melodead

[melodead]

AI can pry the emdash, the semicolon, and the oxford comma from my cold dead hands

[melodead]

nagi seishiro is a simple boy. he wants to win games. he dislikes preparing crabs. his first friend was a cactus. he’s in love with his second, not that you know.

you had pulled him into your orbit forever ago with eyes as bright as the sun and a love to match. from there, the rest was inevitable. inevitably, the sun rises in the east. inevitably, the universe will burn up in its brilliance. inevitably, you take his hand, and he won’t resist. through tokyo, through hakuho, through blue lock and beyond—that hasn’t changed.

nagi peeks up at you. the setting sun paints you golden like it wants to hold you too. he understands. it’s a fact of life that you were made to love—to be loved—and the world follows along to your whims because you hold it in your heart.

you melt into the couch despite the hundred-and-ninety-something centimeter soccer player in your lap. one hand runs carefully through his hair as the other holds your phone to the side. this is easy, he thinks, mind muddled by rest.

“can i get up now?”

“no,” nagi refuses, still watching you drowsily. “‘m still tired.”

“i can’t feel my legs, wonderboy. you know, a good friend wouldn’t interfere with my circulation.”

he hums, noncommittal. hypocrite. his heartbeat is faster than usual, but he’s not complaining about it, is he? for some reason though, the title of good friend sinks into his mind, trickles down into a scene from hours ago, and sets a question alight. what a hassle, he thinks to himself, but the ego that blue lock taught him demands an answer.

“hey,” nagi starts, “did you mean what you said earlier?

“mm? you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

nagi is silent, but his arms tighten just enough for you to notice.

“‘shiro?” you put your phone down. your hand buries itself in his hair as the other pinches his cheek—and you can’t help but wonder what he did in a past life to be blessed with such unbelievable genes. he leans into it, snowy lashes fluttering against his cheeks and casting shadows over unbearably soft eyes.

(nagi seishiro is an incredibly easy person to fall in love with and an unbelievably difficult one to be in love with, especially for you: the fool that has resolved to never tell him. sure, maybe you’re a masochist. sue you. you deserve a doctorate in compartmentalizing your crush.)

you tilt your head at him as your own gaze scans his face for anything that could give you a clue. the shapeless, white blob of a boy reminds you of that character he’s so fond of. “are you…”—you blink twice—“…pouting?”

“no.”

“you are!”

“m’not.”

a breathless little laugh escapes you, a wonderful thing that steals the air from his lungs. it’s unfair how easily it happens. he guesses it’s inevitable when his heart lies solely in the palm of your hand.

“i can’t give you an answer if i don’t understand the question,” you chide, rubbing circles into his face, but he can see you already running through the possibilities in your head. “tell me, please?”

nagi is a boy of few words, but a decade of friendship has trained you well. as such, when he suddenly decides to press the full force of his weight onto you, mumbling, you know you’ve struck gold (and possibly bruised ribs).

and then you pause. “reo…?”

nagi knits his brows together just the slightest, averting his eyes. “earlier, you said he’d be…”

your memory completes the confession for him. your jaw drops. “was it the boyfriend comment? seriously?” he won’t look at you, but there’s no hint of dishonesty to be found.

“i’m not repeating it.”

it’s over for you. “aww,” you coo. “are you jealous, ‘shiro?”

nagi is a simple boy. maybe it’s the way the light surrounds you, reminiscent of the day you first met. maybe it’s the lingering sleep clouding his system. maybe it’s his patience finally running out after the inordinate amount of time he’s spent chasing the sun in your eyes. he wants few things in life. one of those things just happens to be you.

whatever it is, it pushes nagi to admit, “yeah.”

you pause and laugh nervously, movements faltering for just a moment. “i think you’d probably be a decent boyfriend too, if it makes you feel better.”

“then we should try it.”

we. he’s always spoken like that—in terms of we. it’s always made your heart unbearably fond. “hmmm…well, reo probably knows someone.”

he huffs, and before you know it, nagi sits up and rests his head on top of yours. “that’s not fair. why do you keep talking about reo? you’re with me,” he whines, sneaking his long arms loosely around your waist.

“what’s wrong with talking about reo?” you retort. “you bring him up more than i do, and that’s saying something considering how much you talk. that’s not a lot, by the way.”

“so?”

you tug lightly at his hair. “so what, i can’t talk about reo but you can? that’s what we should be talking about if we’re talking about unfairness. anyways, if you’re suddenly so concerned about being single, i don’t think you’d have a hard time finding a date. long term? you’ll have to put work into it, obviously, but if you want someone—“

“i want you,” nagi interrupts.

you pinch him again. “i know i’m your favorite, but i’m really one of a kind. you’re not finding someone like me that easily.”

“but i don’t want someone like you.”

“then you’re being really unclear with what you want, seishiro.”

(oh, you’ll be the death of him.)

nagi sighs and meets you eye to eye.

“i want you,” nagi repeats, more awake than he has ever been, “and i want to be your boyfriend. that’s clear, right?”

…huh?

the world stops. your head spins and heat rushes up your neck. you must be feverish, or sick, or—or something. delusional, maybe? imagining, if you’re being nice, and you happen to be very good at imagining. you also happen to be very good at deflecting. (it was a required course to earn your imaginary doctorate.)

a nervous laugh, a little too high. your face burns. “you’re supposed to date people you like, seishiro.” your voice shakes.

“i like you a lot though.”

you try to say something—anything—normal, but your heart fails on you instead. your voice is stuck in your throat like a stone, and you can’t seem to dislodge it no matter how much you tell yourself to. oh, how does anybody ever do this?

nagi sees you, much more than he lets on. he has always seen you before. he sees you now. it must be why he says, quietly, “you don’t have to say yes. i’m okay with how we are now. we can pretend this never happened if you want, and everything can stay how it is.”

like dust. you see dust in the hazy daylight pouring in. you see it in old memories stored inside picture frames. most of all, you see it in the endless gray of his eyes—so, so close—threatening to drown you in your entirety and then some. embarrassingly, you know you’d jump in headfirst. haven’t you already? you’ve spent nearly a decade doing this, after all. but nearly a decade of this, and you have never once thought that he may feel the same. you wouldn’t have ever guessed.

many think that the eyes are the windows to the soul. you know that they are. you had seen as much in your youth and exponentially more in your time at blue lock. hunger. despair. hope. people can conceal and perform as much as they want, but the eyes will always betray the truth.

that's why you can’t deny it when he tells you his.

nagi hums, fingers playing with your sleeves. “your call.”

it’s such a nagi seishiro answer that you can’t help but laugh—and just like that, the stone is dislodged. “okay,” you affirm, out of breath and on the top of the world, “okay, yeah. we can—this—“ his hand squeezes yours. your chest stutters, but you don’t feel like dying. you take a breath, and then—the world begins to spin again.

(nagi seishiro is a simple boy. he wants to win games, so he does. he dislikes preparing crabs, but he’ll do it if you ask him to. his first friend is still a cactus. he’s in love with his second, and now you finally know.)

[melodead]

Oh Hero, My Hero || Riddle Rosehearts

You’re a villain. Riddle’s your destined hero. He wants to arrest you—you want to hold his hand. It’s love, it’s war, and honestly? You think you’re winning.

You are a villain. A rather good one, if you do say so yourself.

And you do. Often. With flair.

Not because you're arrogant—heavens, no—but because it’s important to maintain workplace morale. Your minions, bless their easily influenced hearts, thrive under positive reinforcement.

They chant your name with gusto during heists, schedule evil meetings with color-coded agendas, and once threw you a surprise “Congratulations on Burning Down That Insurance Building (For Tax Reasons)” party. You cried. It was beautiful.

Your lair is everything a villain could want: spiky towers, ominous mood lighting, and traps that range from “mild inconvenience” to “psychological evaluation required.” You’ve even installed a mechanism that drops glitter every time someone steps on the wrong tile. It’s technically not dangerous, but it is infuriating, which is honestly better.

Yes, life is good. But... something’s been missing.

You know how these stories go. For every great villain, there is a great hero. A dramatic, infuriating, righteous counterpart with impeccable hair and a moral compass that spins violently in your presence. You’ve read the lore. Studied the tropes. Ripped out pages from “The Villain’s Guide to Theatrical Longing” and taped them to your dream board.

One day, your hero will be chosen, and when they are, oh, what a pair you’ll make. You’ll clash! You’ll banter! You’ll bring balance to the world through mutually assured flirtation and destruction!

After all, that’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it?

