Hi, I Am An Aquarius And An INTP. Thank You!

our twisted threads of fate

Pairing: Jamil Viper x gn!reader

Synopsis: When you finally meet your soulmate in Twisted Wonderland, you realise the bond is only one sided. He's your soulmate, but to him, you're just someone from another world.

Tags: soulmate au, pining, crushes, friends to lovers, canon divergence, spoilers for Ch2 and up, reader has a soulmate mark and cooks, bot proofread

Word count: 3.3k+

Notes: Wrote this fic in one night and it's basically my love letter to Jamil's character oop. This is Day 20 of the 30-day April event held by @twistedchatterboxed. So glad to be taking part in this event <3 Make sure to check out everyone's work too!

"So? Why are you asking about my accident?"

The moment the words left his lips, you could feel a strange feeling course through your veins. A warm, tingly sensation could be felt on your collarbone, as no doubt the words written there were reacting to the presence of the man sitting before you.

It had been terribly exhausting adapting to Twisted Wonderland, given how chaotic your new friends were and how incredibly run-down Ramshackle Dorm was. Not only were you now expected, to keep up with the curriculum of NRC, but also be the headmaster's errand-runner. Which brings you back to the current conversation.

After the numerous accidents that had befallen several promising players for the upcoming Spelldrive tournament, the headmaster requested, no, ordered you to investigate the suspicious circumstances. So here you are, after having investigated several students who had gotten injured, standing in the cafeteria with your friends, asking the second-year student what exactly happened during the incident in the kitchen.

What you didn't expect, however, was to find out that Jamil Viper, the person who got injured in said incident, was your soulmate.

Another joke fate played on you, was that soulmates didn't exist in Twisted Wonderland. They were nothing more than a trope in fiction, poetic devices used to dramatise romances. But for you and your world, finding your soulmate is something so tremendously precious, it's considered the best thing that could happen to someone. Most people had "hello" or "hey" written as their mark, you were fortunate that your mark was something so identifiable.

'So? Why are you asking about my accident?'

You had always hoped to find your soulmate, the one who would be your other half, only you didn't expect the bond to be one-sided.

You took a deep breath and try to compose yourself before meeting his charcoal eyes. "We're here at the headmage's behest."

Jamil hummed, crossing his arms and contemplating. "The headmage?" he mumbled quietly. "Huh... Well okay."

He continued recounting the events of the previous night, while Kalim interjected occasionally, eager to join the conversation. But you found yourself lost in Jamil's voice, smooth like honey, flowing with a baritone richness that sent shivers down your spine. His eyes, sharp and glinting with intensity when he was deep in thought, held your attention like a mesmerizing spell. The way his dark hair fell neatly, framing the right side of his face, added to his undeniable allure.

The thrumming sensation on your collarbone persisted, as if your soulmate mark was screaming at you to take action. And you wanted to. You wanted to tell him, tell him how much he means to you, but you knew that he wouldn't be able to understand or reciprocate.

"Because we're not talking about me here!" You're broken out of your trance as Jamil exclaimed, flustered by Kalim's words. From there, your focus is back on the new clue Jamil has given you, and with an inkling of who the culprit might be, you left the cafeteria with the group in search of a certain hyena.

Days turned into weeks as you got wrapped up in the shenanigans of one dorm after another. It was frustrating and draining, and it didn't help that you were also trying to balance everything while getting used to the strange land.

Having found yourself growing increasingly conscious of your spending habits, given Crowley’s tight budget for Ramshackle, you decided to start cooking dinner for yourself and Grim in the cafeteria kitchen. Crowley had graciously given you permission to use the school kitchen after you made very valid points about how unusable the Ramshackle kitchen was, while making you promise to keep your gremlin cat out of the kitchen for safety. And with Sam generously giving you discounts on groceries knowing your situation, you found yourself frequenting the kitchen. It was rather calming and helped you unwind after a stressful day.

It also helps that your soulmate also frequented the kitchen.

It all came as a shock when you discovered that he was personally in charge of preparing each meal for Kalim and testing for poison. It seemed so bizarre, so different from what you were used to. You had known that he was Kalim’s caretaker since they were children, but you couldn't fathom how he managed to handle everything as a student, let alone when he was younger. But like everything else in Twisted Wonderland, you learned to accept it. This wasn’t a fantasy novel where characters had tragic backstories for the sake of character development; this was their real life, and you couldn’t just impose your values on them.

Still, you can’t deny that Jamil working in the kitchen is a delightful sight. He moves with precision and grace, like it’s a dance he’s practised a thousand times before. You can see the passion in his eyes as he creates his culinary masterpieces. He takes pride in every dish he makes, and it shows in the way he carefully plates each one. You can tell that he's been doing this for a long time, and he's become quite skilled at it.

As he finishes up his dish, he offers you a taste, and it's impossible to not be impressed by the explosion of flavours in your mouth. You compliment him on his cooking skills, and he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased by your words. In return, you often let him taste your creations as well, and as you started exchanging compliments and criticisms with each other, a gentle friendship between the two of you started to form.

You’re not sure if it’s from the soulmate bond or your personal interest in him, but undeniably, you find yourself eagerly soaking up every piece of information you could find on Jamil like a parched sponge absorbing water after a long drought.

Every little bit of him makes your heart soar, like how despite his reserved demeanour, there's a quiet confidence about him that's hard to miss, how he handles unexpected situations with ease, or the glimpses of a mischievous glint in his eye when he thinks no one is looking, but you notice it easily because your attention is on him invariably. You adore how naturally he shows his care for others, including you: the tender hand he places on shelves or tables to prevent you from hitting your head when you get up, the kind cautionary warnings he gives you when you’re using a knife or cooking, his soothing touch full of patience as he takes care of your injuries when you’ve gotten too distracted by him.

Your heart yearns to see more of him, to learn every single thing about him.

You are deeply in love with him.

But the gravity of your soulmate bond wasn’t something you could tell him. You don't want to pressure him into feeling a certain way or risk changing the dynamic of your relationship, especially with his already long list of worries. So, you decide to simply keep it to yourself, content with the friendship the two of you currently have.

Jamil Viper found that fate was incredibly unfair.

Being born into a family of servitude, it was a necessary skill to be able to blend in with the crowd. While there had been many times when Jamil wished he could break free from the mould and show his true potential, it was ingrained in him to never outdo Kalim and to constantly keep his family's position in mind. He was used to living in the shadows, never drawing attention to himself.

So, when someone from another world began to show an overwhelming amount of interest in him, Jamil was taken aback.

Things started to change when he started cooking in the cafeteria kitchen with you. He had enjoyed taking his time and working without interruptions in the kitchen; it was a rare moment when he could be alone with his thoughts. And while that changed when you started showing up in the cafeteria kitchen more often, Jamil also found himself enjoying the small talk and banter that would occasionally happen between the two of you while cooking. He had been startled when you started talking to him and asking him questions about his life, but you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him. It was a new feeling for him, and he didn't quite know how to respond.

He notices how you would watch him intently as he cooked, pleasantly surprised by your apparent admiration for his culinary skills. Your praises gave him the feeling that his efforts were truly acknowledged. He even found himself looking forward to the times when you would show up, excited to see what new recipes he could whip up with your assistance.

But what surprises him the most was that your attention is always on him. Even when other people are around, you seem to be looking at him, and it makes him feel seen in a way he never had before. He doesn't know why you were so interested in him, why you seem to support him no matter what, there to offer a kind word or a helping hand reassuringly. Without a doubt, he is grateful for your presence, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to your kindness than met the eye.

You are different from anyone else he has ever met. Coming from a different world, you don't care about his family's position or his connection to the Asim heir. You see him for who he is, and that makes him feel seen and appreciated.

Your attention had made him uncomfortable in the beginning, but now he can't deny that he likes it. He likes being noticed by you, being acknowledged, and appreciated for who he is.

It's not until one day that the truth hits him like a basketball to the face.

He's in love with you.

He yearns to spend the rest of his days making you happy, to create a future with you that was filled with love and warmth. He envisions days spent cooking together, the aroma of spices and flavours melding in the air as you laugh and savour each other's company. He finds himself craving your presence like a parched wanderer in a desert that craves water. He wants to hold your hand, to wrap his arms around you, to claim you as his own in a way that was both tender and possessive. His love for you has bloomed into a magnificent wildflower, bursting with vibrant colours and life, but also carrying a touch of greed. Like a protective vine, he curls around you, unwilling to let anyone come too close, fearing you'd wither in their presence.

He wants you to be his, desperately so.

But as much as he wants to express his feelings, he knew that it wasn’t the right time. The friendship that had blossomed between you two was something too precious; he didn't dare jeopardise his bond with the one person who made him feel like he mattered.

And so he keeps his feelings to himself and continued to come to the kitchen every day, cooking and chatting with you, content to just be near you, helping and caring for you in whatever way he could. Helping you wash the dishes, learning your favourite foods so he could make them for you, getting extra ingredients for you, he puts his mindfulness to full use when it comes to you. He cherishes the precious and fleeting moments you spend together, fearing the day you leave and go back to your original world.

One night, you walked into the kitchen looking troubled and lost in thought. Jamil couldn't help but notice something was amiss. You didn't even acknowledge his presence as you went straight to the fridge to grab some ingredients for cooking. Concerned, he speaks up. "Is everything okay?" he asks, "You look a bit troubled, is something bothering you today?"

