thumb and shooting the potion down his throat.  “All done,” you  announced with a fond smile on your face.  You glanced up at Newt as Dougal made a funny face, and you were unable to cover the giggle that slipped from your lips.  

Dougal crawled up to his feet on the table, jumping onto Newt, and wrapping his arms and legs around him like a small child.  This made the smile on your face refuse to fade.  With a nervous look on his face, Newt looked towards Dougal, and kept his eyes on anything but you.  “I can never thank you enough.  I don’t know what I would ever do if I lost my Dougal.”  Newt’s voice faltered and you felt your heart pang at his sincerity.  

“It is my pleasure,” you told him and began bottling up the rest of the potion you made.  “I am going to leave this with you.  Obviously, you need it far more than I do,” you teased him and gave a subtle wink.

Newt’s face only reddened at your words, and he set Dougal down to scurry off into they endless territory within Newt’s briefcase. He glanced back at you and his nervousness was so evident. He shifted lightly, trying to form words that were not there, and finally his mouth fell open. “C-can I make you a cup of coffee, or tea?” Newt asked you, and you glanced up from packing your belongings.  Before you could say any words, Newt continued, rambling as he looked at the floor in front of him. “If you’d like, of course. Otherwise, you are more than welcome to go, I do not want you to think I am keeping you here after you’ve already done so much for me, which is so very kind, given I am a stranger and it could have been unsafe for you. Although I am not going to do anything to hurt you, not ever-”  Newt rambled, causing the small smile on your face to grow incredibly wide.

“Mr. Scamander! I would love to have coffee, or tea, with you.” you interrupted with a laugh, causing his already reddened face to grow darker. You giggled at this, unable to hide the joy he brought you.  

There was a nervous smile on his lips as he nodded and bit his lip slightly.  “Wonderful.  If you’d like, we can have coffee, or tea, down here and I can show you around, and all the creatures,” he offered to you as he moved towards the small stove in the small shed you were in.  

You nodded, clasping your briefcase shut.  “That would be wonderful, Mr. Scamander.”  You said and moved to a tall stool, sitting on the edge.  

“You can call me Newt.”  He told you as he busied himself preparing an array of coffee and tea.  

You nodded.  “Newt.”  You murmured to yourself.  He was not quite sure why, but Newt loved the sound of his name rolling off your tongue.

[yellowfingcr]

A tome begins to loosen from the stack between shakey hands as Sona hastens her stroll. An unlikely invigoration fills her that there was someone genuinely intrigued by her studies. Her arm jerks as the book protrudes from the other bound manuscripts and threatens to fall. With luck and an audible gasp, she manages to raise her hand just enough to catch and wedge it into its respective slot. Once at the table, she promptly leans forward, relieving her arms and placing the fruits of her research in front of Heysel. Sona steps back to compose herself, nervous hands rub against one another as she eyes the zealous scholar.

'Would this suffice?' she carefully signs, head atilt.

Tentacled head barely visible behind the hillscape of tomes and well-worn books littering the desk, one hand following an inked line of text and the other taking frantic notes on a notebook, Heysel is all too engrossed in her research to notice the poor woman’s struggles until the new tower of material is dropped with a light thump before her. The wooden desk creaks. The distinct sound of a spoon clinking inside a porcelain cup echoes from somewhere between the chaos. A candleflame gutters, hazardously, between heaps of too much very flammable paper. The kin herself startles enough that, as her back snaps upright, her pen flies out of her hand, and it’s only through a sequence of juggler-worthy acrobatics that she manages to catch it before it falls to the pavement.

“Pardon me!” she finally says, mortified, waving off the puff of dust raised by the new addition to the desk with the flat of a palm. She slots the pen between two small vine-shaped protrusions growing where her ear should be. “Goodness, that is a lot of material- and you carried it all by yourself? I’m a villain. I’m sorry. I’m here reading all your things and cluttering your tables and I don’t even help. But, ah- if they suffice?”

The current topology of her face actively impedes the formation of anything resembling a smile, yet it feels like she’s doing precisely that. A genuinely fond one, even.

Heysel curls a hand in a seafoam blue fist. Moves it up and down, while offering a strong nod. Yes.

“We’re miles beyond suffice with this though, Sona! I’m honored that you agreed to share what you’ve researched with me. Being able to collate notes on your studies is truly a privilege. And the method you use to communicate with the entities above is nothing short of revolutionary, if I can say as much.” Her head tips down in a minute bow. “Thank you so much. Please,” she continues, leaning toward a chair currently hosting a person-tall column of books, undoing it tome by tome until it’s free once again for an actual person to use. “Sit, sit. I brought a slice of cake. It’s the very least I can do to repay you for all the courtesy you’ve shown me. How are you, my friend? I’m unsure of when I last asked you this question." She turns the one she's sitting on in her direction with a loud scraping sound of wood against tiles, searching for her pocket watch. "Which also begs for the question- what time is it? Oh, gods. My legs feel weird."

[akaluan]

Genie!Erich AU Part 1

Kisuke absently poked through the cluttered back corner of the shop, occasionally picking something up to look at it closer before setting it back down and moving on; he had nothing better to do, after all, so he might as well… acquaint himself with the local shops.

(Anything to keep his mind off what had happened.)

(Anything to keep his mind off of how little he could do…!)

Kisuke pursed his lips and forced himself to bend over the table in the very back. Forced himself to pay attention to the detritus of human life that this old, cluttered, human shop sold—

A spark of reiatsu caught his attention, blinding bright against the dull hum of Karakura’s reishi, and he snatched up whatever it was instantly, desperate for something to remind him of Seireitei, desperate for something to investigate—

It was a glass bottle. Old and scuffed, deep blue-black with an odd metal stopper and flaking fragments of white… glaze? Paint? Something… across it, though what design it used to be he couldn’t tell. The glass was so dark that he couldn’t tell if there was anything in it even when he held it up to a nearby window; nothing seemed to move when he shook it, either, and the weight of it was… odd. His senses said it was heavy, said that there was more weight to it than just glass and a metal stopper could account for, but… it also seemed to weigh little more than thick glass and a metal stopper.

(The incongruity made him wary, made him curious, because how could his senses fail him so?)

(Was he holding something heavy or something light?)

(He had no idea.)

He’d never seen a bottle like it in Seireitei, and now that he was holding it in his hand, he couldn’t sense a trace of reiatsu—

Power sparked across his senses, bored-offended-exasperated, and Kisuke gave a start, bottle nearly slipping from his hand in shock. He gripped it tightly with both hands and brought it up to eye level, scowling at it as he did. “Do that again and I’ll drop you,” he murmured at it, shoving aside the embarrassment of talking to an inanimate object in public; the thing had reiatsu, had emotions, and that was good enough for him.

(The neighbors thought he was eccentric already anyway, what was one more piece of evidence?)

(He didn’t care about their opinion anyway.)

Boredom-exasperation-longing was his only answer, and Kisuke’s scowl faded into a puzzled frown as he tipped the bottle one way and then the next, trying to understand what he was sensing; the bits of emotion he was catching implied some level of sentience, but… he didn’t think it was coming from the bottle. Not exactly.

(Was there something inside the bottle?)