It’s a slow day, which is the perfect time for a little recreational crime.

Nothing major, of course—you’re not cruel, you just think the local artifact museum has gotten far too cocky with its security system. Besides, the cursed amulet you’re currently attempting to swipe really ties together the “apocalyptic-chic” shelf in your lair.

You’re halfway through disarming the exhibit’s alarm—a very fiddly one, with far too many wires and a voice that keeps saying “You are not authorized to touch that” in an increasingly judgmental tone—when you hear it.

“Stop right there, villain!”

You pause.

Slowly, theatrically, you turn.

There, bathed in a ray of dramatic light that absolutely wasn’t there a second ago, stands a guy. No. A hero. Red hair, grey eyes, and an expression so stern it could cut glass. His hand is clenched around the hilt of his sword like he knows how to use it, and his entire posture screams “I memorized the moral code and I will recite it to you.”

You blink. Then beam. “Oh, you’re adorable. What’s your name?”

He blinks back, completely derailed. “...What?”

“Your name,” you say, stepping away from the pedestal like you’re not currently committing a felony. “I feel like we’re about to start a very meaningful rivalry and I’d rather not label you ‘that handsome one with the righteous fury.’ Although it does have a ring to it.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Riddle,” he says eventually, in the tone of someone who isn’t sure how they ended up in this conversation and regrets all their choices. “My name is Riddle. Riddle Rosehearts.”

“Riddle,” you echo, tasting the name like fine wine. “Delightful. Very ‘divine mission meets repressed rage.’ I love it.”

He takes a step forward, clearly gearing up for a speech. You cut him off by snatching the amulet with a flourish and tucking it into your coat. “Well, Riddle, I’m afraid I have to run. Villainy doesn’t wait for anyone, you know. But don’t worry—we’ll see each other very soon.”

And then you skip away.

Like, full bounce-in-your-step, cartoon-character skipping. It’s important to commit to a bit.

Behind you, there’s a moment of silence. Then, from the museum steps, a cry of pure indignation:

“YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE AFTER—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You grin as the scream echoes after you.

Oh yes. He’s perfect.

It’s well past midnight when your latest act of moderately tasteful villainy concludes.

Tonight’s caper had a theme—“Revenge, but Make It Fashion”—and you’ve just successfully replaced the mayor’s wig collection with sentient moss creatures. It’s your finest work yet. You even left a calling card. It was scented.

You’re about to vanish into the night, cackling quietly to yourself and dodging a very judgmental pigeon, when a voice rings out.

“There you are!”

You freeze. Not out of fear, of course—you’re wearing your lucky boots, and they’ve never failed you. No, you freeze because you know that voice now. You like that voice. It’s the sound of divine justice and emotional constipation.

You turn around slowly, dramatically, your coat billowing like you practiced in front of a fan for hours. And there he is.

Riddle Rosehearts.

Sword drawn. Eyes ablaze. Face scrunched into that exact same scowl he always wears when you do something heinous like wink at him or breathe near museum exhibits.

“You can’t keep running away after committing these crimes!” he says, striding toward you. “I will stop you. I don’t care how clever or deranged you are—this ends now!”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then you beam. “Oh, Riddle. I knew you’d ask me out eventually.”

He halts so fast he nearly trips over a rogue bit of moss.

“What?!”

“I mean, it’s a little sudden,” you say, brushing ash off your sleeve from where something behind you may or may not still be on fire. “But if you wanted dinner, you could’ve just said so without the threats. I get it—you like a little spice in your courtship.”

“I was not—this isn’t—You replaced the city council’s water bottles with electric eels!”

“Which we can talk about over appetizers, obviously,” you say. “I’m in a bit of a rush right now—horribly mysterious deadline, secret villain society, you know the drill—but let’s make it happen tomorrow. Same restaurant I robbed last week. I’ll even pay this time, for the experience.”

“You held the maître d’ hostage with a baguette!”

“And yet the ambiance was divine, wasn’t it?” You’re already walking backward, saluting him with two fingers and an over-the-top wink. “See you at seven, Riddle! Wear something red! It brings out the fury in your eyes!”

You disappear around the corner with a twirl of your cloak.

Behind you, Riddle stands in the wreckage of your crime scene, gripping his sword in white-knuckled hands, yelling to no one:

“THAT WASN’T AN INVITATION! THIS ISN’T—YOU CAN’T JUST SCHEDULE—STOP MISINTERPRETING MY JUSTICE!!”

But you’ve already mentally penciled in the date.

You’re bringing flowers.

Riddle has made many mistakes in his life.

Eating that one suspicious tea cake in the third grade. Agreeing to babysit Ace and Deuce in his spare time. Wearing white in a rainstorm because he “checked the forecast and it said clear skies.” But nothing—nothing—compares to the existential mistake of actually showing up to the dinner you invited him to after literally committing a crime in front of him.

He sits at the candlelit table of the very restaurant you robbed last week—still functioning, somehow—and wonders what exactly is wrong with him.

Maybe the goddess is testing him. Maybe this is a deeply specific curse. Maybe he’s sleep-deprived and hallucinating a date with a criminal.

And then you walk in.

You walk in, with all the confidence of a person who thinks “arrest warrant” is a love language. You're wearing something entirely too dramatic for the venue, looking like you just strolled out of a villain-themed opera. And in your hands—dear, blessed heavens—are flowers.

You walk right up to him and smile like this is the most natural thing in the world. “For you,” you say, handing over the bouquet.

He stares.

Then, slowly, like someone defusing a bomb, he takes the flowers.

“What…” he begins, clearly unsure what part of this situation he wants to question first. “What is this?”

“A date!” you say cheerfully, sitting across from him. “You asked so sweetly last night. Shouting. Sword waving. Very romantic.”

“I was threatening to arrest you.”

“Yes, yes, and now we’re here.” You unfold your napkin. “Funny how life works.”

He sits there, holding the flowers like they might explode, lips slightly parted in sheer bafflement. And yet—yet—he doesn’t leave.

Dinner is, despite his eternal internal screaming, pleasant. The food is good, you don’t commit any crimes at the table (an honest effort on your part), and Riddle slowly transitions from vibrating with rage to… a sort of confused civility. He even joins in when you mock the restaurant’s ridiculous chandelier that looks like someone turned a jellyfish into a war crime.

At the end of the night, you walk out together. You stop just outside the restaurant, turn to him, and lean in without a word to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He freezes.

“See you next crime night,” you whisper, grinning, before vanishing into the shadows with the speed and flair of someone who definitely practices this.

Riddle remains there, completely still, blushing down to his collarbones and clutching the flowers like they hold answers.

“…Why,” he whispers to the empty street. “Why was that… actually nice?”

The flowers don’t respond.

They do smell great, though.

The next time Riddle corners you, it’s on a rooftop because of course it is. Villainy is fifty percent dramatic elevation, thirty percent elaborate monologuing, ten percent jazz hands, and the rest is tasteful crime, of course. You’re perched on the ledge like a gargoyle with better cheekbones, admiring the mess below.

Tonight’s crime was “turn the city’s water supply into champagne” and honestly? You think the bubbles give the infrastructure a certain je ne sais quoi.

Then, behind you, boots clack ominously.

“Villain!”

You turn and there he is. Riddle. Divine wrath incarnate. Red cloak billowing, sword strapped to his back, expression locked in that righteous fury that just screams “I rehearsed this in the mirror and accidentally made eye contact with myself too long.”

He’s prepared this time. You can see it in his eyes.

He’s convinced he's not going to fall for your charms again.

He takes a step forward, inhales, and begins reciting something clearly not written by him.

“By decree of the Goddess, I will bring your reign to an end. I will dismantle your corruption, tear your empire apart piece by piece until—”

You gasp. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.

“First dinner,” you say, hand to chest, “and now you want to tear me apart? Hero, you’re bold.”

He physically chokes.

“What—NO—THAT ISN’T—”

“I mean, I like to take things slow, personally,” you continue, swanning over like you’re not actively the reason five neighborhoods are flooded with sparkling rosé. “I’m a little old-fashioned. Maybe court me a bit before the dismemberment, hmm?”

He makes a sound like a kettle reaching a full boil.

“I am not trying to court you! I’m trying to arrest you!”

You lean in just slightly, grin widening. “Sure. Arrest my heart, maybe.”

His eye twitches. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then makes a weird little squeak and visibly blue-screens.

And just to finish him off, you pluck a rose—where did it come from??—out of literally nowhere, and step close enough to tuck it behind his ear like you're in a telenovela and this is your third scandal of the episode.