You let out a heavy sigh and turned to face him. "Not really. I just couldn't fall asleep last night, so I'm a bit sleep deprived," you replied.

Jamil nodded in understanding. "I see. Hmm… I can brew tea that can help improve sleep quality. Would you like to try some?" he offered.

"Are you sure? I know you're very busy," you said, not wanting to be another burden on him.

A wry smile appeared on his face as he walked closer to you. "You're too considerate," he said as he playfully poked your forehead. "I have plenty of time to brew tea, so don't worry about it." He smiled as he started boiling water. "By the way, if you don't mind me asking, what’s on your mind? It’s unlike you to lose sleep unless something's bothering you."

You hesitated, knowing full well that he was what had kept you awake last night. While you wanted to be content with your current friendship, you suppose it was in your nature, given the soulmate bond, to be incredibly greedy. It was selfish of you to hope, but you yearned to be bonded to him like lovers were. "Well, it's a long story," you eventually answered.

"I don't mind listening. You can tell the story while I'm making the tea," he replied nonchalantly. "Just tell me whatever you’re comfortable with sharing."

Well, here goes nothing.

"Uhm... To start, have you ever heard of soulmates?"

Jamil thought for a bit before nodding. "I've heard of them, yes," he answered as he poured hot water into a teapot. "It's where two people are 'destined to be with' each other, right? I've heard of them before. Why do you ask?" he turned to face you with a curious expression.

You fidgeted with your hands, unsure of how to approach the subject. "It's just, in my world, they’re a very real thing." You took a deep breath and began to explain to Jamil about soulmates in your world—how it's believed that every person has a special bond with someone else, their soulmate, and that when they meet, they just know that they were meant to be together.

Jamil listened intently as you spoke, noticing the wistful look in your eyes as you talk about soulmates.

"At first, I wasn't sure about it either," you admitted. "But then... I met him."

Jamil's expression changed, a bitter wave crashing over him as he realized that you've found someone who had captured your heart. He had been content with being just friends, never daring to hope for more, but now it seemed that you had found someone else who made your heart sing.

"I see," he said, his movements a bit stiff as he poured hot water over the tea leaves. "It sounds like a beautiful thing, to be so connected to someone else," he commented, albeit a bit stiffly.

This stiffness goes unnoticed by you though, as you nodded, feeling a little embarrassed for bringing the conversation up. "Well, the thing is, I had hoped to find my soulmate. And... to have found him here in Twisted Wonderland, yet my connection to him is one-sided... I'm sorry; I know it sounds silly... It's just been on my mind a lot lately," you admitted.

Jamil shook his head. "Don't apologise. I'm glad you told me, it must be really important to you." He said, distracting himself by pouring the tea into a mug. "Here you go," he said, handing it to you. "It’s chamomile tea. I hope it helps you sleep better tonight."

"Thank you," you replied, taking a sip of the warm liquid. It's fragrant and soothing, and you felt a sense of calm wash over you.

Despite the sharp pang in Jamil's chest as he came to terms with the fact that you belonged to someone else, he couldn't help but be captivated by the image you paint of your soulmate. His heart clenched with bittersweet emotions as he pushed aside his own longing, resigned to the reality of unrequited feelings, as he had always done. He looked at you and asked, "So, what is your soulmate like?" His voice trembled slightly, betraying the turmoil of emotions within him.

You hesitated, torn between revealing the truth and keeping your feelings hidden. But as you met his intense gaze, you felt a surge of courage well up within you. Taking a deep breath, you described the person who holds the other half of your soul.

"He's incredibly responsible and resourceful," you said, your words tinged with a shy vulnerability. "He's always looking out for others, taking great care of the people around him. He's thoughtful, kind, and selfless."

As you spoke, Jamil's mind raced with a mix of emotions. He couldn't help but see himself reflected in the description you gave, recognizing the qualities that you admired in your soulmate. Could it be possible that you're describing him? His heart pounded loudly in his chest as he tried to keep his excitement in check. He cleared his throat and asked, "And... what about their hobbies?"

Okay, this is it. "He enjoys basketball and dancing quite a lot."

You watched as the gears turned in his head, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as he realised what you had said. "Me?" he asked, his voice barely audible as a flush settled across his face, his emotions swirling like a tempest within him.

You nodded shyly, confirming his suspicions. Jamil's heart skips a beat, and he could hardly believe his luck. "I... I'm your soulmate...?" he stammered, his voice barely audible, but the joy in his eyes was unmistakable.

You nodded again, hesitating for a moment before speaking, "I... I’ll show you," you said as you start to unbutton the top buttons of your uniform. He raised his eyebrows in alarm, his gaze flitting between your face and the wall, seemingly flustered by your words. You could barely hold back a laugh at his adorable reaction, but you composed yourself and pulled down the collar of your shirt, revealing the words written neatly on your collarbone in a familiar handwriting—his handwriting.

Jamil stared at the mark, his expression unreadable. The words written there are in his own handwriting, unmistakably so. He reaches out tentatively, his fingertips grazing the letters as if trying to confirm that what he's seeing is real. He feels as your body thrums at his touch, and a wave of possessiveness washes over him, seeing his mark on you as if you belonged to him. For the first time in his life, something, no, someone, finally belonged to him completely.

"This is what I meant," you said quietly. "It's my soulmate mark. The first words you ever said to me."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of surprise and tenderness. "I... I can't believe it," he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "This is... this is incredible."

You smiled, feeling a rush of warmth spread through your chest. "It's real, Jamil," you murmur, cupping his hand on your collarbone. "We're soulmates."

He nodded slowly, still unable to take his eyes off the mark on your skin. "I never imagined... I never thought it would be like this." He looked at you with a newfound sense of possessiveness, as if he was realizing for the first time that you were truly meant for each other. "You're mine," he said in a low, husky voice. "My soulmate."

Your breath hitched at his words, and a shiver ran down your spine. You could feel the depth of his emotions, the intensity of his love, and it left you feeling weightless. "Yes, Jamil," you said airily. "I'm yours, and... you're mine."

He smiled tenderly before leaning in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, yet possessive, kiss. It feels like fireworks going off in your head as you realise that the bond you had been searching for your whole life has finally solidified. You deepen the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pull him closer, lost in the moment of pure connection. When you finally pull away, both of you are left breathless, smiling widely at each other.

Jamil had always thought fate had pulled a cruel joke on him. But if fate had brought him a soulmate from another world, maybe it wasn’t such a bad joke after all.

Congrats on the 1.5k!!! You’re a great writer!!

Can I have a matchup please?

I am an Aquarius and my mbti is INTP

Thank you

based on your zodiac & mbti, i match you with:

HINATA SHŌYŌ

runner-ups: kyōtani kentarō, shibiyama yūki

The Woes of the Witch of the Wastes (Howl's Moving Castle AU)

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit (+ Reader x Neige LeBlanche) Word Count: 7.3k

Summary: The Witch of the Wastes has long come to terms with the fact that to keep a hold on his powers and beauty, he is going to have to be every bit the terrible monster that everyone assumes him to be. And then one day he goes and curses some stupid little hatter and his entire world is turned on its head.

A/N: Based on this horrid, mind-melting, brain rot that has not left me alone in days

Vil Schoenheit was only a small child of nine when he was swept up by the Royal Sorcery Academy and told he would ‘accomplish great things indeed.’ Madame Suliman, the King’s Head Sorceress herself, patted him on his head and proclaimed him the brightest talent of his generation.

Vil Schoenheit was fifteen when he cured his first ‘incurable’ poison. And then created his own draught that could actually bother to live up to such a lofty title. The Palace gave him all sorts of fancy medals and when he stood there in the throne room, the Crow King nodded at him in approval. ‘Vil Schoenheit is certainly meant for great things,’ he said, just as everyone always had. Meant for it. Like Vil didn’t wear himself ragged training, and fretting, and putting every part of himself into his work until there was nothing left to give. But that was fine—because perhaps being ‘meant’ for something and improving yourself enough to be worthy of those things in the first place went hand in hand.

Vil Schoenheit was well into established adulthood when he turned down a very lovely, very traitorous, offer from a foreign enemy, and his loyalty landed him yet another set of medals and even more slant eyed looks of admiration. ‘The most gracious treasure in all the lands,’ they called him. ‘A beauty unrivaled in both grace and intelligence. Someone who was no doubt meant for only the best life had to offer.’ Vil stood at the center of the room, beneath the spotlight of an entire nation, and grinned white and sharp. His beloved mentor approached him from amongst the throngs of near worshippers crowding the halls. There was a wispy, young, man at her side. The poor thing looked terribly out of place in the upper crest gallantry of the Royal Capital. He was wearing all the wrong colors, all the wrong cuts of fabric. He looked soft, and earnest, and like someone who would be eaten alive by court politics before he’d even managed to squeak out his first greeting.   

“This is Neige LeBlanche,” Madame Suliman introduced, with a sort of sickly, sweet, fondness that had Vil’s stomach souring into something entirely unpleasant. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him—from that messy business at the Coast.” (The business he’d stopped, she meant? The conspirators he’d ousted?) “Such a natural talent,” she crooned. “He really is exceptional.”

“Of course I’ve heard of him,” Vil offered, polite. He turned then to Neige with a smile that showed perhaps a few too many teeth. “I’m sure you’ll do great things.”

Madame Suliman squeezed her new ward’s arm and Neige LeBlanche went as pink as freshy plucked Meadowsweet. Vil fought to keep from digging his fingers into the fine edges of his champagne flute. The very one he’d been offered to toast his own successes.