(Something… intelligent?)

(Interesting.)

Mind made up, Kisuke turned from the cluttered corner and wended his way back to where the old shopkeep was sitting. “This, please,” he said as he held out the bottle towards the man.

The man eyed the bottle with exasperation and then said, “Just take it. But if you bring it back, I will charge you.”

“Pardon…?” Kisuke asked, wondering if he’d actually heard the man right.

“That damn bottle’s been in and out of this store for years,” the shopkeeper explained with a sigh, then made a shooing motion towards him. “So unless you want to buy something else, just take it. I’ll take your money when you eventually bring it back to me.”

“Why do people bring it back?” he could help but ask, even as he lowered his hand and took a slight step back.

The man shrugged and lifted a hand, counting on his fingers as he recited, “Can’t be opened, can’t be broken, one person said it followed him throughout the house, another reported she heard a voice coming from it, another said it felt ‘evil’, I’ve had multiple claims that there’s a yokai trapped inside of it. Take your pick, I’m exhausted of dealing with it.”

Kisuke frowned down at the bottle thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands as he did; would a yokai account for the flashes of reiatsu he kept sensing? He’d… never met one, if he was being honest, and had always thought them just superstition, but maybe… maybe there was something to it?

“If you don’t want it—”

“No, no, I want it still!” Kisuke quickly answered, taking another step back from the man and flashing him a sheepish smile at the flat look he got. “I like mysteries!”

“Well, have fun with that one. I’ll see you in a week or two. Bring twenty yen with you when you do.”

Kisuke huffed at the thought that he would give up on such a potentially interesting mystery so quickly, but still gave the shopkeeper a shallow bow, murmured his thanks, and wandered out of the shop.

He had a mystery to unravel at last.

Hopefully it would be a good one.

Hopefully…

[iturbide]

Hanneman’s lab in Garreg Mach had become delightfully lively in the years after the war.  It had begun quietly enough with Linhardt, who had renounced his noble title and returned to the Officer’s Academy -- ostensibly to teach, though he frequently lost himself so deeply in Crest research that he arrived late to his classes.  Then came Lysithea, who had come to aid his Crest research in hopes of removing her dual Crests and extending her life again, and later adopted the mantle of his heir and successor.  And finally Annette, who had taken up a teaching position at the Royal School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad, but made increasingly frequent trips to consult on magical theory and practice with her old professor.  There were others, too, who made routine visits to the scholar’s humble lab: Dorothea, when she had the occasional break from opera performances, often dropped in to check on Linhardt and her favorite magic instructor; Mercedes, when she had a moment to spare in her busy routine at the orphanage, would visit to share her latest treats with Annette; Lorenz, on the rare occasions he had business in the area, made a point of stopping by to deliver the finest sweets the Alliance had to offer to appease Lysithea’s legendary sweet tooth.  Their research was ever fruitful, the days frequently eventful, and the company always delightful. 

With the start of the Great Tree Moon, Annette had begun a frenzied cleaning spree of their shared workspace; Lysithea had joined in without much need for encouragement, and the two together had eventually bullied Linhardt into pulling his weight, since a not insignificant portion of the book clutter was because of his studies, both in progress and abandoned.  Hanneman himself did what he could, but the years had finally begun to catch up to him, and though spring had finally arrived its warmth had yet to catch up; after a bit of arthritic hobbling about doing his share, the ladies released him from his duties (in spite of the very vocal complaints from their belligerent fellow scholar), and he settled into a more advisory role, directing the shelving and reorganizing of several bookcases worth of research material that had been pulled for study in the preceding months. 

Afternoon gave way to evening, and the sun had just barely dipped below the horizon when there came a knock outside.  As the only one with his hands free, Hanneman creaked to his feet, picking his way through the yet-unattended stacks of equipment.  “Coming, coming!” he called when the sound came again, rather more tentative this time.  “Just a moment, now...ah, here we are.”  Unlocking the door, he pushed it carefully open, adjusting his spectacles and squinting at the shadows figures outside, regretting that he’d not brought a lamp with him…

“Greetings, Professor Hanneman.”

“It’s good to see you again, Professor.”

He recognized the voices in an instant, and a smile broke across his face.  “Lorenz!  Dorothea!  How wonderful to see you both again.”

“Who is it, Professor?” Annette called from somewhere behind him. 

“Whoever it is, can they come back later?” Lysithea added.

“Do pardon the mess,” he chuckled, shuffling out of the doorway to invite them inside.  “We’re doing a bit of spring cleaning.”

“Goodness, it looks like you have your work cut out for you,” the diva giggled, linking her arm with Hanneman’s and helping him through the clutter.  “I hope we’re not in the way.”

“Gracious, no!” the professor laughed.  “It’s always a treat to have you visit -- and both of you, at that!  What a marvelous coincidence...I wonder if it might be a property of the Crest of Gloucester?  Such coincidences do seem to follow Lysithea...”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Lorenz chuckled.

“Oh, don’t be that way!” Dorothea teased.  “I think it sounds wonderful.  You should look into it and tell me all about it next time.”

As they emerged from the hall, the three former students turned from their work to see who had happened by...and promptly abandoned it in favor of greeting their unexpected guests.  “Dorothea!  Welcome back,” Annette giggled, skirting around the teetering stack of books she’d been organizing.  “How was the latest opera?  Another smashing success?”

“Sold out performances, every one,” the diva agreed.  “There wasn’t even standing room at the last show.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Lorenz,” Lysithea said, sidling up beside him to eye the box he carried.  “Those wouldn’t happen to be more of those honey cakes, would they?”

“Perhaps,” he smiled, holding the prize up and well out of her reach.  “But I insist that we have tea with it, so you simply have to be patient.”

“Tea, is it?” Hanneman piped up.  “I’ll see to that, then--”

“Oh, no, please, no need to trouble yourself,” the nobleman insisted.  “I would be happy to see to it, Professor.”

“Well, then, by all means,” he chuckled, settling comfortably into his favorite armchair while the others scattered between the overstuffed and well-worn couches around the scuffled tea table.  Wisely choosing to take the box of sweets with him, to Lysithea’s clear dismay, Lorenz wove his way through the clutter toward the kitchen space tucked away in a far corner of the lab and swiftly vanished from sight. 

Sprawling across the arm of the couch, Linhardt cast a sidelong glance at the diva sitting beside him.  “So what brings you here?  I thought the latest opera wasn’t set to close for another month.”

Dorothea smiled, lacing her fingers beneath her chin.  “Here I thought you didn’t pay attention to the opera, Lin.”

“Normally I don’t,” he yawned, “but it’s always four months between your visits, give or take, since you only ever come after a show ends its run.  It’s only been three months since you were here last.”

“Aw, Lin, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Did something happen?” Lysithea pressed. . 

“Well...yes,” Dorothea agreed.  “It’s actually why I’m here: I have big news to share with you.”

“You’re not quitting the opera, are you?” Annette asked worriedly, scooting to the edge of her seat. 

“Right now I’m just on leave, but...this is going to be my last show, yes.”

“Oh, no!  And I never even got to hear you perform!” 

“If that’s all you’re worried about, I can see about getting a special seat reserved for you at one of the shows,” the diva giggled. 