“There,” you murmur. “You get prettier every time we meet.”

You hop onto the edge of the building, cape fluttering. “See you next crime night, sweetheart!”

And you leap.

Not fall.

Leap. Like an Olympic gymnast with zero regard for city ordinances.

Riddle stands there for a solid thirty seconds, completely motionless, as his brain tries to recalibrate from “heroic justice” to “accidentally seduced again by a chaotic menace with an infuriatingly cute smile.”

The rose is still in his hair.

He stares into the night.

Somewhere far away, the Goddess laughs into her wine.

It’s been a long week. You deserve a break.

You’ve committed three heists, sabotaged a bridge (a small one, you’re not a monster), and orchestrated a flash mob in the bank lobby purely for dramatic effect. The mayor’s still recovering. Your minions are thrilled. You’ve earned this.

So tonight, you do what any self-respecting supervillain does on their off-night: wear your pajamas backwards and binge the local news while eating cake with a fork in each hand.

And then—there he is.

Hero of the People. Bringer of Justice. Riddle Freaking Rosehearts.

You squeal, legs kicking in the air like you’re fifteen and he’s the lead singer of a boy band.

The news anchor looks mildly afraid as they gesture at Riddle, who is standing in front of a smoking crater you may or may not have caused because someone at City Hall called you a rascal.

“Hero Rosehearts,” the anchor says, “any words for the villains of the city?”

Riddle takes a breath. Looks directly into the camera like he’s about to propose to a jar of moral purity. He radiates the energy of a substitute teacher on the verge of snapping.

“I will find them,” he says, calm but filled with unholy fury. “And I will bring them to justice. They can’t hide behind glitter bombs and confusing innuendos forever.”

You gasp, hand to chest, cake forgotten.

“He remembers my glitter bombs,” you whisper, soft and touched.

Twenty minutes later, at Hero HQ:

Trey opens the door expecting takeout.

Instead, he’s greeted by a florist holding the largest bouquet of roses, peacock feathers, and hand-folded origami doves anyone’s ever seen. The card dangles off it like it’s trying to escape.

“Uh… Riddle?” he calls, carefully dragging it inside.

Riddle appears in the hallway, looking like he hasn’t slept since your last rooftop encounter. “What now—”

He sees the bouquet.

He sees the card.

He reads the card.

"Can’t wait! You always know how to make a villain feel so special. ~Yours in mild but persistent crime"

There’s a doodle of him in the corner. Blushing. In your handwriting. With little sparkles. And dramatic shading. His cape is glorious.

Cater walks in, sees the scene, and drops his phone from laughing so hard.

“They SENT YOU FAN ART. You’ve got a criminal parasocial relationship.”

“This is not a relationship,” Riddle hisses, clutching the card like it personally offended his lineage. “This is TERRORISM. Emotional terrorism.”

“Aw,” Trey says, examining the bouquet. “They even matched your color palette. That’s considerate.”

“I’m filing a formal divine complaint,” Riddle mutters, turning on his heel. “The goddess lied to me. She said I was chosen for righteousness, not romantic sabotage.”

Cater wheezes. “Bet you five madols they send you a mixtape next.”

Meanwhile, back in your lair, you’re gluing rhinestones to a brick with “To: My favorite nemesis” scrawled on it in glitter glue.

You hum a little tune and smile to yourself.

Love is war.

And you’re winning.

There was a time—not long ago—when Supervillain Group Night™ filled you with a certain kind of existential emptiness.

Everyone else would be lounging around in their aesthetic-themed lairs, attending the secret network meeting (there’s a schedule, a calendar, a monthly tea sampler, and a surprisingly active Discord), trading stories about their latest dramatic rooftop clashes and high-stakes battles with their assigned heroic rivals.

And then there was you.

“Oh, no hero for me yet,” you’d say, sipping your drink with forced casualness. “Still waiting on fate. The divine matchmaker’s probably just backlogged, y’know?”

“Backlogged for three years?” muttered Villain A whose hero punched him into a canal weekly.

But now?

Now the universe has finally answered your prayers.

Riddle Rosehearts: Chosen by the Goddess. The embodiment of law, order, and unyielding justice. Blushes like a strawberry when you wink at him. You love him. (Professionally.)

You beam as you drop into your villain lounge chair, already mid-rant during today’s check-in.

“—and then he said I’d be brought to justice, again, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing ever. And when I said, ‘careful, darling, you’re gonna make a villain swoon,’ he made this noise like a kettle about to explode. Isn’t he the cutest?!”

The others stare.

Villain B sips her wine. “Did you just say darling?”

“Several times. Also ‘beloved symbol of righteousness.’ I was feeling poetic.���

Someone coughs.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of your yearning, he appears.

The wall to your hideout blasts open (you just had it repainted), and there he is—Riddle, in full dramatic hero mode, hair windswept, cape fluttering, eyes narrowed like he’s about to smite you for jaywalking.

“You’re under arrest,” he snaps, stepping inside like a one-man apocalypse.

You stand immediately. “My hero!”

Riddle visibly stutters. “Th-that is—you can’t just—” He yanks out the handcuffs like they insulted his ancestors. “You’re under arrest!”

You practically glow. “Oh, you brought cuffs? You always know just what I like.”

There is a horrified choking noise from him. A villain drops her wine in disbelief.

“I came here to detain you, not—!”

“Flatter me in front of my colleagues?” You shoot the others a smug grin. “Isn’t he great? He always shows up right when I’m talking about him. It’s, like, our thing.”

“You’re being arrested,” he says, and it sounds like he’s begging the gods to smite him then and there. He slaps the cuffs on, ears glowing red. “Stop making this sound like a date!”

You gasp as he starts dragging you toward the exit. “You admit it’s not just in my head?”

He trips.

The council of villains erupts into chaos. Someone’s filming.

“You’re so shy,” you coo, utterly delighted. “Save that for the interrogation room, sweetheart.”

He lets out a noise of pure pain and kicks the broken wall on his way out.

By the time you arrive at the holding cell, you're still in full chatter mode.

“—so anyway, I know you usually interrogate me in the serious room with the chair and the threatening spotlight, but I brought snacks this time. I thought we could do something a little more casual? Maybe get to know each other. Or maybe you could, I don’t know…” You lean in. “Search me for more secrets.”

Riddle looks like he’s five seconds away from yelling objection in a court that does not exist.

“I SWEAR, THIS ISN’T—THIS IS NOT—”

You smile as he slams the door of the room shut behind him.

You know what this is?

Bonding.

The interrogation room is silent.

Riddle sits across from you, arms crossed, face neutral, expression studiously blank—the expression of a man who has taken a fifteen-minute breathing break in a broom closet just to convince himself that you are not, in fact, flirting with him on purpose.

That this is a job. That he is a hero. That he is not involved in the slowest and most emotionally confusing courtship ever orchestrated by a criminal lunatic with glitter glue and a god complex.

You are currently lounging in your chair like it’s a chaise at a five-star spa. Legs crossed. Elbows on the armrest. Not a care in the world.

“Do you understand,” he begins, calm and practiced, “that breaking into the mayor’s garden, kidnapping his prize-winning koi, and replacing them with rubber ducks is an act of terrorism?”

You nod solemnly. “Some crimes are worth committing for justice.”

He stares.

You blink innocently.

There’s a pause where he very obviously chooses not to ask what you did with the koi.

Instead, he sits forward slightly. “This isn’t a game, you know. This is an official interrogation.”

“Oh, I know.” You look around, squinting slightly at the cheap fluorescents above you. “But I have to say, this is… the most intimate lighting you’ve ever used. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Riddle blinks.

Hard.

“These are standard government-issued bulbs.”

“Exactly,” you say softly. “You remembered I like minimalism.”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again like his internal OS just crashed and is trying to reboot from safe mode.

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence where the entire city’s justice system hinges on whether he can form a sentence.

And then—

BOOM.

The side wall explodes. A cloud of smoke and glitter (your signature mix) floods the room as three of your minions rappel in through the hole like synchronized ballerinas with grappling hooks and vibes.

“Boss!” one of them shouts. “We got your emergency sparkle-signal!”

You beam. “Aw, you noticed! I made it red this time.”

“Very flattering!”

Riddle—coughing through the smoke—lunges out of his chair, but one of the minions is already rolling a smoke bomb under the table. Chaos erupts.

In the middle of it all, you stroll up to him, utterly unbothered, and gently kiss him on the cheek.