“No doubt he’s the brightest talent of his generation!” Madame Suliman beamed, and Vil grit his teeth through the dark, curling, spike of something that speared through his gut.

Vil Schoenheit was sitting in his own, personal armchair, in his own, personal lounge (all gifted to him for his own, personal achievements), when Madam Suliman walked into the room with that same, dainty, interloper on her arm. ‘Excellent news!’ she’d smiled, in that way that wasn’t ever really a smile. Neige LeBlanche—with his stumbling, bumbling, kindness that bordered on idiocy, and his myriad of unimpressive successes built on nothing but luck and happenstance—had been named her successor. By decree of his Majesty the King himself.

Naturally, Vil decided to… politely object the announcement. Which very rapidly descended into black swirls of poison eroding the palace grounds and calls for his execution.

And So Vil was chased out of the home that he’d built for himself—that had been promised to him. He hid himself in the Wastes until he’d regained enough of his shattered arcana to ensure he could at the very least survive an encounter with his pursuers, even if the outcome would be far from pretty.

There were Demons in the Wastes. Strange, ethereal, things that Vil had once been ordered to eradicate on sight. But now he was one of those miserable, undesirable, vermin too, wasn’t he? So why not consort with the beasts? A Demon of Envy sought him ought first, offering justice like it was a fruit ripe for the picking. Like anything could be that simple. Then came a Demon of Fire, and another of Poison. All weaving their honeyed words and bowing low as they begged to take something, anything, of the Grand Sorcerer for themselves.

So Vil traded away bits of himself piece by piece. A lock of his hair, the flesh from his forearm. His skin cracked and dripped with inky, dark, magics that swam through his veins and worked to replace all the parts he sold away. And wasn’t that so funny? That these Demons put a high enough value on his little odds and ends that he could probably sustain himself off their fancy for an eternity, and yet the people whose favor he’d courted so earnestly, so faithfully, for his whole life had been so willing to offload the entirety of him at the first opportunity.

Vil learned to hide his cracks with a harsh-edged, grandiose, layer of illusions. He learned to wipe away the tar and to stitch himself back together into something better. He grew so quickly and so strongly under these new patrons of his that soon enough the hunting parties disappeared altogether. No one was willing to go toe-to-toe with someone who could curse you to a literal death with nothing but a wave of his hand. The common people whispered his name under their breaths like a dark incantation.

‘The Witch of the Wastes,’ they called him, in panicked, hushed, undertones. They spread rumors of him feasting on the hearts of virgins and laying towns to ruin under the weight of his black magic. They talked of his power as if it was a thing to be afraid of, and most certainly it was.

‘Perhaps it is not so terrible to be feared,’ Vil mused to himself, the sharp, small, smile permanently affixed to his painted lips twitching at the corners. ‘If it means I’m also revered.’

And so the years passed in this fashion, with the country growing more and more wary of the icy beauty who’d made the Wastes his fortress. When the Royal Sorcery Academy reported an upset in their ranks, finally admitted that despite their star pupil, their outputs were floundering and their students lackluster, Vil watched with a righteous sort of glee. When Neige LeBlanche inevitably fled from Madame Suliman’s tutelage—publicly absconding into the night with nothing but the ill-suited clothes on his back—Vil laughed and laughed until the storms curling off his tongue had wiped out an entire harbor.

So he’d won, hadn’t he? Neige had been run off, the Academy was near ruin—Madame Suliman more so. But when rumors started to swirl of a powerful, ethereally lovely, mage who traversed the countryside in his slowly crawling, architectural nightmare of a castle, that bitter part of Vil reared its head with a vengeance. It wasn’t enough for the rat to come in and swipe his cushy, imperial, position out from under his nose, but now he was gunning to take the Witch’s mystique for himself too?! People were even saying Neige was the one eating hearts! Which was entirely unfair!

And then one horribly, ugly, sunny afternoon, Vil encountered his nemesis entirely by happenstance. Despite years of outright hunting the man, in spite of all his well-planned traps and schemes, Neige LeBlanche had only finally appeared before him by accident.  

There he was, waltzing through the open market air with some ridiculous little commoner clinging to his arm. Vil watched the pair with open disdain—that inky, awful, part of him raking its claws up his spine. Neige stepped through the sky like he was descending some grand, ballroom, staircase, and the startled look of half-terror, half-awe on his partner’s face didn’t do much to improve its complete lack of remarkability.

Something even more bitter twisted in The Witch’s gut at that. What was it with these pathetic, mediocre, untalented, pieces of garbage that had his cohort swarming to them like dogs after a choice cut of meat? It was disgusting. It was unfair.

That evening, spite drove The Witch to darken your doorstep. This was a small town, and it was hardly difficult to track down one, insignificant, little nobody. Especially when that ‘nobody’ still wreaked of a too potent, too bright, magic that Vil could scent like a shark to blood.

“What a tacky shop,” he hummed as he stood in the foyer of your modest store. “I’ve never seen such tacky, little, hats,” he continued, amethyst eyes slipping over your tight countenance. It was such a stupidly, boring, plain, face. His own expression twitched into something sour. “Yet you’re by far the tackiest thing here.”

You raised your chin at him, your upper lip going stiff in a bitten off frown.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” you demanded, making your back to the front entrance and pulling it open with a brisk, irritable, tug. “The door is this way, sir. We’re closed.”

Vil leaned forward with a sharp bark of laughter, and the lights overhead flickered into shadow. A trail of inky wetness slid from the corner of his lips, and the air seemed to grow heavy with it.

“Speaking like that to the Witch of Wastes,” he tutted, reaching up to swipe away the smudge of stinking, black, goo. “How quaint.”

“The Witch of the Wastes,” you echoed, eyes widening almost comically in horror as that awful, cloying, sludge swirled around you like a storm. It settled over your skin and seeped through your clothes. Vil could feel the heavy pull of the curse as it took hold. He plucked at the magic like it was string on a harp, and he could feel it thrum through your veins—settling itself in like a terrible plague. He could already see the affliction working away. Your skin began to droop and fold, your back hunching up under the sudden weight of years you’d never even lived.

So ugly, so ordinary, he thought bitterly. Whatever made you worth anyone’s attention, it certainly isn’t there anymore.

“The best part of this spell is that you’ll never even be able to tell anyone else about it,” he chirped, entirely unpleasant, and glided out the door in a whirl of purple smoke. “Give Neige my regards.”

Vil didn’t see you or your wrinkled frown again for weeks, though the fact that you were alive still at all to cross paths with him in the first place was a bit of a surprise.

You were perusing the markets of a small fishing town with a little, grumpy, old man at your side. The tiny thing was clearly cloaked in some low-level illusion spell, with a staticky, lilac, beard that swallowed his head whole and puffed-up brows that seemed to weigh down his entire face like a tangible thing.

“Hrmf. I hate potatoes,” the boy masquerading as a retiree complained.

“Pay up,” you chirped, lining at least a dozen along the bottom of your wicker basket. You didn’t look quite as old as you should have—more of a ‘gracefully aging into your twilight years’ than the ancient, broken, hag you were meant to be. There were always caveats to curses. By their very nature, they were built to one day break. Finding the key to that lock, however, was meant to be the crux of the problem. And if one was keeping with that whole metaphor, Vil’s curses were very hard to pick. Had you managed to find something? Impossible. He was sure he’d battened the magic down as tight as it could go.

Vil watched you move about through the slitted eyes of one of his inky, purple, henchmen. If you were here, did that mean you’d managed to find refuge despite the curse he’d inflicted upon you? Or perhaps—his eyes narrowed—you’d been found. Shadows slithered out like grasping claws, and he could taste the burst of too bright, too wild, magic on his tongue. Neige.

You walked towards a fisher’s stall, cane clicking along the cobblestone. And despite his earlier grumblings, your little shadow snatched the basket from your hands and followed diligently at your heels.

“Hrmf. I hate fish,” it grumped from behind the mouthful of purple poof. And then held the woven basket up again when you went to lay a wrapped salmon amongst your other purchases.

“Epel, you’ll never get any taller if you don’t eat something better than bread,” you chastised, like the grandparent you were.

“I don’t need to get taller!” your companion hissed. “I can beat up everyone from down here just fine!”

You laughed, and it sounded young. The crinkles at the corner of your eyes deepened with mirth rather than manufactured years, and when you smiled some of the harsher lines of age vanished altogether.

“Of course you can, you little ankle biter.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Vil frowned sourly, but before he could do anything further, there was a commotion in the harbor. The King’s most recent war had clawed its way to even these outskirts it would seem. You and your little shadow disappeared in the chaos, but Vil was too distracted by the fluttering storm of recruitment fliers that followed to care.

‘All Able-Bodied Witches and Wizards Are To Report to the King’ they read. All of them.

And when The Witch of the Waste received his own, personal, invitation with Suliman’s signature sitting curled and elegant at the bottom, he couldn’t help the spike of private satisfaction that wormed through his veins. The parts of him crying ‘trap!’ were silenced by the much larger, much more smug, swirls of contentment settling heavy alongside his blackened heart. Of course they wanted him now—to clean up the mess that he certainly could have prevented entirely in the first place. Of course they’d come crawling back. Of course they’d finally realized just how much they needed him.

Running into you yet again as he made his way to the palace felt like more than a coincidence, but Vil brushed it off with a sneer. As if you were actually important enough for your presence to mean anything. Bah.