“It seems a rather sudden change,” Hanneman offered gently.  “What brings this on?”

“Well, that’s the real news,” Dorothea beamed.  “I’m getting married.”

A moment passed while the news sank in, varying looks of surprise, elation, and confusion crossing each face.  

“Married?” Annette squeaked. 

“Since when?” Lysithea pressed. 

“To who?” Linhardt added. 

“Oh, we came together,” the diva replied.  “I’m sure he’ll be here momentarily, he just had something to do first.”

All eyes turned toward the door of the lab, waiting for another knock to break the stillness.  Dorothea hummed to herself, a half-familiar tune from somewhere no one could quite recall…

“Here we are,” Lorenz announced, returning with a lavish tea tray.  “Sweet-apple blend and honey cakes direct from the finest patissier in the Alliance.”

“My favorite!” Dorothea giggled.  “How sweet of you.”

In an instant, everyone in the room turned to Lorenz, pouring tea for each of them and idly humming the same melody the diva had while she waited. 

“HIM!?”

Lorenz jumped at the collective shout, clutching the teapot protecitvely as he looked between the mages...and then turning to Dorothea.  “I thought we were going to tell them together.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, wiping her eyes and struggling to hold back more laughter.  “I just had to see the look on their faces when they realized.”

“My goodness, what a surprise this is,” Hanneman chuckled.  “I must confess, this is quite possibly the last thing I’d expected.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Dorothea?” Linhardt asked.

“I thought you two weren’t even on speaking terms!” Annette pointed out, clearly trying to keep the nobleman from hearing while he delivered a slice of cake and a cup of tea to the professor. 

“What did he do?” Lysithea pressed.

“Is he blackmailing you?” Linhardt ventured. 

“We’ll give him what-for if you need us to,” Annette agreed, rolling up her sleeve in preparation for a brawl. 

The diva was very clearly losing her battle, muffling her laughter in her sleeve rather than try to hold it in any longer.  “There’s no need for that, really,” she insisted. 

“He just wants to marry you because you’re a famous opera star, doesn’t he,” Lysithea muttered, shooting a sidelong glare at the nobleman in question. 

“Well, to be fair, back in the Academy I was just looking for a nobleman so I could marry into wealth,” Dorothea pointed out.  “I couldn’t really hold it against him for wanting a bride with status, since that’s all I wanted, myself.  But no, this isn’t just about me being an opera diva.”

“Then how did it happen?” Annette whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.  “How did someone like Lorenz win you over?”

The diva smiled, cupping her chin in one hand.  “He’s not the man I thought he was.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Linhardt warned. 

“Maybe,” Dorothea shrugged.  “But I’m still willing to see where it goes.”

“You’re sure about this?” Lysithea asked.  “It is Lorenz, after all…”

The diva grinned, canting her head toward the nobleman.  “Lorenz,” she called, “everyone’s just dying to know how you won a prize like me.”

Tearing his attention away from the tea service, Lorenz squared his shoulders.  “What utter nonsense!  A prize?” 

Linhardt glowered at him from his place on the far side of the couch; across from him, Annette rolled up her other sleeve while sparks began to dance between Lysithea’s fingers.  But the nobleman paid them no mind at all, setting the teapot aside and offering his hand to Dorothea instead.  “All I did was state my intentions and my feelings; she is the one who gave me a chance to make good upon them.  For that, I am not only fortunate, but profoundly grateful to her.”

Dorothea raised her free hand, and the nobleman caught it without hesitation, brushing a kiss across her knuckles; casting a sidelong grin at the mages across the table, she saw both Annette and Lysithea gaping in astonishment at the display.  

While Lorenz resumed slicing the cake, Hanneman chuckled and sipped his tea.  “I imagine there’s a story behind this.”

“You have to tell us how this happened,” Lysithea agreed, taking the offered cup and dessert. 

“Did he make some big public speech at the opera?” Annette asked eagerly as she accepted her own. 

“Oh, nothing so grand as that,” Lorenz chuckled.  “While I like to think of myself as a romantic, I’m afraid this would not make for a timeless love story.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that -- I think it could make for a lovely opera, myself,” the diva giggled.  “Two people with similar goals divided by status, thinking the worst of each other but drawn inexorably closer until they at last break free of the confines imposed by their birth…”

“Just hurry up and tell us already,” Linhardt groaned. 

“Oh, Lin, you have no sense of drama whatsoever,” Dorothea sighed.  “But fine, have it your way.”

Taking the cup and saucer Lorenz offered, the diva turned a warm smile on him, watching a trace of color bloom across his high cheekbones as he returned it in kind.  “Alright,” she began, “it happened at the opera a few weeks ago…”

[the-melting-world]

Sleepy Valerius Fluff pt.2

GN!MC

Sleepy Valerius: Part 1 | Part 2

~ 2k words

***

You wake up feeling very stiff, but surprisingly well rested. 

The first thing you smell is shampoo. It’s mixed in with the familiar scent of body salt and sweat. Still, the sharp pine soap cuts past the other layers and lingers.

A light groan escapes you as you flatten your face against a bed of silk. The sound is answered by another, coming from just above you. Your eyes flutter open, revealing the true nature of your silken pillow.

Disbelief and even the first inklings of horror course through you as you register the soft bronze tones darkening to richer shades of brown.

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

Your eyes use the undone braid like it’s some kind of rope ladder, climbing and climbing until you reach the smooth planes of Consul Valerius’s face. He’s still waking up, blinking slowly into consciousness.

You have no words. All you can do is watch the emotions cycle one after the other on the consul’s face.

Confusion. Discomfort. Sheer embarrassment.

“Get . . . off.”

You mumble a pathetic apology as you try to disengage your arms and legs from the nobleman’s. It’s even more mortifying when he has to assist you. You’re trapped in what feels like a never ending nightmare of squirming, tripping and breathless pardons.

Finally, you both are on your feet staring at each other from opposite ends of the pew. Valerius’s braid is completely undone. His uniform is just as untidy. And his eyes, though wild and perplexed, are much clearer now than the night before.

Of course, waking up after spending the night in his wine cellar suits him perfectly fine. You, on the other hand, must look like . . . You drag your fingers through the hair at your nape to test your theory. It’s as you expected — a horror story in the making.

You notice that Valerius is looking too. His lip quivers before he blurts, “You never went home?”

You surrender your hands. “You never woke me up!”

The emotion on his face is positively murderous.

“I was drunk! And you,” his eyes fixate on your upper body, “you are heavy! What’s your excuse, barhand?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” You groan, “sleep deprivation?”

Valerius’s lip quivers again. He bursts a second time in what could possibly be laughter. Bordering on hysteria.

You take advantage of the distraction and shuffle backwards towards the entrance of the cellar.

There wasn’t enough time for you to go all the way home and change. So you walk into work with the same clothes and unkempt hair. Your boss doesn’t fail to point out that it makes you look like a thug. You apologize profusely, though on the inside you are boiling. The only upside to this whole catastrophe was the fact that you finally got some rest. Amazing how a few extra hours could give you so much energy and clarity. You wonder if the consul feels the same.