He freezes.

Like a startled cat.

“I had a lovely time,” you whisper. “You should come by again. Next time I’ll make tea.”

And with that, you're hoisted into the air by glitter-stained ropes, cackling into the night like a Disney villain.

Riddle stays there, motionless, as confetti slowly drifts down around him. One of the doves from your last bouquet flies through the hole and lands on his shoulder like punctuation.

He stands there.

Still.

Blank.

“…I hate my life,” he mutters.

The dove coos sympathetically.

It’s supposed to be your crime night.

Riddle knows your schedule better than he knows his own. Mondays are for mail fraud (the glitter kind, not the dangerous kind—unless you count eye injuries), Wednesdays are for elaborate museum heists that end in interpretive dance, and Fridays, like tonight, are for whatever ungodly act of chaos your whimsy drags into the world.

Once, it was robbing the city’s largest jewelry store and replacing everything with candy rings. Another time it was just—you, standing on a rooftop at midnight, holding up a sign that read “my hero is cute” while fireworks spelled out his name.

And now? Nothing.

No alarms. No sparkle-smoke clouds. No explosive streamers. Not even a vague threatening note written in calligraphy and sealed with your signature wax stamp of a raccoon in a crown.

The silence is... disturbing.

He lasts three hours. Which is already two hours and fifty-nine minutes longer than he’s proud of.

Finally—against every rule, regulation, and speck of dignity he possesses—Riddle storms over to your lair.

He expects traps. He expects overly enthusiastic minions. He expects you, standing at the top of a dramatic staircase with a glass of something suspicious and a cloak that flows unnaturally in the wind.

What he gets is chaos.

Not the usual kind. This is frantic. Your minions are sprinting through the halls, panicked and yelling over each other, their coordinated outfits undone, glitter smeared across their faces like war paint. One of them is crying into a smoke bomb.

Riddle doesn’t yell at them.

He should.

But something in him twists. Something cold.

And then he sees you.

You’re slumped against a sofa—barely upright, pale, one hand clutched to your stomach where blood is steadily soaking through your otherwise very stylish outfit. Your cape is torn. Your usual cocky smirk is weak and trembling at the corners. And when you see him, your eyes light up.

“Hey, hero,” you mumble, giving a little wave before flinching. “I'm a little late for our date, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. He crosses the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you and pulling open his bag with shaking hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he snaps, already pressing gauze to your side. “Why in the world didn’t your minions call for help?! Why aren’t you in a hospital?! Why are you always like this?!”

“You came,” you whisper, a little loopy. “Awww. I must’ve made an impression.”

He presses harder than necessary.

“Who did this?” His voice drops an octave—low and dangerous in a way that makes half the room go silent.

You tilt your head lazily. “New hero. Caught me off guard. It’s rude, right? Jumping into someone else's love story…”

His hands pause.

Then tremble.

“You reckless imbecile!” he shouts. “You’re—! You’re a top-tier villain! A menace! A disaster with a good tailor! How could you let some random newbie hurt you?!”

You blink slowly. “...Awwww. You think I’m a good villain?”

“I think you’re my villain!” he snaps, ears red, not even noticing what he’s said until your smile returns in full, dazed brilliance. “I mean—! To vanquish! To arrest! You are mine to defeat, not to be taken down by some amateur with no style and worse morals!”

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

He presses the last of the bandages down with a huff and shoves his supplies back into his bag with unnecessary force. Then he stands. Straightens his coat. Brushes glitter off his sleeve in a futile display of dignity.

“I’ll… return for your proper arrest when you’re not on death’s doorstep,” he mutters, turning away, “and when your entire organization isn’t crying into each other’s capes.”

One of your minions sniffles louder.

You reach out and grab his hand weakly.

“I’ll be good next time,” you say, tone teasing despite the wince. “But don’t wait too long, or someone else might steal me away again.”

He yanks his hand back like it burned him. “Tch. As if.”

And then he leaves, stomping out of your lair with his face red and his heart doing something very not hero-like.

Later that night, he has to explain to Trey and Cater why he’s muttering “mine to arrest” into his tea while clutching a stress ball.

You’re halfway through dramatically pretending to die of soup poisoning just to get Riddle to feed you by hand—when you notice he hasn’t even touched his own bowl.

He’s just watching you.

Not in the normal “I’m here to arrest you when you’re no longer half-stitched up” way, but in the “if I blink, you might vanish and I will spiral emotionally” way.

His spoon sits untouched, his posture rigid, and his pretty grey eyes flicker with something that looks like... worry. The kind of worry that makes your stomach do strange fluttery things unrelated to the stab wound.

“I’m not going to drop dead in front of you, hero,” you say lightly, swiping the last bit of soup from your bowl. “Unless you like the drama. You do keep showing up when I’m bleeding—are you into that?”

He ignores your comment. Tries to.

“I just need to make sure you’ll be fine,” he says stiffly. “So that I can arrest you properly. That’s the only reason I’m here. This is not... a social visit.”

“Of course not.” You grin, tilting your head. “And the soup?”

“For strength.”

“And the way you’re looking at me like I’ll evaporate?”

“For strategy.”

You reach out and take his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

And so do you.

And then you kiss him.

It’s soft at first. Shockingly tender. And then—desperation. Like he’s been holding back this whole time. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of rebellion and regret. Your hand cups his jaw, and his own fists relax against your lap, and you’re about to pull him in for round two—

And then: knock knock.

Riddle practically falls off your couch.

You, still bleeding slightly but never off-brand, stand and open the door like you’ve just invited the Girl Scouts over.

But no. It’s not Girl Scouts.

It’s the Goddess.

She’s glowing, slightly levitating, and wearing the expression of someone who has just crushed a celestial bet and can’t wait to gloat about it for the next few centuries. You can feel the divine smugness radiating off her in waves. Like sunshine. But condescending.

“Hi sweetie,” she says, casually leaning against your doorframe like she owns the multiverse. Which, in fairness, she kind of does. “Riddle. Looking radiant, darling.”

Riddle straightens like a soldier under inspection. “G-Goddess—I—I can explain—!”

“Oh no no, don’t you dare ruin this for me.” She waves her hand. “You’re adorable. That rooftop scene? The rose in the hair? Chef’s kiss.”

Riddle looks like he’s about to either combust or faint.

You lean against the doorframe next to her. “So... how many gods owe you favors now?”

She grins with teeth. “Twelve. And a demi-god promised to name their firstborn after me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to win a Hero/Villain Rom-Com Wager?”

Riddle opens his mouth, probably to say something about sacred duties and moral responsibilities, but she steamrolls right over it.

“Oh, and by the way, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Follow your heart, chase your destiny, snuggle your villain, whatever. The others bet you'd smite them in the name of justice. Fools.” She turns to you and wiggles her fingers. “You’re my favorite now. Don't tell the others. Or do. Stir the pot.”

Then, with the daintiest wave imaginable, she disappears in a puff of divine light.

Riddle just... stands there.

Staring.

Processing.

Reevaluating his life’s entire moral framework in real time.

You close the door gently and turn back to him.

“So,” you say cheerfully, plopping back on the couch like this is your usual weekday, “I’m thinking spring wedding. Maybe late summer, depending on your heroic arrest schedule. Also—do you mind if our honeymoon includes some light tax fraud?”

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. “W-what—no—this isn’t—this is not how any of this is supposed to go—!”

“But the soup was good, right?” You lean closer. “And the kiss?”

“I—I—yes!” he snaps, blushing furiously. “But that’s not the point! I was supposed to bring you to justice, not fall victim to your—your criminal charisma!”

You boop his nose.

He freezes.

“I don’t see why you can’t do both,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Be my spouse and my nemesis. I believe in multitasking.”

“I’m going to lose my knighthood.”

“You’re going to gain a very fashionable set of matching his-and-theirs balaclavas,” you purr, tucking yourself under his arm. “So when do we start planning the cake? Is koi-flavored too on-the-nose?”

Riddle sinks down beside you with the exhausted sigh of a man who knows he's doomed—and is weirdly fine with it.

“I regret everything,” he mumbles.

You kiss his cheek.

“You regret nothing.”

And he really doesn’t.

This is just your life now.

Sometimes you commit crimes.

Sometimes Riddle comes to stop you.

It’s a rhythm, really. A delightful little dance. He shows up, flinging spells and citing laws with the righteous fury of someone who still hasn’t fully accepted that his archnemesis steals art mostly for aesthetic purposes.