“Why, if it isn’t that tacky little creature from the hat shop,” he drawled as you walked alongside his intricate, feathered, carriage. There was a gangly, black, crow perched at your shoulder, and it glared at him with beady eyes. Vil curled his lip at the thing and it fluffed up like a startled cat. “What business does someone as poorly connected as you have here at the palace?”

“Job hunting,” you scowled, and the crow squawked like a protest. “And what about you? I didn’t think the Royal Guard would be prone to welcoming someone as reviled as the Witch of the Wastes into their ranks.”

Despite all that vicious scowling, somehow you looked younger still than the last time he’d seen you. Something small and bitter unfurled in Vil’s gut. Even some lackluster, magicless, commoner was breaking through his incantations now. He shook his head to clear the heavy, cold, press of inadequacy and tilted his chin back to preen.

“After all this time, the idiots running the palace have finally realized how much use they can find in my abilities,” he huffed, lips curled in satisfaction. You went quiet, and watched him with an odd sort of look in your eye.

“If you’re so great and powerful, you could always get rid of the spell you put on me,” you offered, like that was any sort of incentive at all. And like you’d only even asked to keep yourself from saying something else entirely.

“Apologies, darling. But my talents lie in casting curses, not breaking them,” he crooned, entirely unsympathetic. And you didn’t even blink at his prodding. Vil let the curtain fall back over the small window of his carriage with a wave of his elegantly manicured hand. “Enjoy the arthritis.”

His carriage carried on as you shouted after him—waving your cane and threatening to beat him black and blue.

“If I didn’t have to worry about you being here I would have clobbered him,” you grumped at the little, decrepit, crow shuffling along your arm. It rattled its wings at you and you almost swatted the thing, before letting it teeter its way up back onto your shoulder with another frustrated sigh.

The Witch of the Wastes had only just crossed through the great, gleaming, gates of the Imperial Palace when his elaborate, peacock, carriage fell to bits—crumbling under the weight of talismans nearly as ancient as the fortress itself.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he snarled, and the guards assessed him like he was no better than anyone else who came stumbling through these gates. Like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trapped within these very walls. And like he wasn’t here now, all these years later, on a personal invitation.

“Apologies, sir!” one barked. “Vehicles are prohibited beyond this point!”

A sharp and sudden crack rocked through Vil at his core, and the panic that followed was acute and near painful. Whatever these wards were, they weren’t just suppressing the magics he used for his carriage. This was… This…

But, no. He’d been invited. And powers dampened or otherwise, he would hold himself together until he could make his way through those grand doors.

Climbing the first few stairs felt like coming home, felt like pride. And then the Witch reached the fourth, stone, step and the elaborately crafted heel of his boot snapped like a toothpick—the magic sucked away like water being taken in by a sponge. He nearly stumbled over, and only just managed to catch himself without falling outright.

There was a surprised sort of gasp from behind him, and he whipped around with a snarl to see you standing at the base of the same stairs—eyes locked on his faltering steps with obvious confusion. Vil curled his lip at you in a silent challenge and you shook yourself out of whatever funk had settled over your brain. Then you too began the trek upwards, your cane clicking against the stone as your went.

The next splinter that worked its way through him was outright agonizing, and with no small amount of distress did Vil realize he was leaking. There was a sharp, thin, crack running from his temple to his jaw, and the burbling, black, goo welled up beneath it like blood to a wound. It dripped against the stone with an awful, thick sounding, plap. Thankfully this time, you had the self-preservation not to go making any confused noises at his situation, but your stare was a heavy weight on his back nonetheless.

Another crack appeared along his collarbone, and he could feel the endless layers of elaborately crafted, gem-toned, cloaks grow wet with the miasma slipping down his skin. He could feel a creaking, groaning, misery building along his joints—like a doll that was being slowly pulled apart at the seams. The Witch barely bit back a gasp when the delicate fabrics along his sides split against his cracklings ribs, and then you finally did grumble at him again.

“Why don’t you just give up?” you asked, shaking your head. Vil’s lips (or whatever remained of them at this point) curled up over his canines in a snarl. And while the words themselves dug at him in a way that was too personal for someone as ignorant as you to be fully aware of the bite of them, you didn’t look… mean about it. Your brows were tucked up, like it was a genuine inquiry—like you were concerned. Either way, he sneered up at you and you frowned harder, before offering a bewildered, “You’re killing yourself.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?” He spat. “Fifty years. Ever since Suliman—” he rasped, a spasm of sharp pain ripping through his hide like claws, “—banished me to the Wastes.”

You stared at his miserable, dripping, form for a long moment before you huffed and turned to continue your climb. “Too bad I’m not younger, then. I could have lent you a hand.”

Vil snarled and it bubbled up like tar. He felt a trail of it burst along his chin. “Next time I’ll turn you senile too.”

You laughed at that, and the bird on your shoulder squawked when your giggling jostled it around.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled, and turned to keep making your way up towards the grand, gold, doors.  

You’d passed him by now—with your wrinkled, old, legs and withered muscles. Even with that ugly crow cawing and rattling around at your collar like the world’s most obnoxious scarf, you still managed to hobble your way to the top of the stairs before Vil had even reached the halfway point.

“Almost there!” you mocked, waving your hand at him.

But when he continued to struggle, you turned to one of the guards at your rear with a tight little frown.

“You should go help him,” you said, with just enough gentle fussing that you certainly must have been genuine, and Vil wondered deliriously for a moment if his ears really had melted off his head. When the guard spouted off some nonsense about ‘strict prohibitions’ and ‘court etiquette,’ you snorted and turned back to face Vil and his slushing, inky, mess with a tight thunk of your cane. “That’s ridiculous! The King himself invited him!”

When all those blank faced soldiers still refused to move, you offered Vil a little cheer that he hoped broke your stupid, elderly, knees.

“Come on, then!” you called after him, with another weird, wide, gesture. Though this one was far less antagonistic. “You can do it! Let’s go! Are you a Witch, or aren’t you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Vil seethed as he finally clawed his way to the top of the steps.

You didn’t reach down to pull him to his feet. He wouldn’t have let you do it even if you had, but you watched him with a grumpy sort of concern that had him feeling prickly in indignation. Who were you to pity him?

“Pull yourself together,” you ordered after a long moment of trailing at his heel like a skittish dog, and like he wasn’t literally being held together with the magical equivalent of some tape and a bungy cord. “Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for, hmm?”

The pain was terrible. Horrible. So sharp and miserable that Vil couldn’t even will a corresponding insult into his thoughts, let alone past his panting lips. You stared down at his hunched form with a tight sort of concern, and with that same stiff lipped not-frown that you’d been wearing the night he’d swept into your store and torn the youth straight from your bones.

You stayed at his side for the entire walk through the corridor, which meant you must have purposely slowed yourself to match his lagging stride. And when he began to sway beneath the weight of some heinous, creaking, mass of shadows, you dipped just close enough into his space that he was left leaning against you in a decision that was most certainly not of his own accord.

Soon enough though you were shuffled off into a separate room—the crow honking on your shoulder like some old, awful, squeaky toy. The cavernous hall Vil was led to was familiar, and instantly all those silenced rationalities about this being a trap came crawling out from where he’d so furiously buried them.

They bound him into a grand chair that was a mockery of a throne. Lights danced across the room, their high-pitched drone scraping through his ears and melting whatever remained of his panicked, terrible, thoughts to mush. He could see the shadowed outlines of all the Demons he’d contacted over the years—all their thin, pale, bodies twining around him in a macabre sort of dance. They locked hands and he watched his own split beneath the weight of beastly talons. He felt the remainders of his magic as it was stripped away layer by layer, leaving him bare, and hideous, and every bit the monster he’d tried so hard to hide behind crafted perfection for so many years.

When he was wheeled into the Gardens after they’d taken everything from him all over again, he felt like the main attraction in a freakshow being put up on display. The world was spinning, and whirling, and nothing would stay still. Suliman’s shadows stretched throughout the glass dome like an insect crawling through the muck. And you were there. Looking… younger again, somehow. Bright, and alive. And when your youthful gaze landed on him it filled with fire.

“Once he too was a magnificent sorcerer,” Madam Suliman sighed, speaking about her long-lost protégée with the same sort of emotional investment as someone lamenting over a spilled cup of coffee or a wasted coupon. “So much promise. He could have done such great things…”

The words stung nearly as terribly as the wounds spanning the whole of him. But before they could seep in further and tear out whatever living bits remained of him, you bolted up from your chair so quickly that you sent the thing toppling over. And then you were moving to stand between the monster and his maker, squaring your stance as if to guard him. Like you intended to protect this awful, wretched, melting, creature—

“You’re insane! I get why Neige was so afraid to come back here!” you barked. “It’s all a trap! You lure people in with promises and false invitations, and then strip them of all their powers!”

The rest of the encounter was a bit of a blur—colored by nothing but the pain and shame mulling Vil’s senses into nothing but a perpetual curtain of static. There was someone else there eventually. Neige, he would guess, by the way Suliman was puffing up and throwing her magic around. And my, was there a lot of magic. Cold, tactical, enchantments that wore away even at his already shredded senses. You were shouting something, and he could feel your hands grasping at what were once his shoulders. And then the lot of you were flying away—higher and higher into the sky until Vil was too dizzy to tell up from down.

The pain and exhaustion took him eventually. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened—only that when he blinked back into consciousness, he was collapsed atop a heap of rubble and there was a little, blue, fire demon yowling in his face. When he woke up again (slightly more coherent this time), he realized he was in a room. A swaying, creaking, room. And ah, this must have been that Moving Castle he’d heard so much about.