But the idea of seeing the noble again gives you the chills. And you’re not sure whether they are the good or bad kind.

Days go by. You go to work and come home with barely enough daylight to start working on your other project. So you start sacrificing your nights again. And it costs you.

It’s when your life fully returns to this familiar yet tiresome routine that you receive a knock upon the door of your tiny apartment.

You don’t check your hair in the mirror or put on a proper shirt because it was most likely just your cute neighbor, Leah. Probably stopping by to ask for some sugar. Who else would it be?

You open the door.

And it’s not your neighbor.

It’s been two weeks since you’ve been this close to Consul Valerius. 

It seems that he is alone. 

He holds up a bottle of wine. “I come bearing gifts.”

You slam the door in his face. Then you panic because this is not supposed to be happening. You curse and breathe erratically as you gather up a sleeveless pullover off the couch and tug it over your head. You suddenly become aware of how cramped and disorganized your apartment is. You even find error with the smell of natural cooking oil wafting from your kitchenette. 

Another polite knock sounds at the door. “I know I should have made some sort of announcement before showing up here. But if you give me a chance to –”

The consul’s words become even more muffled as you race to the bathroom to check your hair. It looks no better than it did the morning you woke up on his chest.

You can tell by the way Valerius muses to himself on the other side of the door that he is not going anywhere. And with how crowded your unit is, it’s only a matter of time before one of your curious neighbors begins to notice that nobility has somehow strayed this deep in the flooded district.

You return to the door, open it, and sweep the consul inside. 

“Hello again,” he greets as if this is something you two do often. You ignore him, scan the hallway for any signs of life, and close the door behind you.

“Don’t look too hard, consul,” you say, gesturing to your cluttered hovel. “I wasn’t expecting any guests today.”

He says something about the space being charming and demure while you shuffle him towards the back. Though he towers over you, it doesn’t take much effort to move him across the room. He appears to find this amusing. 

You reach the terrace that overlooks the watery alleyways. It’s small, but a lot cleaner than the inside. You guide Valerius outside and pull out a small, iron-wrought chair for him. 

He maintains that glimmer of a smile as he takes his time getting comfortable. Meanwhile his gaze coasts over you. He seems particularly interested in your arms, which you cross over your chest as you lean against the stone guard rail.

“Consul Valerius,” you sigh, “what are you doing here?”

He’s already freeing the cork from the bottle of wine.

“Enjoying the view, obviously.”

You glance behind you and snort. “Of this part of the city? It’s nothing but gray water and sinking infrastructure.”

“The other view.”

You look back and follow the consul’s gaze to your tucked forearms. 

“It’s pleasing to know that you’re as strong as I remember.”

You glance back up at him. “You’re too easily impressed, Consul.”

His clover honey eyes hold yours as he takes a swig straight from the bottle. When he takes it away, he’s left with a rosy thumbprint in the center of his lower lip. Suddenly finding yourself very thirsty, you quell the urge to lick your lips and instead join Valerius at the tiny iron bistro table.

When you take a seat, he offers you the bottle. You look away as you take a sip, clawing your mind for something eloquent and clever to say. Your thoughts sober once you realize that you are so far from the sort of company the man across from you keeps on a regular basis.

“I don’t know your name.” Valerius’s voice pulls you back to reality. “What should I call you?”

You blink and hand him the bottle. “Khleo, if you’d like.”

Valerius accepts and tilts his head. “A shorthand of Khleopath, I take? Or are you more of a Khleonari?”

You prop your elbow against the table and lean against your fist. 

“It’s nothing like that.” Smiling, you shake your head. “It’s . . . long for Khlee. My father insisted that I take his name, but Mother didn’t want it sounding harsh, so… you know. Parents. What about yours?”

Valerius gives a derisive snort. “Are you suggesting that I was ever a child? How dare you.”

You both chuckle at that. All of the tension from before has ebbed significantly. Though you still don’t know why the consul is here, it doesn’t seem to matter at the moment. 

The two of you share the wine and talk of things that are both meaningless and amusing. Your conversation carries on as you watch the shrinking daylight play games across the gunmetal surfaces of the twisting channels. 

When the bottle is empty, you get up. Sure that you have another in your cabinet, you excuse yourself and head inside.

But Valerius apprehends you on the way. Before you know it, you’re perched on his lap. His mouth is close to your ear, asking for a kiss. This shift in proximity is almost enough to make you lose your nerve. 

Still, you manage to say, “What’s the rush? You can at least take me on a date first.”

Your skin heats rapidly at Valerius’s low chuckle. “Fair. But since you’re here,” His hand coasts up the inside of your thigh. Your eyelids threaten to surrender to a sudden heaviness, but you fight it, training your features into coolness. “Can you give me something to part with?” His hand stops halfway up your leg and holds firmly to the underside.

You already know the answer is yes. But you don’t want to appear too eager, so you let your eyes drift from his tender hold on your leg to look over the terrace. You don’t make your move until he gives a sign of impatience. 

In Valerius’s case, it was loosening his fingers to drum them along your thigh. You keep your eyes averted, but lean a bit closer to him and tilt your head away, exposing your neck. The consul’s fingers freeze as he reads your offering and exhales as he bends towards you. His forehead connects with the underside of your jaw. The bridge of his nose bumps carelessly against your jugular. No lips yet, but you feel his breath, hot and yet somehow like icy needles on your skin.

“Khleo, I’ll be candid with you. I haven’t slept soundly in months. Then you appeared in my wine cellar like some kind of gift wrapped sandsprite.”

You want to trip him up with a clever retort, but you’re too distracted by the way he teases your skin with the edge of his nose. And then there was that hand on your leg. When did it become so warm?

Valerius goes on. “I thought your presence was just a lame coincidence, but it was not. I haven’t been able to revisit that deep of a slumber since.” 

Finally, you find your voice. “I didn’t realize this was a job interview.” Despite the taunt, you don’t withdraw from the touch. And neither does he. 

The noble sighs. “I know that after the way I acted, you have every reason to say no.” Then Valerius – damn him – chooses this moment to work his lips into your neck, kneading your skin like a warm, soft dough. You fight off whatever urge compels you to show weakness. 

He whispers, “I wonder if you might be interested in helping me chase this elusive sleep.”

You realize that your fist is clinging tightly to the front of Valerius’s uniform. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that your hand is determined to mangle it. 

You swallow hard before saying, “What’s in it for me?”

Gods be damned. He kisses your neck again. “Tell me what you want.”

His gentle command momentarily clears your head. Your voice sobers. “What do I want? What do I want? Consul . . . ” You sigh, perhaps too aggressively. “I can name so many things. 

Valerius’s lips subdue the vibrations of your throat, as if to tame a caged animal.

“Name one.”

You suddenly have control over your hand again. It lets go of Valerius’s collar and absently slides down his chest. Your throat bobs as you swallow once more. You close your eyes.

“I want . . .”

Valerius gives your leg a curious squeeze. “Khleo?”

“Anonymity.”

Valerius scoffs. “That’s it? Might I remind you of my influence –”

Finally, you turn, meeting his gaze head on. “I don’t need reminding.” You try to smooth down the ugly wrinkles in his collar. “Sorry. About your shirt.”