You flirt. He gets flustered. You escape. He grumbles. You leave a note on his office windowsill with a pressed flower and a coupon for couple’s therapy “just in case.

And then you both go home.

Because home is shared now. With one (1) moral hero, one (1) incurable criminal, and an alarming number of cat-shaped throw pillows neither of you remembers buying.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchen, valiantly attempting to bake a cake. The counter looks like a flour-based war crime. The batter has suspiciously purple streaks. Riddle stands in the doorway watching you, eyebrows slowly crawling up his forehead as you hum tunelessly and pour the batter into a pan shaped like a skull.

"Is that... supposed to be edible?"

You turn around with the expression of someone who absolutely believes they’re on The Great Baking Showdown of Doom. “It's lavender and love flavored! For you.”

He blinks. "I’m... honored. Deeply concerned. But honored."

And he is concerned. He’s concerned a lot. He still doesn’t understand half of what happens in his own life now. Like why the city keeps thanking him for “finally putting a leash on that criminal menace,” even though he's very clearly the one being led around by the hand.

Or how his arrest quota has somehow increased since dating you. Or why the Goddess keeps sending him anniversary cards. (“Keep being cute, my power couple! XOXO—The Divine Matchmaker.”)

But then he looks at you.

Standing there in an apron that says “Kiss the Villain,” with flour in your hair and cake batter on your cheek and the biggest, most ridiculous grin on your face. Like you just won a gold medal in chaos.

And he realizes—he doesn’t even care anymore.

He’s in love. Horribly, irrevocably in love.

With you.

And that makes all the sense in the world.

“Fine,” he sighs, walking in to wipe a smudge of frosting off your nose. “But if this cake kills me, I’m haunting you.”

“Promise?” you ask, eyes twinkling.

He kisses your cheek. “Unfortunately.”

And honestly?

It’s perfect.

Masterlist

[melodead]

the divine disorder

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Sunday dislikes frivolous people, and yet, here you are: divine.

sunday ♡ gn!reader

warnings: graphic metaphors for eating & descriptions of food (+ chewing), sunday story spoilers, post-penacony sunday, pre-established relationship

notes: instead of stuttering hearts, sunday has twitchy wings MUEHEHEHE (also pls pls pls be warned if u r sensitive to graphic descriptions of chewing & eating bc i really went bananas when describing sunday and mc having a meal together o(￣┰￣*)ゞ)

Sunday’s dream is complex: create a utopia, a perfect world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight—a perfect world where no one must weep, where no one must feel sorrow or pain. But how is that possible? To feel joy without understanding sadness? To never weep again if one has never wept? 

Sunday’s dream is complex, terribly so. But he, of all people, knows that fact the most poignantly. 

After all, who would know the pain of falling better than Icarus himself? The grief of the limitless expanse; the touch of the sun, just within reach; the crash of the waves, slamming against his spine. Sunday’s dream is complex. But that doesn’t mean he won’t don those wax wings again, that he won’t reach for the sun once more, wondering if this time, the warmth will be tender. 

Maybe it’ll be worth it. Maybe the warmth of the sun will be incomparable, and it’ll be shared, and everyone in the whole, entire universe can feel its gentle embrace. 

The sun. The warmth. The ocean, below, its harsh waves blending into the point where it looks stagnant. Because from the sun, everything looks tiny—everything looks kind. 

And maybe it won’t be. Maybe the sun will remain as it is: striking, ravenous, inevitable. Maybe the sun will sear him again, maybe the fall into the ocean will be harsher than the last—but, after arriving at the Astral Express, and after experiencing what little bits of the Trailblaze that he has been privileged to have, Sunday thinks that it’s a possibility that he must prepare for. 

But not a possibility that he will resign himself to; you taught him that.

When he had first boarded the Express, debt-ridden, suspicious towards the IPC, leaving everything that he had ever known behind (his sister, his home, the Order), Sunday thought that there was nothing left for him. He thought that it was over. He was scared. 

The unknown was scary—and space, oh, space! Space is a vacuum of the unknown! The cosmos, the world, the universe—it was all so much larger than himself, larger than Penacony, larger than the venues that his sister performed at; it was scary. So, so scary. 

Everything overwhelmed him. Like the windows of the express (it wasn’t really the windows that scared him; that’d be absurd, it was more like seeing the quiet, limitless expanse of the universe through just a pane of glass that really worried him), like the constant appearance and disappearance of different individuals from a myriad of walks in life (one day, he’d see someone from the Xianzhou Alliance, and the next, some wandering man who was searching for the Aeon of Beauty).  

There were always so many things happening. What overwhelmed him the most, however, was you. 

You, who seemed to make the breadth of the universe pale in comparison to your colossal existence. You, who never once doubted him and his complex dream; you, who didn’t seem to mind his desperation to maintain order and disorder all at the same time. It was embarrassing, really. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he had said one night, after rearranging the utensils which surrounded his plate, organizing the forks and knives in descending order before scrambling everything once again when he realized how important it was to embrace imperfection. 

“It’s fine,” you replied, shrugging. “Want chopsticks?” 

Sunday felt the feather of both his wings twitch, his face feeling warm—like the breath of the sun, like the radiance of the light—from embarrassment. While he had been rearranging his utensils, you had simply been staring at him, holding a single pair of chopsticks, waiting. 

“That would be preferred,”—he had did everything in his power that night, as your fingers brushed with his, as he held the chopsticks in between his defeated fingers, to not avert his eyes from yours, to maintain decorum and calm the flutter of his wings—“again, my apologies.”

You hadn’t even responded. Once he had held the chopsticks, and once he had seemed to let go of his personal gripe with the order of his utensils, you had started eating. All Sunday could do was watch. 

In between mouthfuls of your food—which, of course, peeved Sunday a little (he was taught all his life the etiquettes of table manners and one of them, the most basic one, was to not talk with food in your mouth)—you had asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I prefer to wait a little,” he had paused before saying, “to savor the moment.” 

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “That’s deep. Maybe I should do that too…” Your gaze trailed back down to your food (and something within Sunday, maybe it was his heart, maybe it was his blood, he didn’t know it at the time, what it was—but something trembled, mourning the loss of your eyes which, for but a brief, but lovely moment, belonged wholly to him). 

“On second thought,” you said, still chewing, “nevermind.” 

It is true that Sunday likes to wait before eating; it’s a way of paying respect to the privilege, a way to relish in the sensation, the enormity of taste. But Sunday’s habit goes beyond just taste itself; it’s about the moment, it’s about the act of dining with someone else, the act of trusting and being in someone’s presence to the point where he feels safe enough to ingest something; to survive in front of someone else, to satiate in front of someone else.

Eating is grotesque. To be fueled by consumption, to feast and fuse chemicals with his cells, to do it in the presence of someone else—That, he thinks, is what must be savored. The trust. The companionship. The love. The grotesqueness is what gives eating its divine sensation, its incomparable significance.

To be grotesque together. To survive together. To love together—is that not perfect?

Before that time, Sunday had thought that the act of eating in itself was imperfect. The grotesqueness was appalling, nauseating, even—he didn’t want to eat in front of anyone that wasn’t his sister, the only person who he would allow to witness his act of survival, his insatiable ingestion.

But there you were—eating. Surviving. Loving. You were chewing, and Sunday could hear the crunch of the carrots, the pop of the grapes. And you were drinking water, your lips against the glass, satiated. And, and—and not once did he think you were grotesque, and not once did he perceive the notion of the imperfect. 

You were as you are. Frivolous, disorderly, imperfect—and somehow, Sunday thinks that you might have been sculpted by an Aeon, that you might have been kissed with life rather than conceived by it, that you might have been tenderly adored before you were graced in front of him. Tangible, divine. 

He wanted to savor that. The moment, the grotesqueness, the divine sensation; but Sunday was, is, greedy. At the time, he was afraid to even utter the thought. Now, he doesn’t mind. What he wanted to savor most of all was you, not just the divine sensation, but rather, the enormity of the divine, the colossal significance—you. 

You. 

It was an inconceivable notion to him, really. 

Because when he first met you, he was stunned, not necessarily because you weren’t there for his great Penacony downfall, but rather, because your entire being emanated disorder. 

Your clothes were wrinkled, your head struggling to remain upright as fell forward on multiple occasions, sleeping while standing. It looked as if you were teleported from your bed to the lobby, hardly conscious as you mumbled a couple of incoherent responses whenever you were addressed.

Sunday thought you to be frivolous. 