You were seated across from him, looking a bit worse for wear, but when you noticed his eyes slide open you were immediately lurching to your feet rambling about bandages, and antiseptic, and ‘gods I need to get some food into you before you wither away.’

When you sat back at his side with a little first aid kit and reached for one of his battered, twisting, limbs, Vil snarled at you with a noise that was so inhuman he almost managed to startle himself in the process. The cracks along his skin pulsed unpleasantly, and the smell of ash and muck filled the air. You stared him down firmly for a few more moments before sighing and moving to stand back on your feet. You didn’t take your kit with you, just slid it a few inches closer before taking your leave.

When you returned a few minutes later, you were balancing a plate full of toast and toppings. You sat yourself down once again and went about buttering a thick, fluffy looking slice of bread. Once that was made up to your liking, you reached over to set a little pot of jam off to the side with a teaspoon sticking out of it like a flag post. When Vil made no move to partake in your offering, you stared at the Witch and the hulking, twisting, mass of shadows that made up the entirety of him. Then you stood back up with a hum and returned a moment later with a sturdy looking mug. You filled it about halfway with a ladle of light, herby, smelling broth.

“This might be easier to get down,” you said, but it mostly sounded like you were muttering to yourself.

He glared at the cup bitterly. His fingers—claws now—flexed against the table where you’d set his meals, and they left deep, crackling, gauges in the wood. You stared him down rigidly and after a long moment where you very nearly started tapping your foot at him, he reached out with his clunky, mucky, talons and scooped the mug into his hands. When he took a tentative sip, you beamed—all that petulant frowning melting into something outright indulgent. You immediately went doddering about to fetch him a bit more.

“Stop feeding it!” the fire shrieked. “You’re wasting perfectly good food!”

“That I could be giving to you, you mean,” you chastised, topping up the mug with more of that thin, warm, broth.

“He’s evil!” the fire squawked at your accusations but very obviously did not deny them, perfectly indignant. “And have you forgotten about the you know what that’s got you stuck looking like a you know who!”

You waved off the little Demon with a shrug. “Oh, he’s alright.”

“He is not!” the fire wailed.

“He’s just as cursed as the rest of us,” you said, with a note of stern finality to your voice.

With that, there was a great clatter at the stairs, and a horribly familiar face clamored down to join the rest of you.

Neige LeBlanche had grown into his awkward warmth, Vil would give him that at least. He wore those same loose-fitting pastels and billowing jackets like they were things of comfort, something carefree. His dark hair had grown out a bit shaggy, but it still sat in that same choppy, artfully mused, style atop his head. Like a fluffy, ebony, halo. There was a youthfulness to those bright, brown, eyes that would probably never fade, but at least he looked a bit more like a person now, and less of an over manicured doll sitting at Suliman’s beck and call.

“The Witch of the Wastes at my breakfast table?” the Wizard mused, not without kindness. The teasing tone had Vil grinding his molars. “Whatever possessed you to let him into my house, Grim?”

“I didn’t let him in!” the demon yowled. “Your stupid hatter crash landed a plane into my face!”

Neige burst into peels of delighted laughter and clapped a gentle hand against your shoulder. “I knew you’d make a great pilot!”

A few of the wrinkles around your brow vanished when you scoffed, your lips curling into a smile even as you rolled your eyes.

“Your wall has a new hole in it that would beg to differ.”

“Excuse me!” the fire wailed. “But are we just going to ignore the fact that the Witch of the Wastes is sitting in our kitchen! Looking like he just crawled out of the pits of Hell!”

“He’s my guest,” you said after a moment, face pinched up again like you were trying to look stern. You turned a pointed frown on Neige and squared your shoulders. “You said I should treat the Castle like it was my home, too.”

“I did,” the brunette beamed, looking positively giddy. About what, Vil didn’t even want to consider. Whatever awful, sentimental, drivel was woven into your declaration was none of his business.

“…I guess we can’t just kick him out,” the purple haired boy grouched after a moment, stabbing at his porridge.

“Yes! Yes we can!” Grim shrieked, and you made a motion like you were threatening to upend a cup of water all over him.

“Nonsense,” Neige chirped, brown eyes melting into something warm and gooey. “If my dearest friend trusts him, then so do I!”

Dearest friend, Vil wanted to scoff. Please. As if the affection bubbling up and out of him was in anyway platonic.

Not long after, Neige darted off with a promise that he was ‘preparing something special!’ You nodded at his enthusiasm as he swooped off through his magical Portal Door, and then turned back to Vil with that same stiff lipped determination you were so prone to.

You showed him to a little room off to the side of the main parlor and dubbed it his. You lowered the curtains to dull the sharp brightness of the afternoon into something more tolerable, and brought in extra blankets when the Castle walked through a chilly valley. Even though Vil sat through your fussing in obstinate silence, you still chattered at him every time you stopped in. You carried in trays of delicate, bland, snacks that would be easy on his stomach. When he refused to touch them, you brought more of that broth instead. You puttered about cleaning the inky miasma that pooled on the floor beneath his feet, and only silently offered him a fresh handkerchief and cup of water when the tar built up so thickly on his tongue that he couldn’t even manage to swallow it. When you caught his glare resting on the intricate mirror hung on the wall opposite his new bed, you rolled up your sleeves and bodily yanked the thing off its frame.  

“Is there something I should call you?” you asked, maybe a week into this new situation of his.

When he didn’t answer, you just hummed under your breath, considering.

“It just seems like—well, you mentioned that you were banished to the Wastes,” you mused. “So I can’t imagine you really enjoying being called their master.” You smiled a little crookedly, something teasing sparking in your eyes. “I know I wouldn’t like to go around with people calling me The Ruler of Retirement Homes, or whatever.”

“I am what I am,” he managed to croak after a moment, and didn’t even let himself feel too pathetic over how utterly miserable and inhuman he sounded.

“You’re whoever you want to be,” you replied with a shrug. “You can be a Witch if you like. I just figured I’d ask.”

You’d finished up your cleaning and were on your way out the door when he spoke up again.

“Vil,” he sighed, so quiet he wasn’t even sure you’d be able to hear him at all. But you stopped at the threshold and turned to look back at him with your head canted to the side—like a curious, little dog.

“Vil,” you repeated with a nod, and something entirely foreign cracked through his chest. For a moment he was worried that somehow there had been a part of him yet left unbroken, and that now he’d lost even that. But… This was a different sort of ache. Even if it was no less worrying.

Each day after that you greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning, Vil!’ and brought him his evening herbal teas with a gentle ‘Goodnight, Vil.’ It was the first time in more than half a century that he’d heard his name spoken aloud. Sometimes he’d even wondered if he’d managed to forget the sound of it entirely. But here you were—some silly, little, hatter rattling it off like it was something easy, something palatable.

Then one day you came to visit him smelling like flowers, your brow scrunched in obvious unease.

“You’re certainly looking your age this afternoon,” Vil huffed at you, and the corner of your lips only just barely quirked in amusement before falling flat all over again.

You stared out the window with an absent sort of expression on your face. Distant.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, hoping he sounded more sour and put upon than he probably did. A trail of dark, wet, muck slid down his cheek to land on the floor with a heavy plap and you moved to his side to wipe it up.

“…Sometimes I just get this feeling that all this is likely to change at any moment,” you said finally, quiet. “That even though I’ve worked so hard to make a place for myself—to be happy here—that it could all just…”

Something painfully familiar curdled in Vil’s gut. The hot sting of failure, the bitter inadequacies that had dogged his steps his entire life. He reached out to lightly thwack you across the back of the head with one of his too-long, clawed, hands. A couple of drops of inky magic splattered along your cheek and you frowned at him petulantly. Good. Pouting was better than whatever that miserable look had been.

“Get over yourself,” he huffed. It rattled oddly in his wrecked throat, like something animalistic. “You think you’re special enough that the whiles of the Universe would seek out your sad, little, life to ruin? Please.”

You spluttered at him indignantly for a moment before that irritable puffing melted into hiccups, and then finally laughter. You laughed into your palm like a secret, and something in Vil’s chest eased that he hadn’t even realized needed easing to begin with.  

“Of course, Vil,” you beamed. “How silly of me. Thank you for reminding me how meaningless I am. It makes all the difference.”

He sniffed, putting on as much an of an air of irritability as he could manage.

“As if that was for your benefit,” he argued pointlessly. “There’s only enough mops in this place to allow for one person to be leaking unmentionables all over the floors at a time. The last thing this poor, hideous, Castle needs is to be stained with your tears on top of it all.”

“That would be quite the inconvenience,” you agreed, warm.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, almost nervous. And then you ducked forward quickly to wrap yourself around him in a hug that was more a desperate sort of clutching than anything else. It was tight and small, and with all the cracks and holes in him, it was certainly far from enjoyable. There wasn’t even enough time for those grotesque talons of his to tuck around you in return. Not that he would have! It just—it was only an observation! You’d just… darted in and out. Like that tiny crutch of affection was all you dared take. Nevertheless, that same, strange, thing in Vil’s chest yawned open all over again. Even though his body was literally splintering into bits and his throat was always bubbling over with the horrible consequence of selling himself away, this was the first time he’d really felt like he was drowning.

“Thank you, Vil,” you said again, softer than he’d ever heard you, before slipping back out the door.