He smiles wistfully. “We can call ourselves even.” 

You get the feeling that the consul enjoys your unwarranted demonstrations of strength. And it makes you smile.

“So . . . how does this work exactly?”

(To be continued . . .)

[varian-the-unstable-alchemist]

Arrival Redo

OKAY SO

VARIANS INITAL ARRIVAL WAS STUPID

SO

THAT DIDNT HAPPEN

THIS HAPPENED INSTEAD

ANY QUESTIONS?NO?GOOD-

HERE

Im not tagging anyone okay-

just-

here

Yes I took inspiration from several fanfictions that I liked

please don't hate me

***

Varian looked down at the ground as he walked. Papers gathered in his arms, lost in thought. Rapunzel had tasked him with making the Dungeon more hospitable for prisoners, after he told her how terrible it was down there.

Being the Royal Engineer, he didn’t have the right to refuse, but he hated working on the project. He only needed to be down there for reference point, he wasn’t the one who would be carrying out the designs (thank god), but every second he was down there was like a weight pressing down on his chest. He constantly felt like he was stuck, like he wouldn’t be able to leave, and this place would be the last he would see. Not to mention the prisoners themselves. One in particular had been making the task nearly unbearable. He tried to ignore him, but the man knew exactly how to get under his skin...

He hadn’t told Rapunzel about his discomfort. It wasn’t up to him to decide which jobs he did and didn’t take on. And she’d been busy lately anyway, even though it’d been months since Zhan Tiri’s attack, they were still rebuilding. The pressure had only increased when her parents announced that they would be retiring soon, and Rapunzel would become queen.

Varian let out a breath, it’s okay, he could do this. He’d survived prison, attempted murder, all kinds of crazy magic, kidnapping, and a demon attack. He could survive this project. Besides, it wa-

Voices cut into his thoughts. Varian paused, looking to his left at a door that was slightly ajar. He weighed his options for a moment, before curiosity got the better of him. He moved to stand next to the door, leaning in to hear what the people inside were saying.

“-ust don’t know what to do, Nigel!” Varian recognized that voice as Rapunzel’s. She sounded frustrated.

“Your majesty, you already know my opinion on the matter.” Nigel’s nasally voice sounded from inside.

“I am not firing him! He’s the best person for the job and you know it! I-I just... he seems so stressed lately, and I don’t know how to help...”

“well, I’m not quite sure how to help with that, but, there is the matter of the letters.”

“We’ve already talked about the letters.”

“Princess, with all due respect, we can’t just ignore them.”

“Yes, we can! Just because a few citizens are upset that, doesn’t mean I’m going to change something that doesn’t need changing! And I want you to make sure that Varian doesn’t hear a single word about them!”

“Your highness, I-“

Varian had heard enough. He stepped into the room. “That I don’t hear a single word about what?”

Rapunzel looked up at her, eyes wide. She was unable to find words.

“The matters of the Princess are none of your concern.” Nigel said with undisguised dislike for the teen in front of him.

“They are if they involve me.” Varian said, crossing his arms.

“Varian I...” Rapunzel started “I-I can’t tell you, but trust me when I say that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great, so now you’re keeping things from me. Rapunzel, what is this about? What are the letters?”

“I...” she looked away, biting her lip. “...Varian, please...”

“You’re still not going to tell me?! They’re about me, aren’t they?”

Rapunzel looked away, and Varian felt his face heat in anger. He clenched his fists. “Fine! Fine, you’re not going to tell me, that’s fine.”

He turned, moving to storm towards the door.

“Varian-“ Rapunzel tried

“I’ll be in my lab.” He snapped, before slamming the door behind him.

***

Varian sat at a table at his workbench, leaned back and staring at the ceiling, letting the anger wash over him. Yes, he was being unreasonable, but he was sick and tired of being treated like a child, having things be kept from him simply because whomever was in question felt like he couldn’t handle it. Having one of the only people in the world he genuinely trusted do it...

The raccoon curled up on his chest chittered next to him, pressing his furry head into Varian’s cheek in an attempt to comfort him. The fuming boy took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, raising a gloved hand to scratch the ring-tailed bandit behind the ears. Ruddiger made a sound akin to purring in reply.

His lab was nice, to his tastes at least. It was messy, but it helped add to the personality. It’d been gifted to him along with the position of Royal Engineer.

Varian looked up at the sound of the door opening. He’d been expecting Rapunzel, and was surprised when he was met with Nigel instead. Ruddiger moved to curl around Varian’s shoulder’s protectively, narrowing his eyes at the man. The man looked around the cluttered room, distain and disgust easily visible on his face. There was a stack of paper clutched in his hand.

“What do you want?” Varian asked less than politely. He really wasn’t in the mood to bother with protocol.

Nigel moved his eyes to the teen in the chair with distaste. “You wanted to know what was in the letters, so here they are.”

He tossed the stack of papers the the ground next to Varian’s chair. Varian looked from the papers to him, puzzled.

“Wha-“

“If I’m being honest, I agree with every word they say. And, frankly I think a mutt you should follow their advice.” He turned, moving back towards the door. He paused at the doorway, looking back with his eyes narrowed and lips pulled back in a sneer. “By the way, you aren’t fooling anyone with your little drag show, young lady.”

He closed the door before Varian could spit a scathing comment. Ruddiger hissed at the closed door, tail swishing. Varian closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. This wasn’t the first time someone had purposely misgendered him. It shouldn’t effect him this much.

After a moment, he mulled over the first insult he’d used... “mutt” It left a foul taste in his mouth... dehumanizing. He guess it came from the fact that his parents had both been refugees, he wasn’t even Coronian... or, at least not in most people’s eyes. But he’d been born and raised here. To say that he was belonging to any other kingdom would feel wrong. It didn’t matter anyway. He took a deep breath and stood, walking over to the pile of paper.

Ruddiger’s ears flattened against his head, letting out an anxious trill. He pawed at Varian’s face, but Varian ignored him, looking down at the paper at the top of the stack.

“Princess Rapunzel,

As a Citizen, I have stood by all your decisions as Princess and temporary queen except for one. Your decision to pardon two of the kingdom’s most dangerous criminals is something I cannot possibly fathom. At least Cassandra has left the kingdom, but to keep the traitor Varian on staff? It’s honestly horrifying to me and several others. A dangerous criminal like him should be locked in prison or dead, kept away from yourself and your people, not gifted with a position so high in rank. I sincerely hope you take my words into account.

Wishing for the best,

A troubled citizen.”

Varian knew he should stop. He knew that nothing good could come from reading more, but he pressed on, flipping the page and reading the next.

“Varian,”

That was odd. It was addressed to him, why hadn’t he received it? Was the Princess Reading his mail?

“I don’t know what you’ve done to the royal family. Whether you’ve bewitched them or used some kind of mind game, I want you to know that you don’t have everyone fooled. If I were you, I’d turn yourself in or jump off Corona bridge before people discover your true intentions. Lord knows you deserve it after what you’ve done. We’re watching you.“

Varian pressed on. Some were signed, some weren’t (although very few had names attached), some addressed to himself, some to the Princess, a handful were even addressed to the king or queen. Some (he ones that Varian assumed were from old Corona), addressed him by his old name and called him a witch. But, despite the differing methods of explaining it, they all had the same idea; Varian was  a dangerous criminal and shouldn’t be working at the castle.