And yet, there he was, sitting across from you in one of the seats of the Party Car. Enamored by the divine, the disorder. Your words were muffled by the food in your mouth, your chopsticks clanging loudly against the bowl, your mannerisms defying every bit of etiquette he had ever learned. 

And yet, there he was, staring. And yet, there he was, not once sparing his food a glance—how could he afford to look at anything else, when you were right there? Divine? Perfectly imperfect?

“Sunday?” a voice calls, interrupting his prolonged stupor. Sunday cranes his head over his shoulder, bewildered, wondering when he started standing here, staring mindlessly out the windows of the Express Car without a single star entering his eyes, the windows to his soul. 

(There is no room in his soul for anything but you. No star, no universe, no limitless expanse—for you have owned the entirety of it, disorder.)

When did this begin? Sunday wonders, unable to contain the stutter of his wings when his lemon eyes behold your existence. When did the disorder become so palpable? His gaze trails over your shirt, ruffled; your shoelaces, untied; the popsicle in your hand, melting. 

Before he had met you, Sunday would have contained his smile. It wouldn’t be courteous to laugh at someone, especially when they were frivolous, especially when Sunday disliked frivolous people. 

But here you are, disorderly, tangible, frivolous—and here Sunday is, smiling. Wholly. With the crinkle of those lemon eyes, with the upturn of his lips, fervent and wild and free and oh, so imperfect. So lovely, so divine. 

After he met you, Sunday thinks—maybe not consciously, or fully yet—that imperfections aren’t too bad after all. Maybe imperfections can coexist with his decorum. Maybe imperfections can be a part of his paradise, of his simple, yet unfathomably complex dream. 

A world where no one must weep, a world where no one must feel sorrow. A world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight and, and—and you. Disorder. Divine.

“[Name],” he greets, his courteous tone not matching his amused smile, “have you perhaps noticed something?” 

You blink owlishly, scrutinizing his form. “Uh, did you get a haircut?” 

His wings twitch. 

“I’m afraid not,” he says, unable to contain the chuckle which escapes his lips; maintaining a semblance of decorum, Sunday points in the direction of your hand. Half of your popsicle has fallen to the floor, its red color staining the ground like some sort of cartoonish crime scene.

“Oh, shit—! We need a mop!” 

Sunday crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side as he observes your panic in real time, offering you nothing but the gentlest of smiles, and the entirety of his soul. 

It’s yours. Like how the sun’s warmth graces the world, you saturate his soul, filling every crevice, illuminating the darkness, warding away the cold—But this, Sunday thinks, isn’t enough. He needs more. Because the sun’s light is intangible, because his fingers phase through its rays. 

Sunday jumps—his wings, sealed by wax, fueled by fervor—and he soars. Towards the sun. Towards the warmth, towards his very own soul. 

This must be what paradise is like: being yours. 

[melodead]

Old concept-ish i was tryna do but got lazy half way :’D

[melodead]

i love him with stars

[melodead]

like thunder

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Everyone at the Akademiya knows that Hat Guy is difficult to reach; unless you're involved, of course.

wanderer ♡ gn!reader

warnings: use of "[name]," reader is a scholar

notes: HELLO AGAIN WANDERER NATION

“Hat Guy! Can you—” a fellow scholar begins, but is quickly interrupted by Wanderer’s ruthless tone.

“No.” 

“[Name] was just wondering if—”

“What?”

“[Name] was just wondering if you could lend us all a hand with the set pieces for Nilou’s performance.” 

Wanderer mutters something under his breath, his brows furrowed while his teeth grind against each other, furious. 

“Fine.”

“Great! See you later today, then!” 

Wanderer doesn’t miss the way the scholar grins, the way their expression morphs into one of insufferable triumph. Clicking his tongue, Wanderer rolls his eyes, his hand tugging at the brim of his hat in a futile attempt to hide his own self-satisfaction. 

Helping with set pieces? Count him out. You were wondering if he could help, though? Maybe he can spare an hour. Or two. Or however many you need him for—maybe, just maybe! 

Your involvement is the reason why Wanderer arrives at the Grand Bazaar two hours before Nilou’s supposed performances. So he can lend a hand with the set pieces; so he can be an active, useful member of society; so he can—oh, and suddenly, the wind stills, his chest shudders, ricocheting. 

Wanderer’s greatest flaw is that he has too much and too little heart, that he feels the rush of humanity despite, really, not being human at all. It is because of this flaw that he has long forsaken the land of his creation, where lightning splits the sky, a spasm of Celestia. 

“Wanderer!” you exclaim, beckoning him over. You are the only one in this world who greets him like that. You look at him, and Wanderer shivers, goosebumps rippling all throughout his skin despite not feeling cold. The surge of humanity, the still of the wind—you bring forth his greatest flaws, wielding him like some sort of doll, reaching into the cavity of his chest, squeezing the heart which has never existed. 

He reincarnates. Alive. You look at him, and Wanderer feels his heart, resuscitated, beating, alive. He’s alive! Like lightning, splitting the sky; like thunder, shaking the earth. 

“I’m so glad you came!” you say, grinning, and Wanderer merely scoffs. 

“Of course you are,” he quips, the callousness of his voice not matching the tenderness of his gaze, the humanity which spills from the cornflower color of his eyes. “You need someone with an Anemo vision to hang up the banners.”

You laugh. “How’d you know?” 

Wanderer clicks his tongue. “You’re terribly simple.” How could I not? he thinks.

Wanderer’s greatest flaw aligns with his greatest weakness. You. 

“Hat Guy!” Not even a day later—after Nilou’s performance, after he helped set up not only the banners, but also, the lanterns which hung from the ceiling—another one of his classmates clamor towards him, waving a report in their hand. 

Wanderer doesn’t even respond. His pace quickens, and the vision on the side of his chest begins to glow, a breeze beginning to form at the heels of his feet. 

“[Name] was asking abou—”

The forming hurricane comes to a halt, and Wanderer’s levitating figure lowers to the ground. 

“What?” 

“[Name] was asking if you were going to attend the study group later today?” 

Wanderer furrows his brows. “Of course not. Why would I need to study?” 

Not even an hour later, the door to the library swings open. There you are—the surge, the lightning, the thunder—surrounded by a plethora of books and even more people. They all seem drawn to you, asking you questions, throwing the precious syllables of your name around haphazardly. Wanderer frowns at the sight.

“Wanderer?” you suddenly say, noticing him first. Something ricochets in his chest, resonating throughout the hollow space, thunderous. “What’re you doing here? I thought you said you didn’t need to study?”

Wanderer scoffs. “Of course I don’t.” 

“But you’re… here? At the study group?” 

Wanderer pulls a seat up next to yours, ignoring the broken cries of a classmate who was trying to ask you a couple of questions.

“I am. You have a problem with that?” 

You grin that grin of yours, and Wanderer has half the urge to cover your face with his hand—Why are you smiling like that? he wonders, glaring at the other scholars sitting at the same table as you, completely enamored by your expression. 

“No,” you reply. “Actually, I was just wondering about this part of Inazuman history…” 

Wanderer has long forsaken his homeland. But you—oh, you; when it comes to you, there’s lightning, there’s thunder, but most of all, there’s love. 

And that, Wanderer thinks, is the greatest flaw of humanity. 

That’s why it’s his.

[melodead]

“apothecary diaries is a romance” “apothecary diaries is a court drama” wrong. jinshi’s apothecary diaries is a first love romance and maomao’s is a workplace drama. her biggest problem is being fired via execution and his is falling behind on work worrying she’s taking the wrong man home

[melodead]

Hi! I wanted to request a fic with Jade. Perhaps one where Yuu/The reader is starting to avoid Jade because their friends(the first years) have doubts about his intentions and whether he is sincere or not, seen as the tweels walking red flags. So Jade's partner wants to kind of break it off with him, because they are getting insecure and think that they're being played with and only seen as 'fun' for a short time which will get dropped later on when he gets bored, and Jade notices. How would he react and would he try to save his relationship and how? (Some other plot is fine too!)

Thanks a lot!

(Lowkey was debating how to go with this request if i wanted it angst or not and ended up with this)

“You're Not Just Amusement to Me”

Jade wasn’t oblivious. Far from it.

He noticed the hesitation in your step before you entered the Mostro Lounge now. The slight turn of your shoulder when he reached to brush his fingers along your back. How your laughter, once genuine, had become thin and polite. How your eyes darted to Ace and Deuce during lunch, searching them for silent confirmation whenever Jade spoke to you.

He didn’t need to ask. Jade could smell doubt. It clung to the edges of your words like brine on seaweed.