When the War he’d been summoned to help the Crown fight finally made its way to their doorstep, Vil was unsurprised when Neige rushed forward to clutch at your hands and urge you to safety.

“I’m tired of running,” the Wizard said, pale fingers twisting with the telltale shadows of magic overuse. “Especially now that I have something worth fighting for.”

And oh, Vil realized with startling clarity as bombs dropped around their strange, walking, home and smoke filtered through the air. That was it, wasn’t it? The key to the curse he’d so thoughtlessly bestowed upon you.

‘Who could love such a retched, ugly, thing?’ he’d thought.

But they had—they all loved you. The fire demon that cooed for your attentions and the little boy that curled into the fringes of your cloak like it was his favorite blanket. And Neige, with his open doting and the soft heart he wore on his gaudy sleeves. All that love had slowly worn away the dark ailment he’d cast upon you, like water beating down the jagged edges of a stone.

You were shouting something at the little fire demon, and then the Castle was groaning and heaving like a dying beast. It felt like the world was collapsing in on itself, but with the swirling weight of his musings curling through his thoughts like the headiest of drugs, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Even when the ceiling crumbled on top of him, nearly burying him alive, it was hard to focus on much else beside the horrified look in your eyes as you stared after him with your youthful, lovely, face.

But why now? He wondered a bit blearily, as you kicked through the wreckage of the Moving Castle to crouch at his side. You prodded at the gashes on his cheeks like he could still bleed, like the little wounds he’d collected meant anything in the grand scheme of all his aches and miseries. Why now when all these poor fools had clearly already cared for you for so, very, long?

“It’s going to be okay, Vil!” you smiled at him, a bit teary, and helped him to his feet. “I promise!”

And as those last dregs of black magic were washed from your features—when those thin, lingering, lines faded back into the sharp determination of youth, and all that remained of your ailment was a shock of silver lightening your hair—he had another, horrible, moment to think oh.

No wonder it’d broken.

Because how could it not? When he loved you too.

By the time you managed to dig them all out of the shattered remains of the Castle, Vil couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Neige had gone and died. If that’s why you’d come into his room the other day, sniffling about change and happiness. If you’d known he was about to sacrifice himself so that his little, hobbled-together, family would be able to survive the upcoming trials at least somewhat intact.

There was a lump sprawled out across your lap that didn’t look entirely human—blot ridden and blood soaked. And maybe… With the way you were staring down at it with a trembling mouth and misty eyes, surely that had to be him. Surely that was—that was it then. It was over. But then the little fire demon was swirling up and around, jumping about in a wave of blue sparks and spouting nonsense about returning his master’s heart.

With a final indignant yowl, Grim curled over the empty cavity beneath Neige’s collar and vanished in a gentle roll of sapphire flames. There was a burst of sparks, a bout of excited, feline, trilling, and then Neige LeBlanche was jolting up with a gasp.

“Ack,” the Wizard groaned, immediately falling backwards with a wince. “It—Ouch. It feels like there’s a weight in my chest.”

“Of course there is,” you laughed, scrubbing away the relieved tears that were brimming along your lash line.

Your soft, warm, gaze traveled fondly along the wizard sprawled out in your lap, then to the little, lavender, boy and the ancient crow perched atop his shoulder. And finally it settled on Vil—a heavy, tangible, weight that he could feel all along his spine.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” you said, soft.

And Vil, who had spent the better part of his life breaking his own into splintered shards to barter away to whoever would take it, couldn’t help but agree.

.

.

Since I could actually come up with something,, comfort kisses with either jams or rugbert

Ily btw <3

sleepy love!! jamil viper, ruggie bucchi

jamil kisses you lazily, sloppily, reaching up to you but not quite reaching you, longer-than-average tongue sticking out between his lips as he his eyes narrow, you becoming a problem to solve. his untied hair falls lazily over his now bare shoulder, his tee slipping off as he captures your lips in another, better, more proper kiss, eyes smouldering like burnt charcoal- in victory.

ruggie nibbles you slowly, trailing up your body with his sharp, pointy teeth, leaving a dotted trail of love bites all over your body from your thighs to your neck. murmurs of quiet praise vibrates across your flesh, and while you can't say these are kisses when you asked him for kisses and cuddles, these feel so much more intimate. sacred. you're scared to touch him and pull him closer, but ruggie knows, ruggie always know, and his lips meet yours once, twice, thrice, and you feel him smirk against you.

a/n: ily too, inky!! <3 i hope you're feeling much better now, and have a good day <3 note: became mildly suggestive, somehow. uhhhhhhhh

word count: 155 words

hey guys if you could help by reporting this post, that would be a great help !! my work got reposted and translated when i don’t allow it and when i messaged the user, they just blocked me. i would really like their post to be taken down.

the reposted & translated one :

my original work :

I am pleased

A game!

@hipster-merchant-of-death @katsontherun @babayaga67 @danielsleftwhitevan @dekusleftshoe @thots4daze @michiieewrites @aizawascumslut @ravenfeet222 @strawbirb @yanderart @league-of-villians-headcanons @sailor-manga

please give me all your love

「riddle rosehearts, lilia vanrouge, vil schoenheit x gn!reader」 ↳ in which you accidentally drink a love potion and fall for the one who's always harbored unrequited feelings for you. cw: angst, suggestive themes (all)

[riddle rosehearts]

You two were childhood friends and Riddle’s been in love with you ever since he could remember; it was ironic, truly, that after consuming a love potion, he was the first person you sought out. Trusting in his judgment to know what to do under these circumstances. Didn't you know that the potion would make you fall for him? How could you be so utterly reckless?

Everyone at Heartslabyul already knew of the Housewarden's surreptitious soft-spot for you in spite of his objections to it. You always obeyed the rules, following them to the best of your ability—even when you were frustrated with them, all because, "I like the Queen of Hearts, too♪".

But Riddle's feelings blossomed much sooner than that. When you'd write him letters under the guise of educational tips with a secret code hidden inside so that his mother wouldn't be overly suspicious. When you'd taken him gently by the hand, holding onto him with such strength, as if you were afraid he'd slip from your fingers, and told him, "I like being your friend, Riddle. You're super smart, and you always let me be myself! You're the only one who can do that for me!".

Which is why it hurt when he felt your arms wrap around him, hands lingering around his waist in an intimate way you'd never do with a friend. Words of praise and adulation left your mouth, dripping like a sickening honey. "I love you, Riddle. You're so cute when you blush⋯ Hey, we've been together all this time, we should stay together forever⋯"

“[Name], d-don’t kiss there; that’s inappropriate⋯!”

With your body pressed tautly against his back as his arms carried you back to your dorm, Riddle felt your lips press quick, feverish kisses along the nape of his neck; the sensation evoking goosebumps to cascade across his sensitive skin as frissons of heat rippled down the column of his spine.

The dulcet sound of your sweet, breathless giggles filled his ears as you suppressed the compulsion to smother his skin in your kisses. And Riddle couldn’t help but recollect the copious times as kids he was left to your whims, incapable of doing anything but following along.

“We’re not children anymore, if it’s carrying you like this, I can handle it,” Riddle retorted curtly. It was frustrating when you refused to listen to his scoldings, especially in this situation where your mind was rapt with fabricated affection. “⋯ Hah, they’re not listening anymore.”

Riddle entered within your room, setting you down onto the bed with the utmost caution. Left in his care, you were peering up at him with pleading, dewy eyes; and he heaved a sigh in response. “You’ll kick up a fuss if I leave, so I’ll stay. But you’re not to leave the room until the potion wears off, got it?”

As you nodded your head, Riddle went to whirl around on his heel and head over to your desk when you abruptly entwined your arms around his neck and tugged him down—your lips meeting his. “Mmph! [Name], what are you⋯?!” Riddle breathed out, tinctures of desperation and panic heady in his voice, before he felt you press another kiss against him.

You pulled him into you further, allowing his weight to descend overtop of you as you hopelessly deepened the kiss. Deeper, deeper; you pressed him into you despite his protests.

“——You’re a cruel person, [Name]! Do you even know how much I love⋯” Cutting himself off tersely, Riddle seized your shoulders and pushed you back away from him as he swiftly stood up.

Vexation was acrid on Riddle’s tongue as he was maddened with your naivety, your thoughtlessness, and he gritted his teeth together and snapped at you, “Stay in bed. If you come any closer to me, it’s off with your head, you understand right?”

The feel of your lips sunk into his rapid pulse, permeating a warmth that ached—but the thought of experiencing it again was nothing more than an unimaginable wonderland.

[lilia vanrouge]

Lilia never expected you to return his love—he truly felt content in how your relationship currently was; doting on you whenever you were overburdened by the bits and pieces of life’s difficulties and were in need of a little spoiling⋯ in need of him and the advice he can offer.

That's why, when Lilia had heard you’d drinken a love potion, he was quick to be at your side. He couldn’t let anyone take advantage of you, could he? He always, perpetually, looked after you! As soon as he questioned how you were doing, he found you suddenly clinging on him; and that’s when he realized what was going on. The love potion had made you fall in love with him.

"Lilia-san, my chest hurts. It's overflowing because of you!" The darling words spilled from your lips as you enveloped him in your arms, taking hold of him like he was your everything.

Soothing hands cascaded through your hair, ameliorating your fear towards the inundation of new feelings. Lilia was here, as he always was, soothing you; taking care of you.