When he’d finally finished reading, he sat there, numb. He closed his eyes, swallowing. He understood now why the Princess hadn’t wanted to show him. Despite acknowledging the Princess’s reasoning behind her actions, he didn’t regret reading them. Now he knew how people perceived him, now he knew that he had to be more careful.

Shakily, the ravenette stood, raising Ruddiger from where he’d been curled around Varian’s shoulders and placing him on his work chair. The small mammal trilled in worry for his human, tail swishing behind him. Varian gave his friend a small smile. (it was fake, of course, but Varian had become very skilled at making them look convincing as of late)

“It’s okay, buddy, I’m alright. I just need a minute alone... I’m going to take a walk...”

The raccoon reluctantly curled into a ball, still looking up at his human with concern as he turned, grabbed the backpack he kept with himself at all times when going out, and walked towards the door

The castle was relatively quiet, most people who usually resides here were out enjoying the beautiful day. Light filtered through the stained glass windows built into the wall. Varian had never re-adjusted to the light level of the capital. It was nicknamed the kingdom of the sun for a reason, but after the crushing darkness of the dungeon beneath his feet, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to take the brightness for granted again.

As he stepped out into the courtyard, several guards waved at him. He nervously waved back, anxiety bubbling in his chest at the sight of the uniform they wore. Eugene had given it a name... what was it? Fear of authority? That sounded right... strangely enough, Eugene was the only person in uniform that he wasn’t scared of.

He made his way through the capital, people around him going about their business. Their reactions to him were diverse, some smiled and waved, some sent glares his way, some ignored him completely. Varian kept his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to make himself small.

Eventually, he made it outside the main city. He walked across the bridge, keeping one hand on the railing. He paused in the center, eyes lingering on where he’d stood only a few months ago, looking down at the water as his form shook, trying to force himself to move forward.

He shook himself out of the memory, he was in a better place now. Sure, he still had the occasional depressive episode or panic attack, but he had been doing great considering all that had happened to him.

He stepped off the bridge, pausing a moment to decide whether he should keep going along the path or walk through the forest. He decided that the latter would be more interesting and started walking slightly to the left.

Because of Varian’s tendency to spend hours or even days locked in his room and his fascination with technology, one could guess that he wasn’t a nature person. But, in reality, the opposite was true. Varian was quite fond of the outdoors and of nature itself. He’d always been better with animals than he was with people, and a walk through the forest had always been his second favorite way to calm himself down (the first being alchemy, but even the idea itself was tiring to him at the moment). He sighed, closing his eyes and letting the sounds and feelings of the forest wash over him.

He wasn’t upset. The people who wrote the letters were justified on their feelings. He’d attacked the kingdom, tried to kill its leaders, been sent to prison, escaped with a Saporian terrorist, and taken over the kingdom. Then, in what must have seemed like the blink of an eye to them, Rapunzel had returned, completely pardoned him for everything he’d done, and been rewarded with a position of high honor. No wonder they were suspicious of him.

No, he wasn’t upset that multiple of them had told him to kill himself, or that he should be back in the prison he now hated with every fiber of his being.

He definitely wasn’t.

As for Rapunzel, he wasn’t angry at her. He knew her. She could be scarily protective when she needed to be, and she saw it as her duty to keep Varian safe. Emotionally and physically. He had no right to be angry that she’d read his mail, kept something as big as this from him, and still hadn’t fired that good-for-nothing advisor.

Since his recovery, he’d learned to keep all negative emotions under lock and key. Especially anger, now that he knew how quickly it could spiral out of control. So he knew that that definitely wasn’t what he was feeling as he walked deeper and deeper into the thickening trees.

It was precisely thirteen seconds after the teen decided that he was under no circumstances angry at Corona, its people, or its Princess, that he found himself falling.

[theluckyshadow]

“Still think I’m a sub?”

Written by an absolutely lovely anon who asked me to publish this beautiful work thank-you for writing it it’s amazing.

Tagging: @sluttgyu (look it’s your wonderful confession 😉)

Chilling in your lonely and empty apartment wondering what you could do to cure your boredom. Glancing over to the clock you read 11:40. Letting a groan slip past your lips, you pick up the phone and call the first contact you see.

Dancing around the quiet kitchen as it rings.

“‘Ello.”

You’re greeted with the voice of your bestfriend Giwook. A small smile paints your lips when you hear his voice.

“I'm bored.” You say flatly, flopping on to the couch.

“Hmm, that's unfortunate, what do you want me to do about it?” Giwook laughs

'Come over?' You propose, hoping he'd agree.

'Why should I?' He teases, you can hear the little smile pained on his face and how hes enjoying being a little shit.

“We can get drunk and watch movies and order chicken, you in or no?” You laugh kicking your feet in the air for no reason.

“I'll be there in 5,” he says, before he hangs up without a good bye. Tossing the phone on to the cluttered coffee table, you tidy up as best as you can in 5 minutes.

Just as you were about to call and order take out, Giwook bursts in to your home with no invitation.

"Let’s fuck shit up tonight!" He said loudly, holding a bag above his head.

"Excited much?" You laugh finally dialing the number. He just gives a cute nod and makes his way to the couch. You jump over the top of the couch and land beside him, kicking your feet over his lap and take the bottle of soju from his hands. He looks at you in shock as you nonchalantly take a big sip and continue ordering chicken.

The night begins with a few drinking games before the food arrives. When it does the drinking doesn’t stop and you both decide to put on a movie, the alcohol in your systems making you giggle and laugh at everything and fall all over eachother. Not realizing the movie you put on had a sex scene, you burst out laughing at Giwooks reaction to the steamy moment in the screen.

"You should see your face" you drunkenly laugh all filters gone from your mind.

"Says the one the could be a twin to a rose" he snorts, laughing at your drinking blush only worsened by the current scene on the screen.

You guys calm down and actually watch it while commenting on how fake it looked, until a thought you had slipped past your lips.

"I bet you'd be a bottom.” You say not looking away from the screen.

"Pardon!?" Giwook nearly choked on his drink in shock.

"You just give off sub vibes, either that or you're a virgin, no shame in that either." You shrug looking at him.

"I most definitely am not a virgin.” He argues back whilst blushing madly.

"Okay good for you.” You laughed. His pouty expression too funny for any comments.

"And I‘m not a sub." he adds, finishing the sip he was going to take.

"Oh yeah? Prove it." You smirk, the alcohol in your system giving you the courage to say that. He quickly pulls you on to his lap and kisses you. It was sloppy and messy, but, what else would you expect from a drunken make out session? His hands gripping tight onto your hips, pulling you closer to where he needed you the most already.

You gasped against his lips when you feel his already hardened self on your core. Giwook takes this invitation to slip his tounge into your mouth, you could taste the heavy flavor of soju and beer on him and it was intoxicating. His hands make you move your hips against him drawing a moan from your lips. Giwook's kisses trail down your cheek to your neck, he paints your throat with purple and red before he returns to your face.