He smiled anyway. He always did.

But deep beneath that calm, gloved exterior, something ancient and sharp stirred in the deep currents of his heart.

You didn’t mean to pull away. Not at first.

You had tried to ignore it. Tried to drown out the words the others kept echoing, like waves lapping against the same weak rock:

“You really trust him?” “C’mon, it’s Jade. He’s always messing with people.” “I mean, the guy makes people eat mushrooms for fun.” “Doesn’t it ever feel like… you’re just a passing hobby to him?”

And what scared you most was that a part of you—a tiny, hollow part—started to wonder the same.

Was that all you were? A curiosity? A ‘pet project’ to pass the time?

Because he was beautiful. Mysterious. Clever. And you were just… you. Someone who fell too fast. Felt too much. Who reached out with your whole heart like it wouldn’t be snapped shut in a bear trap.

You couldn’t help but feel like you were the one playing a dangerous game with someone who had never even told you the rules.

So lately, you’d been keeping your distance. Less texts. Less touches. You even skipped your daily visits to the Lounge.

It was only fair to give him space before he dropped you first.

It was a cool evening when Jade cornered you. Outside the greenhouse. Of course it was. That was his sanctuary, his temple of stillness and secrets.

“Ah. Prefect.” His voice was low and quiet. Gentle. Too gentle.

You froze mid-step, hands curled around the straps of your bag. “...Hey.”

Jade tilted his head, eyes gleaming beneath the low moonlight. “I noticed you haven’t been stopping by. I was beginning to think you’d grown tired of me.”

Your stomach twisted.

He always knew what to say. That was the problem.

“I’ve just been… busy,” you said lamely.

“With classes?” he prompted.

“With… thinking,” you admitted. And it just tumbled out, ugly and breathless. “Thinking if this is—if we’re even real. Or if I was just something new to keep you entertained.”

The silence that followed felt too long. Like the sea had stilled.

“I see,” Jade said at last. “So the whispers have finally reached you.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Ace. Deuce. Jack, Epel… Even Sebek. All fond of you in their own ways, but terribly uncreative. I could tell from the moment they started glaring harder during lunch.”

“…You knew?”

“I’m not blind, Prefect,” he said softly. “Nor am I so dull as to miss the shift in your gaze. I simply hoped you trusted me enough to ignore them.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He stepped forward. Not looming—never looming—but near enough for you to smell that faint foresty tang of earth and old water.

“I won’t lie to you,” he continued. “There was a time when your presence did… amuse me. Your reactions were delightful. So quick to fluster. So stubborn when teased. But it didn’t take long for my curiosity to turn into affection.”

You looked away. “And what happens when that amusement fades?”

He said nothing. Just reached out—slow, careful—and gently touched your cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“When I enjoy something,” he said, “I cultivate it. Tend to it. Study it. Care for it so that it thrives. That is my nature. I have no intention of abandoning what I cherish.”

“Even if I’m just… ordinary?”

He smiled. But not the usual sly, calculated one. This one was soft. Honest. And maybe a little sad.

“You are anything but ordinary to me, Yuu.”

You shivered. Maybe from the wind. Maybe from hearing your name in that rare, raw tone of his.

He pulled his hand back. Respectful. Distant, if you wanted it. “But I won’t force you to stay. If you’ve truly decided I’m not worth the risk, then I will let you go. But I will grieve. Quietly, perhaps. But deeply.”

You stared at him, heart thudding like the heavy pulse of a ship’s engine underwater.

“…Do you even get scared?” you asked softly. “That maybe this could fall apart? That I could leave you?”

Jade’s gaze flickered.

“Yes,” he said.

That startled you.

“I do not love easily,” he murmured, “but when I do, it is… consuming. I can picture a hundred ways this could end badly. But I still chose you. And I will choose you again, if you’ll let me.”

A beat of silence.

Then you stepped into him. Slowly. Carefully. Like testing the water again after nearly drowning.

Your hands found the fabric of his uniform jacket. His hands hovered above your back, uncertain, until you nodded—just once—and he held you.

You stayed there a long time. Just breathing.

“…Do you want me to talk to them?” he asked eventually. “The first years?”

You snorted. “What, scare them into silence?”

“I was thinking more… a demonstration of sincerity.” He smiled slyly against your hair. “Maybe I’ll let them see how flustered you make me.”

You chuckled, nudging him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’re still here.”

Bonus (the next day)

Ace: “Hey, Yuu, you good? You’ve been quiet since lunch.”

Yuu: “Jade came over to the Ramshackle garden this morning. With a picnic.”

Deuce: “A picnic??”

Epel: “Aw, that’s kinda cute—wait. Did he give you mushrooms?”

Yuu: “No. He just told me the Latin names of flowers and how each one reminded him of me.”

Jack: “…He’s weird. But… maybe he does like you.”

Sebek: “Hmph. Still don’t trust him.”

Yuu: “I do.”

And that was the end of it.

[melodead]

imagine everything

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Dan Heng is good at waiting; too bad March and Stelle aren't.

dan heng ♡ gn!reader

warnings: brainrot (from stelle), reader is not the trailblazer (but is a trailblazer), not proofread

notes: my annual return to dan heng nation 💖

“Oh, no!” March cries, watching Stelle fall cartoonishly towards the ground. “I have to stay back and help Stelle!” In order to emphasize the dire situation further, March puts a hand on her heart, the other coming up to her forehead like a Renaissance painting.

“You guys should go ahead though,” March says, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Stay in character!” Stelle yells from the floor.

“Oh, I mean: The agony! I guess y’all must go ahead without us… It’s fine… We’ll be fine…” March trails off, leaning back as if she’s going to faint. 

Dan Heng stares at the scene with complete and utter exasperation. He’ll need to leave a one-star review later, because why is the acting so poor? Why is one of the characters switching between the Renaissance and the wild west? Why is—

“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask, crouching down to poke at Stelle’s face. “Dan Heng,”—his heart stutters, his unimpressed look dissipating at the sound of your voice, piercing through the fog like a sudden ray of light—“are you alright with picking up the supplies alone?” 

Of course he can! He’s done this before; the supplies aren’t even at a precarious place—it’s just the Herta Space Station. Not to mention, there is no reason why everyone and their mom has to come along to pick up two boxes of deliveries. That’s just overkill.

But—Dan Heng looks at you, opening his mouth to respond—it would be nice if someone could come along. In case there are three boxes instead of two. In case there are closed doors that he can’t open alone. It would be nice if the person who did come along was like a sudden ray of light, if the person who did come along had a way of saying his name. It would be a little nice, he supposes.

“No, no!” March interjects, cutting in between you and Stelle, not-so discreetly pushing your shoulders with the palm of her hands. You stumble back, bracing yourself to hit the floor only for another pair of hands to support your spine, the back of your head embraced by a warm palm.

“March,” Dan Heng says, his voice eerily cool, “watch your strength.”

“Oops!” she exclaims with little remorse. “Sorry, [Name]!”

You shake your head, offering her a gentle smile. “It’s all good. You sure you don’t want me to stay back? I thought you were excited to go pick up your packages, March.”

March and Stelle exchange glances. 

“Oh, we’re excited alright,” Stelle states, a smug look falling upon her face. Dan Heng raises a brow.

“We?” he echoes.

“We.” March nods.

“Oui,” Stelle remarks proudly. 

Silence ensues. 

“No need to laugh all at once,” Stelle mumbles. Still no response. Unsure of what to say, and at the center of everyone’s exasperated gaze, Stelle says the only thing she knows: “Bombardino croco—”

You and Dan Heng depart from the Express before she can finish her sentence.

To Dan Heng, it’s plainly obvious as to what’s brewing in his crewmates’ minds. Dan Heng looks at you (his breath hitches, his heart stutters, his ribs seem to dislodge and his palms feel clammy), and he thinks that, maybe, just maybe, he’ll let his crewmates do their bidding. 

Maybe it’ll be okay. Dan Heng looks at you (and his heart, although stunned, although humbled and awe-filled in the face of the sublime, swells with content, with fulfillment, with reassurance), and he thinks that, wholly, it will be okay. 

“Is something on your mind, Dan Heng?” you ask, the back of your hand grazing the ridge of his brow, a subtle attempt to ease the furrow—and it works! Dan Heng wonders if you realize; he wonders if you notice the way his breath hitches, the way his scrunched expression relaxes, the way the mere brush of your knuckles is enough for him to cease all concepts of thought. 