“You’re eager, little one. But you shouldn’t be doing this,” Lilia’s low, modulated voice whispered against your ear with an almost teasing lilt as you squirmed in his lap; yearning for his hands on you. “⋯ Why? Because this isn’t how you truly feel. It’s just the effects of the potion you drank.”

Lilia’s lithe fingers brushed away strands of your hair from sticking to your face, luxuriating in how your body flushed from his simple, yet loving, actions. You were too adorable like this, pliable and receptive to his every movement in a way he’d never seen from you before.

Rubbing your cheek against his, you smoothed your hand over his chest and tapped the tips of your fingers along with the beat of his heart; his heart that thumped and thumped in its socket, thrumming warmth along his body.

“Fine, just a little. I’ll give you some love♪”

Planting feathery kisses into the crook of your neck, Lilia placed a hand on your back as he massaged languid, affectionate circles into you. He could feel your body begin to tremble as a smile curved on your lips, reveling in how he was finally showering you in his love.

Lilia never considered himself a selfish person—he always took your feelings into consideration when he interacted with you, keeping you at arm’s length with his scares and equally inane pranks.

But as he held you, he felt a greedy vine slither between and around his ribcage; encasing his heart with thorns that perforated his resolve, letting his forbidden devotion leak out. The desperate, unending need to have you be his in a way unlike before.

“Are you satisfied yet?” Lilia asked softly as he removed his lips from your neck, your supple skin that shimmered from the saliva left behind. A slow, deep corruption until the potion wears off and you can never return. “No? My my, you’re almost as greedy as me, little one.”

[vil schoenheit]

At first, Vil was furious with you—how could you be so ignorant and stupid as to drink a potion without knowing what it’ll do to you? That was⋯ until the person whose affections you were sworn to have was him.

Hearts rose from the depths of your eyes, illuminating your innocence. You followed him everywhere, desperate for just a glimpse at the man who swallowed your mind whole. "Vil-san, you're perfect. You’re all I can see and feel."

Vil had always knew you didn’t love him in the way he loved you. Yet, still, he was persistent in attaining your love. One day, you’d be his; and he’d never give up on it. The graceful and talented one who wove him the finest outfits with all your skills and devotion. The one who sits through lectures and lessons out of reverence in order to cultivate your knowledge on fashion and beauty. Never cutting any corners.

He’ll “eat” up the you who’s drowning in forbidden love for him and melt it into reality, make it come true; as if the effects of the love potion were simply your feelings since the start.

A silky, lustrous mouth sucked on your ear, leaving a thin trail of saliva connecting your sensible lobe to his painted lips. In each teardrop clinging to your lashes, Vil could see your need for him—and it only exacerbated the unabating longing in his chest.

Vil’s slender finger traced along your jawline, tilting your head upwards to gaze upon his impassioned countenance. “Simply perfect. With your lips trembling, breaths thickening⋯ you’re like a ripe fruit. It’s divine,” he praised you, haughty and amorous. “No matter how embarrassing it is, this is who you are.”

Being the one to bring you such heights of beauty and pleasure, Vil was beyond pleased with your quivering body laid beneath him on his bed. His hands moved across your body with such a precision of ardency, it was ethereal. It made you feel hot, needy.

Vil brought his lips down to your exposed collarbone, nibbling at the skin; a sweet scent rose from your heated flesh, letting him suck on the honey-like essence. “Look over there, my doll, in that mirror,” he instructed you, nails digging into your thigh as you obediently did as you were told.

However, upon seeing the silhouette of your own body shaking from your gratification, you squeezed your eyes shut. “Hey, don’t look away. This is what you wanted, right? To receive all my love like this⋯ am I wrong?” A wicked laugh bubbled on his lips, his lips that were still pressed against your clavicle, and the motion magnified his kisses.

Now that he’s gotten a taste, Vil would stop at nothing to continue to devour you—he wanted this sight of you all to himself a little longer. Even if all that reflected in your glossy eyes were nothing more than a sweet lie.

“The ‘you’ who doesn’t hold back in your desires is the most beautiful of them all.”

hiiii can i request fake dating au w tsukishima

「Real, Faked Love; 高仿」

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader.

summary: the two of you fake a love in front of the third gym squad.

warnings: casual alcohol consumption. timeskip occupation spoilers. fluff.

word count: 1,990.

a/n: hi anon🥺 thank you for your patience and request. ngl, i had a Very Hard Time with this request bc i’m not confident with my grasp on tsukishima’s character nor on the fake dating trope. you really found my achilles’ heel hahahhaaa (side note: the more i look at the word “fake” the more that word doesn’t seem real ajksdl;) anyways, i surprisingly had a lot of fun with this request, so without further ado, here is a little piece of my heart for you. let me know what you think♡♡♡

“So, remind me again. Why am I doing this?”

Tsukishima sighs, a long heavy sigh that surges almost violently from his lungs to his lips, as if it can no longer stand being in that six-foot-something body of his.

“Because,” he grits out, “you agreed pointblank.”

You snort out an ugly laugh. “It was only because Tadashi said it would really help you.”

Glancing at him, you see his rigid form as the two of you walk down the road towards the izakaya.

“Yes, of course. You’re friends with just Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I save your ass in every history exam ever, and not like you literally cried tears of joy when I told you that that hotshot himbo would be there.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Tsukishima knows that he’s screwed up.

“Oh? I didn’t know Tsukishima Kei considered me his friend. Are you jealous, Tsukki?” You grin, eyebrows shooting halfway up your forehead. “I go to all the Sendai Frogs games for you though, babe.”

Tsukishima feels his eyes twitch, and he turns to you with an agitated smirk. “Hah? With the force and frequency of which you fangirl over ninety percent of the V.League, I’d rather you not come to the Div. Two ones just to fangirl over how ‘Suna-kun blocks the ball prettier.’”

You give him a wide smile, halfway to a glower. “Tsukishima Kei, if you’re going to just insult me, I can just leave like right now.”

Pettiness swells up in your chest as you see the colour drain from his face.

“I—,” he falters, eyes shifting to the restaurant door behind you. “I’m sorry I called you a fangirl.”

“And?” You prompt, crossing your arms in what you hope is convincing anger.

Tsukishima gives you a glare as he pushes his glasses up. “And for calling Bokuto-san a himbo.”

“Which he isn’t.”

“Sure.”

“Tsukishima.”

“I said ‘sure’, didn’t I?” He holds up his hands in defence. “What else do you want from me?”

You pout. “To admit that your senpai is a ball of sunshine.”

“No, that’s stupid.” Tsukishima gives you a deadpan look, unwilling to budge on this.

You huff, knowing that this is a pointless battle, and turn to yank the door open.

“Wait a second.” He pulls you back by the arm. “Do you remember what to do?”

“Yeah,” you frown, “I just have to act like I’m dating your sorry ass.”

Tsukishima sighs. This is going to be one long night.

---

“So, Tsukki!”

Said Tsukki feels the pressure inside his head increasing exponentially. The night is just starting, and these so-called adults that he’s currently stuck in a corner table with are changing topics like they’re on Jeopardy and guzzling drinks like elephants. Save for Akaashi, the rather sane one.

“Where did you get yourself such a cute girlfriend?” Kuroo throws an arm around the increasingly exasperated boy.

“Kuroo-san.” Tsukishima hopes that his voice is as neutral as he thinks it is. “As I mentioned at the last hangout, she’s in one of my classes.”

“Man, we were really serious about setting you up that time!” Bokuto laughs as if he just said the most hilariously comedic punchline to a nonexistent joke. “Say, Tsukki’s girlfriend, who asked who out first?”

You look across at the MSBY outside hitter, a grin slowly spreading over your face. In the past twenty minutes, you have gotten very comfortable with the upperclassmen that Tsukishima meets up with monthly. Too comfortable, Tsukishima might add, as he watches you clink what has got to be the third round of beer with Bokuto.

“Well, you see,” you smile sweetly, a smile that does not make Tsukishima feel the tiniest bit reassured. “He asked me out first!”

Akaashi chuckles quietly from his seat across from you as Tsukishima not-so-subtly slams his mug down on the table.

“Oh?” Kuroo grins widely.

“Oh ho?” Bokuto grins wider.

“Isn’t that right, babe?” You turn to the extremely unamused blond right next to you, giving him your most dazzling, most innocent smile.

“Oh oh oh! Tell us the story, Y/n-chan!” Bokuto is absolutely radiant with excitement as Akaashi clamps a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from bouncing off his seat.

Your grin turns feral.

Kuroo isn’t even trying to hide his cackling now.

Tsukishima’s looming glare is positively terrifying. You can’t deny the shiver that passes through you, feeling a bit too much like the opposing setter on the other side of the net. But to you, this is Tsukki, your friend and fake boyfriend. What else are you to do but to carpe diem and tease him in front of his dear senpai?

“I guess it can’t be helped since Japan’s ace wants to know,” you sigh dramatically, giving an over-exaggerated shrug.

Bokuto is leaning across the table, hanging on to your every word.

“I just finished a lecture with Tadashi, right? I walked out of the classroom to find none other than Kei-kun waiting for me.” You bat your eyelashes at the man beside you. “He sweetly pulled me aside and very convincingly asked me to go on a date with him. And since he was so uncharacteristically polite and determined about it, I agreed!”

“Oooh!” Bokuto is standing up now, hands gripping the edge of the table. “Where was the first date, Y/n-chan?”

“Please sit down, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, moving the beer mug away from Bokuto’s sphere of influence.

You chance a glance at Tsukishima, who’s frown is so deep that even you feel a little bad.