"Do you really want to continue this?" He asks looking at you're flushed face.

"Very." You pant pulling him in for another heated kiss.

He stands up and makes his way to your room and throws you on your bed, taking off his bucket hat and sweatshirt before taking his place on top of you, his hands make their way up your shirt and down your thigh making you wrap one of your legs around him, wasting no time, Giwook removes your shirt and sweats leaving you in your underwear- he also takes his sweats and underwear off too.

You cant help but stare in shock at what you once deemed as your innocent best friend.

Giwook pulls the top of you're bra down as he was either too drunk still or couldn't be bothered to unclasp it. He moves your underwear to the side and tests the waters by inserting a his fingers into you first. Your eyes flutter shut and a soft gasp leaves your lips. You could feel Giwook's eyes roam all of you as he watched you easily unfold in front of him.

"And here I was thinking you were a top, guess we were both mistaken baby," he says in your ear followed by a chuckle, his words leave you speechless as his voice dropped a bit leaving you shaken (in all the right ways), a chuckle leaves his slightly swollen lips at the reaction.

You could now start to feel your self start to come near to your high, means increasing in pitch and volume.

"G-Giwook!" You gasp grabbing at his wrist. He just chuckles and removes his fingers from you and uses the wetness that covered his hand, and fingers, to stroke himself.

"You look pretty submissive yourself right now babydoll, what a pretty sight.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss you again. You whimper against his lips as you feel him push into you, a smirk paints his plump lips at your reaction, he stays still and awaits a reaction.

"Please Giwook, move please, just do something," you whine, moving to a whole new kind of sub space.

Giwook starts out soft but quickly moves to a faster and rougher pace. You throw your head back and let out a chorus of whines, moans and whimpers.

"Fuck look at you, begging and I didnt even have to ask you." Giwook groans in to your ear. You gasp and lace your fingers in his hair and pull him into another kiss as best as you can. He sits up and grabs your thighs, making you wrap your legs around him, gripping tightly and watching himself thrust in and out of you. You grab and hold on to anything and try to muffle your noises, Giwooks’ hand travels to your clit and harshly rubs it, sending a jolt through you, causing a loud moan to rip from your throat.

"Nah nah, dont hold back, let me know how good I'm making you feel.” He chuckles.

You didnt know how long it had been but you could feel yourself curling your toes and your stomach tighten. A broken moan of Giwooks’ name was your way to signal to him your close release. He chuckles and speeds up, the bed now creaking loudly with each thrust and the head board harshly hitting the walls. The new pace as well as Giwook’s constant assault on your clit helped bring you to your release, you let go nearly screaming as you cum hard around him, his own groans and moans now much more often and louder, he continues to thrust through your orgasm as he chases his own, slightly overstimulating you. You could only gasp and claw at his back, lost in a world of pure pleasure. Giwook’s thrusts become sloppy and inconsistent before he stills and buries himself into you as he let's go, painting your walls with his release. A whimper leaves your lips when he plants kisses along your collarbone as he pulls out, falling beside you.

You hear a crack and look at eachother and let out a tired laugh, still trying to catch your breaths.

"So," he pants looking to you, you look back at the brown eyed boy, "Still think I’m a sub?"

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 14/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Belle tries to get some answers from her father, but not is all as it seems, and in the middle of the night she makes a terrible discovery.

Notes: Once again this chapter didn't end up where I wanted it to. I'm going to end up drawing all this out just because I'm terrible at estimating how long these chapters will be. Sorry I'm like this. For the 31 Days prompt #16: fire.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13]

Belle marched down the corridor.

The sound of her heels was loud and sharp, matching the cadence of her heart as she stalked towards her father’s study. Her fingers curled into fists as she came to the door, ready to kick and scream if necessary until Milton let her see her father. She pounded on the door three times and stepped back with her hands on her hips.

It creaked open and Milton’s thin, boney face appeared in the gap, his oddly pale eyes narrowing at her.

“I want to see my father,” she said firmly.

He moved back and began to close the door, but she caught the edge of it with her hand and pushed into the space, using her hip and shoulder to force it back open.

“Now.”

Milton drew back, his mouth opening to say something, but a voice from inside the room stopped him.

“Milton? Who’s there?”

“Papa?” she called out. “It’s me!”

“Belle!” came Maurices voice from inside. “Petal, come in, let me see you.”

She shot a glare at the steward, and stepped passed him into the room.

Maurice got up from his desk, a large mahogany thing with carvings on the sides, and came around to greet his daughter. He held out his hands to take hers and lifted them to his lips where he pressed a kiss to the back of each one.

“Belle, my dear, I thought you were to arrive yesterday?”

She squeezed his fingers with hers. “We did, we arrived just before supper.” She glanced over at Milton and met his stern gaze with one of her own.

Maurice frowned. “No one told me.” Then he looked to Milton, who had the decency to look sheepish when fixed with the questioning eyes of his master.

“My Lord,” the steward said, bowing at the waist, “I apologize, you were resting and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Maurice shook his head. “I always want to be disturbed for my favorite daughter.”

Belle rolled her eyes, smiling in spite of her annoyance at Milton’s clear defiance of her father’s wishes. “I’m your only daughter.”

Maurice leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Yes, precisely.” She laughed, and let him lay her arm over his. “Come, let’s talk in the library where it’s not so cluttered. Milton, put the ledgers away, we’ll finish this later.”

They passed by Milton as he mumbled a quick “yes my Lord,” and made the short trip from the study to the double doors of the library.

“Is everything alright, Papa?” she asked as he eased the doors closed.

“Of course,” he replied, motioning towards the velvet covered lounge with the sloped, curving back. “Didn’t you read my letter, my girl?”

“Well, yes, but - it was just a bit strange.”

Maurice let out a soft grunt as he sat, and Belle noted that he seemed to be favoring his left knee again. He’d injured it last summer dismounting a horse he had no business riding in the first place, when he landed in the mud and twisted his leg. It had bothered him off and on ever since, and it occurred to Belle that perhaps Gold’s issue was as simple and embarrassing as that. Of course he wouldn’t want to tell her everything about it when it was such an innocuous and silly thing.

“What was strange about it?” Maurice asked.

Belle sighed. “You talked of the winter preparations, the repairs to the mill, but nothing about how you were, or whether things have improved now that the debt was paid down. It - it made me worry, Papa.”

“Oh, my dear,” he said, lifting her hand with his and letting it drop on his knee. “Everything is well. I am well, see?”

He leaned back and puffed out his chest, and she laughed softly, shaking her head. “Yes, yes I see. Your knee is bothering you though, isn’t it?”

He sighed and nodded. “Yes, but it’s nothing. I’m an old man and I’m allowed to succumb to some aches and pains, am I not?”

“Yes, Papa,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “And you are not old.”

The look he gave her made her giggled again, and she could feel some of her anxiety lessening. The incident with Milton was still sticking in her mind as suspicious. She knew she should trust her father, and trust in his confidence in Milton, but she wondered if it might be possible to get a peek at the ledgers, just to be sure.

“You’re sure everything is alright?”

Maurice huffed and straightened. “Yes, I’m quite sure. Where is all this coming from? Do you not trust me to run my own estate?”