“An izakaya.” You look down, smiling slightly. “I had a lot of fun, and Kei’s really considerate and patient with me. He’s really, really kind.”

Bokuto drops back down, a satisfied grin on his face.

Akaashi smiles as he takes a sip of his highball.

“So, Y/n-chan,” Kuroo finally speaks up, studying you and Tsukishima casually, “I take it that you quite like our precious kouhai here, correct?”

At this, Tsukishima breaks out of his annoyance and turns to you, eyes wide with a questioning look.

You feel your cheeks blaze up at the unexpected question and Tsukishima’s unfamiliar attention. It’s the beer, you tell yourself, it’s definitely the beer.

“I, um,” you stutter, floundering with your words, “uh, yeah, I guess.”

Kuroo’s brow arches, and Bokuto remains uncharacteristically silent. Even Akaashi has set down his glass. You can feel Tsukishima’s burning stare on you.

You groan, slapping your hands into your face. “Okay, fine, I do, okay?”

In the weird twilight zone that you now find yourself in, among Akaashi’s low chuckles and Bokuto’s uncontrollable delight as he calls for yet another round of drinks, you can feel Tsukishima’s presence consume yours. It is almost unbearable.

“Good to hear, Y/n-chan,” Kuroo finally replies, warm smile on his face.

Akaashi taps your hand, pointing you towards Tsukishima who has not said a word since your embarrassing confession. That was a confession right?

You quickly turn to the side, lest your boyfriend composes himself in time.

Tsukishima is red, very very red. Under the hazy izakaya lights, his skin exudes a warmth that you don’t normally associate with Tsukishima Kei, especially not in the halls of brightly lit fluorescent lights and the stuffy library rooms of dusky table lamps. And you know for sure that this soft glow of his is not because of the drink he’s barely consumed. Hair haloed and cheeks tinted in a rose-tipped gold, your fake boyfriend looks almost regal in this new light.

You’ve always known — something that your friends and Tadashi have constantly reminded you of — that he is attractive. But for the first time since becoming aware of his existence, you see Tsukishima Kei as absolutely breathtaking.

“I, um, Tsukki?” You start hesitantly, unsure of what to say to salvage the mood that you have surely singlehandedly destroyed. You look down and glance back up at him, hands bunching into the nice culottes you’re wearing.

Tsukishima sighs, head finally turning to your figure.

“Stop talking, dumbass,” he mutters lowly, putting a hand over your own. “You’re feeding into their stupidity.”

For the second time this evening, the whole table is completely silent as the two of you sit there, faces still aglow in the dimly lit corner, hands still touching. The three upperclassmen exchange glances.

Akaashi lightly clears his throat, nodding. “Tsukishima-kun, do you have something to say to Y/n-san?”

Tsukishima’s hand grips yours a bit tighter as he stares at the three of his senpai, whose warm smiles are anything but teasing.

“She’s alright.”

And cacophony ensues as you shrink back, wanting to melt all the way into the wall you are slouched against. Bokuto is hollering yet again for another round of drinks, and Kuroo just cannot stop grinning. At the very least, Akaashi has the decency to pick up his drink and hide his smile behind the transparent glass.

But in the mess and embarrassment of it all, Tsukishima’s hand is still holding yours, his presence still surrounding yours. And you think that maybe, perhaps, possibly, that you can get used to this whole fake dating thing after all.

---

“Keiiiiii,” you whine, balking at July’s midnight heat. “I’m so tired and sleepy.”

Tsukishima, for the umpteenth this evening, sighs. “What are you going to do about it?”

“You’re going to carry me!” You declare with a triumphant grin as if you had just solved the secret to Kuroo’s hair. “C’mon, please? You’re my bestest boyfriend.”

Tsukishima feels a vessel about to burst as he hears the cackling behind him.

“Oh, right, of course, I’m the best boyfriend to my dumbass of a girlfriend who decided that getting into a drink-off with Bokuto Koutarou of all people was an excellent idea,” he grits out.

But Tsukishima is already stooping to your height, letting you clamber on.

“Oi, Tsukki,” Kuroo calls, “you gonna be alright carrying her back to dorms like this? The trains aren’t running anymore.”

Tsukishima feels his lips curl up slightly. “Yes, I’m alright. She’s my girlfriend after all.”

With that, the long night continues as Tsukishima walks into July’s midnight heat with you on his back, muttering about your dumb and stupid decisions the entire way back.

But on the forefront of his mind, he admits that at times, you make the most fantastic of decisions, such as agreeing to this fake relationship. Perhaps tomorrow, when you’re awake and wondering how you made it home safe, have your face washed, and have a fake boyfriend on your couch, Tsukishima will once again bring up the prospect of a date, a real one this time.

“They’ll be such a cute couple,” Bokuto beams, watching Tsukishima stop to readjust his grip.

“Wait, you knew?” Kuroo turns to his friend incredulously.

“Well, yeah! I’m not oblivious.” Bokuto scoffs, looking at Akaashi for confirmation. “It was so obvious. Right, Akaashi? Did I use ‘oblivious’ correctly?”

“Of course, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi simply states, a little smile on his face.

Kuroo frowns at Akaashi before refocusing on Bokuto. “Why did you, uh I guess, play along?”

“Because they’re going to become a real one anyways,” the MSBY player announces with the brightest grin on his face. “It’s easier to just pretend now!”

Kuroo has never wanted to flick the sun in the face as much as he does now.

Important if your in an abusive situation you can turn off this alarm

Please reblog to spread awareness

Could I request Vil, Malleus, Leona, and Jamil being voted 'gorgeous man you'd like to spend your life with' by their s/o?

GORGEOUS MAN ♡

he cared for his looks a lot therefore the compliments from people however when you praise him so, he can't help but feel love once again

characters: vil, malleus, leona, jamil

warning: none just fluff and fluff

a/n: I'm sorry I haven't been posting my brain was empty during the whole time trying to figure out a way to write all the requests. I'll try to be more frequent. and I kinda wrote it like reader told him he's gorgeous I hope it works too. I wanted to try and use gradient and safe to say it tore my ass

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　.

VIL SCHOENHEIT

his face is like art which captivates everyone and you were too. his fair skin with no blemishes is a sight to see. you've always admired him for his beauty and brain. just as much as he is good in sports and studies, he is that good in maintaining his face as well.

you loved his face therefore you would stare at it a lot but these days it have been more frequent. while on an outing with him under a tree while he slept in your lap. you had this lovestruck gaze in your eyes graced with a soft smile on your lips. as he asked why you kept staring at him so much these days your reply was "everytime I look at your beauty my mind is filled with the thought of me spending my life with the gorgeous man sleeping on my lap" which was followed with a light chuckle

he was taken aback by your sudden declaration of your love for him but he muses to your adorable antics. 'how cute' he thinks as he spends the day with you by his side

MALLEUS DRACONIA

he was the ruler of a kingdom. his people sung his praises since the day he was born. compliments on the way he rules, his eternal glory and his grace. he has heard them for many ages.

however, there's something he feels whenever praises slips from your lips. a slight burning sensation on his cheeks and hot ears. they weren't painful nor were they annoying rather he enjoyed feeling them whenever he would feel butterflies dance in his stomach.

when he took you out for a dinner in a fancy restaurant while having your food, he felt your gaze on him. he inquired you thinking that you weren't feeling well but did not want to trouble him but his worries soon washed away when you said "looking at your face always makes me believe that in the future if we get married..we would be a happy family. I would like to spend the rest of my life with a gorgeous man like you malleus". your words were so simple but so filled with love that those left him breathless

with you, in every moment, he feels a wide array of emotions. if this is what will be his everyday with you in the future then he would like to get married as soon as possible.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Leona wasn't the type to dream about a future. the only thing he wanted were to not be ostracised. to not be ignored by people. to be acknowledged equally as his brother. not to have the vast difference in the treatment he receives from people because of the 'personality of a ruthless beast' that they make him out to be.

Leona was someone who would use underhand tactics to make a person indirectly submit to him but when it came to you, he felt as if protecting you from harm was his priority. even with his nature you still loved him. you never criticised him. you never turned him away, rather you welcomed him with open arms inside a warm home. he was still getting used to your unadulterated affection for him since this was not something he received from others.

he is rather ashamed to admit but he still couldn't trust you well enough. he would always think that you are just using him to create your own base where you are a leader and he is a servant servicing your demands but when you told him that you want to spend the rest of your life with a gorgeous man like him on a rainy night inside a blanket. he felt warmth. a feeling he first felt around you as he tried to process those words.

he lightly chuckled at your words and whispered a quite 'alright'. so this is what it feels like to be loved.

JAMIL VIPER

Jamil spent most of his childhood as a servant of the al-asim family. to the heir of powerful family a perfect servant was required to service him. he would never complain and he knew kalim since childhood. while one would grow a different view and he should be treating kalim as a friend but he did not want to let go of the professionalism.

since he had to serve the family heir at all times the possibility of a future with you was something far fetched and he thought he wouldn't really be able to give you the time and affection if you two would get married.

so he postponed the idea of marriage and shoved it into a far corner of his mind and he eventually forgot about it until you, one day told him that you would like to spend the rest of your life with a gorgeous man like him. he had a pink hue dusting his cheeks and it was clear to him that you already made plans of your future and a marriage.

maybe..maybe he can take the possibility of a future with you no matter how much workload he might have. he promises to spend the rest of his life with you as well if it is what you wished for.