She wanted to point out that trusting him to run his estate was how they’d gotten to the state they were in, well, that and the war in the south that King George had insisted on fighting. Now that it was over, the kingdom was rebuilding and recovering, but Avonlea still seemed to lag behind for some reason, and while she understood her father’s reluctance to discuss all his private matters with her, she felt that the status of the house of her mother’s family, which might still someday be her inheritance, was something she had a right to understand.

“No, no, it’s not that,” she insisted. Then she sighed. “It’s just different now that I’m not here. I wonder and I worry, and I won’t apologize for that.”

He exhaled and nodded, and reached for her hand again, holding in one hand while he patted the back of it with the other. “No, no, I don’t suppose you will.”

He hadn’t exactly agreed to tell her more, but she supposed for now she’d have to settle for him at least trying to understand. There was another matter she was hesitant to broach, but this was likely to be her only opportunity to speak with him alone for the near future. “Why didn’t Milton tell you I was here last night?”

Maurice let go of her hand and bristled at the question. ‘Why are you so suspicious, my girl? You marry that - that snake Gold - and now you come back and question everything? I thought you were here to visit because it’s been weeks since we’ve seen each other, and yet you sit here interrogating me?”

Belle sprang to her feet, her brow knit in consternation. “What do you mean by that? It’s not as if I had a choice in who I married, or did you forget the sad state of affairs of those ledgers just a month ago?”

“Belle, please, I didn’t mean that. Only that if Gaston hadn’t - ” He sighed. “If not for that, then Gold wouldn’t have been an option. This is not how it was supposed to be.”

“No,” she said, quickly stepping back when her father tried to take her hand again. “It’s not how it was supposed to be at all, nor how I wanted it to be, but that didn’t matter did it?”

“My dear -”

The doors opened just then, and they both stopped, toe to toe between the sofa and the fireplace. Milton stood in the doorway, a slight smirk on his face that Belle wanted to slap right off his long face.

“Pardon me, my Lord, there is a letter from Meryton that needs your attention.”

Maurice sighed. “We’ll talk after dinner, alright?”

She nodded, and gave Milton another hard stare, which he returned with a sneer behind her father’s back. As soon as the doors closed, she flopped down on the sofa and squeezed one of the pillows in anger as she stared into the fire. Her father was keeping something from her, and she didn’t know why, but it was obvious that Milton was part of it. They’d never had an adversarial relationship before, always being quite courteous but distant.

The former steward, Edward, died at the very old age of eighty-one. By then Avonlea was already in debt and approaching dire straits. After a few months of her father struggling on his own to maintain everything, with Belle trying to help where she could, King George had recommended Milton. In hindsight, Belle knew she should have seen that as strange, and she made a mental note to mention it to Gold.

Dinner had been one of Belle’s favorite dishes, crispy duck with a sauce made from plums and red wine, with the last of the season’s squash and apples roasted alongside it. Gold remarked that he could see why she preferred it, and the grin he gave her made her hopeful that he would mention it to Ms. Potts when they returned and she might get to enjoy it more often than when she visited Avonlea. Even Bae, who was normally a very picky eater, was pleased, and she counted it as a significant victory that they all made it through with light, pleasant conversation and full bellies. It was one of those hearty meals that signaled the end of autumn and the coming winter, and it always left her with a warm, contented feeling.

Except she was not so content this evening. Her father had begged off speaking with her after they ate, giving her a flimsy excuse about his knee aching and wishing to rest it in a hot bath. Her father never did what was best for him in that way, and he had never liked very hot baths before, usually preferring them more lukewarm so it didn’t make his skin itch. She supposed things could change, but not in just a few weeks.

Here she was again, restless, unable to sleep, and taken to worrying about everything to the point where she was considering sneaking into her father’s study to get a look at the ledgers. She glanced at the door of her room again and bit her lip. It was late and everyone else was probably asleep, but there was one person that she considered it was possible was not. Milton had always claimed a tendency towards insomnia, which was why he often worked late during the evenings, but even he shouldn’t be in the study at this hour.

Belle paced the space between the bed and the sofa several times, mulling over her plan, before sighing and giving in to temptation. She took the tall candle from her bedside table and wiggled her feet into her slippers before easing the bedroom door open. The hall was dark save for the two candles that were left lit through the night, but she stared down it for some time all the same until her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she could make out enough shadowy shapes to navigate her way safely.

It took her only a few minutes to make her way down the back stairway the servants used and cross through the drawing room to the main hallway. At the end of it was the study, and she waited at the door for a full minute before she opened it. The door was thankfully dark save for the remains of a fire, and she shivered as she stepped into the chilly room.

She pulled her robe tighter and came around the desk, setting the candlelight to the left of the ledger. Her fingers traced the cover, hesitating before she opened it, and she blew out a breath and closed her eyes before lifting it.

The first page was nothing more than rows of numbers copied over from the previous ledger, which seemed to have ended just after her marriage. She could see that everything appeared to be in order, the debts had been cancelled out, and the expenses and taxes didn’t outweigh the income from the harvest. She smiled and turned the page, only to have her face fall. The next set of numbers were less comforting, and there was one entry for a not insignificant sum that had no notation as to what it was for, nor a name for the payment. It was possible that her father had simply forgotten to write it down, but she didn’t think Milton would be that sloppy.

The next page had another of the same entry for almost the same amount, and again there was no notation or name. The total at the bottom was surprisingly low for an end of season harvest, particularly one that they had expected to be the best in several years. She bit her lip and looked at the next page, letting it fall from her fingers as she gasped.

Several rows of torn paper stuck up and she trailed her fingertips over them, counting at least four pages that had been ripped from the book. Her breathing increased as she felt the telltale twist in her gut that told her she was correct in a way she hoped never to be. The glow from the candle and the fire gave the whole scene an ominous feeling, and she turned the next page slowly, swallowing hard as she revealed the inevitable.

Row after row of figures went down the page, including one of the empty entries, now infamous in her mind. At the bottom, she could see the sad truth, that Avonlea was in debt again, to at least three different creditors this time, instead of just to the royal treasury. Her heart sunk all the way to her feet and she pressed a hand to her mouth as a sick feeling rose up in her throat. In spite of Gold’s payments to the King, her father was well on his way to ruin all over again.

She staggered back from the desk, knocking against the chair and making it scrap against the wood floor. The sound was startlingly loud, and she held very still, waiting for another sound that would tell her if anyone overheard. After a minute or two of nothing, she sat down in the chair with her head in her hands.

Her marriage, leaving home, Gold’s money.

It had all been for nothing.

She lifted her head and stared at the ledger for a long moment before reaching out to flip back to the torn pages. What had been on them that needed to be torn out? And who had done it? Was it her father in a fit of anger, or Milton trying to hide what was happening until it was too late?

The fire snapped, and she jumped in her seat. Her eyes fixed on the fireplace, and she pushed to her feet, crossing quickly to the hearth. She knelt down on the warm stone in front of it and peered into the flames and ashes. Even the heat from the low fire was searing this close, and she winced as she leaned closer. Near the front she made a discovery that raised her eyebrows to her hairline, the remains of at least two sheets of paper, the same color and weight as the pages of the ledger.