Dan Heng’s mind is loud, too loud. With you, however, the silence is evident; it’s in the way he no longer worries about the weak points of the Express, his inherent duties as a bodyguard, the incessant, irrational thought that he’s being chased—he’s not! He’s not being chased, he’s not being prosecuted; with you, oh, with you, Dan Heng does what he is, admittedly, not so used to doing: he lives! 

“Nothing much,” Dan Heng responds, lying, because really, he’s thinking about you. Everything. Because the silence, although empty, is an unfathomable void, a limitless pit which envelopes every fiber of his skin, forcing him to—and he lets it—think of you. You. Everything. You! 

“I’m here if you ever want to talk about it!” you exclaim, clocking him immediately. Dan Heng looks away, feeling the burn of his ears, the incomparable warmth of his face; everything is tangible. 

Everything is right next to him. He turns back around and he looks, greedily drinking in the sight of everything: from the bridge of your nose to the curve of your lips, Dan Heng is greedy. 

You catch him staring. Dan Heng can’t bring himself to look away. 

(They say when you stare at the void for too long, it begins to stare back at you.) 

You smile at him. Dan Heng will never look away.

(Let it stare.)

When Dan Heng came to the conclusion that he’d trust his crewmates to do their bidding, somewhere, deep within himself, he knew that he really didn’t. Sure, he may have some reliable crewmates, but first and foremost, he has other crewmates. And those other crewmates have a terrible track record and an even worse idea of what to do. 

Hence why he finds himself here: with you, trapped in his very own room with you. You! Everything! Everything is in his room, and suddenly Dan Heng becomes faintly aware of how small it is compared to Stelle’s. 

“You alright, Dan Heng?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, book in hand as you sit on Dan Heng’s wooden chair, skimming through various pages of his collection. 

“Yeah,” he replies, quicker than he can think. “Have you found something you like?” 

“I think so,” you say, your gaze returning to the book (and briefly, Dan Heng mourns the loss of everything, which slips in between his gaze and forces him to stare at the back of the chair when, really, all he has ever wanted was to stare at you). 

“That’s good.” Dan Heng hopes he’s being discreet, with the way his knuckles become pale as he grips onto the door, the way he tries to nonchalantly break it open while you’re still reading behind him. 

One must imagine Sisyphus trying to open a door; and suddenly, Atlas—everything—comes in, and suddenly, Sisyphus forgets what a door looks like because all you have to do is say: “Dan Heng.” 

His head whips around. Like he’s been summoned. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you good?” 

“Of course.” 

“I feel like you’ve been standing at that door for a while now. Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“No,” again, he replies quicker than he can think.

One must imagine Sisyphus trying to be nonchalant whilst pushing that boulder up. 

“Oh,” you say, retreating behind the backboard of the chair, and, once again, Dan Heng mourns the loss of your gaze, of the limitless expanse of everything within the center of his pupils. One must imagine Sisyphus craning his head over the side of the boulder, staring up at the sky, the clouds which he passes as he climbs that mountain. How sublime the view must be. How sublime and familiar and lovely. 

The red fabric of the chair does nothing to suppress the vivid image that Dan Heng has crafted of you in his mind; the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the bridge of your nose, the flutter of your lashes. He doesn’t need sight, or thoughts, or anything, for that matter. He has everything already. 

“I’m glad,” you then say, quietly. Dan Heng snaps from his stupor, his mouth parting slightly open. 

“Pardon?” 

“Sorry,”—you laugh awkwardly—“I just meant that I’m glad you don’t mind. Because I like spending time with you.” 

Dan Heng lets go of the door. 

One must imagine Sisyphus standing at the top of the hill. 

“Me too,” Dan Heng states simply. “I enjoy spending time with you, [Name].” 

The door, which he had just been trying so desperately to open, slowly slides away to reveal the nosy figures of March and Stelle, who were standing outside the whole time. 

“Aha! We knew it! Dan Heng, you li—” March starts, but is quickly silenced by Dan Heng’s palm. Stelle uses this moment of weakness to dash past Dan Heng, reaching for the chair which you seemed to have claimed as your own. 

“[Name]!” Stelle exclaims. “You and Dan Heng need to get together!” 

You blink owlishly. Dan Heng feels his blood go cold. 

“We’re already together, though?” 

“What?!” March yells. “And you guys didn’t think to tell us?!”

I didn’t know that, Dan Heng thinks, racking his brain for the moment. Did he get reality confused for a dream? Did he actually ask you out already? How long has it been? He thought that he woke up from that scenario. 

“Of course not!” you say, exasperated. “Why would we need to tell you? You know I’m always in here for the Data Bank, anyway.” 

“Oh, so that’s what you meant,” March mumbles, the realization somehow making her even more mad, “so, you just meant that you’re together here? Like, sitting on that chair right now?”

“Yeah, isn’t that what you meant?” you say.

Dan Heng rubs his temples. 

One must imagine Sisyphus watching the boulder roll back down the hill. 

“What the sigma?” Stelle mutters, reduced to utter disbelief. 

“Stop that,” Dan Heng grumbles. “All of you, get out.” 

You raise the book in your hand, pointing at the cover before asking, “Can I take this?” 

“You can stay,” Dan Heng states. “The rest of you, get out.” 

“This is just so, so terrible!” March yells like a supervillain, running out of Dan Heng’s room with comical tears streaming from her eyes. Stelle, on the other hand, sounds as if she’s casting a hex on Dan Heng’s head, her brows furrowed manically as she chants incoherent words under her breath. 

Whatever it is, Dan Heng can’t even bring himself to care anymore. He knew it wouldn’t be so easy. 

He looks at you—and the rhythmic pattern of his heart comes to a halt, and the steady rise and fall of his lungs stutter, and everything manifests in front of him, sublime—and he thinks that, truly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You; the Data Bank; his room; him; together. Everything.

He has everything right here. 

[melodead]

you know from experience that hungry students will go through many, many lengths to sate that hunger—and that’s why you’ve decided to hike a mountain on a school night.

you take a cutting of berries and slide them into the glass jar. hopefully, these aren’t poisonous. they’ll need to be checked by professor crewel first, obviously, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. grim might survive eating poison. you, on the other hand? not so much. a specialist would need to vet them first.

“i wouldn’t recommend eating those, if that’s what you’re planning.”

or a very knowledgeable student.

you turn your head. jade leech smiles politely at you from the long shadow of a tree, his usual suspicious demeanor offset by a knitted yellow cap and several layers of hiking gear. his lantern casts a soft glow across his face. you wonder why he has it out at all. the sun has only just begun to set, after all.

you must be staring too much, because jade steps out of the shadow and crouches down next to you, setting the lamp on the ground. “it’s good to have one in case of any delays. the mountains can be rather perilous, as you must be aware by now,” he explains. “one reckless act, and nature’s bounty can prove fatal,”—he taps your jar—“such as these.”

you blink at him slowly. his yellow eye almost glows in the dying light of day, but they are not predatory. not today.

“right. thank you for the notice.” you screw the lid back on, put it into your basket, and push yourself from the ground. he begins to do the same. “i’ll be leaving now. i don’t want to inconvenience you any further.” yes, he did just get here. no, you will not be acknowledging that.

“not at all. on the contrary, it is lovely to see you, prefect, especially on such a pleasant day. ah, but that reminds me,”—oh, sevens. please don’t say what i think you’re going to say—“seeing as we’re both here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind a bit of a hike to the peak? the sunset is beautiful this time of year.”

you swear. internally, of course, but the idea is the same.

you really hoped to avoid octavinelle after azul’s incident. it was one thing to be riddle or leona; they hadn’t targeted you personally. moreover, riddle has relaxed on some of his rules, and leona doesn’t bother you any more than he talks to you (which is very rarely). you got over it.

octavinelle, though, had contracted your friends into forced labor (it was mostly their own fault), stolen your house (you willingly agreed to hand it over), and sabotaged you in getting it back (in a deal you knew was sketchy). it was, it was—!

oh, who are you kidding? you feel hurt. that’s the long and short of it. it is juvenile and illogical and out of character for you and you hate it, but there is no time to unpack that, and the consequences for purposeful ignorance are little to none. jade leech couldn’t possibly have cared anyways.

“-efect? prefect?” he taps you gently. “are you alright?”

but you must have forgotten how entertaining the students find you.

you step back, hands gripping the strap of your bag. “i don’t think that’s a good idea. if i went with you, the sun would be gone by the time we got there. we’ll be better off going our separate ways.”

“i beg to differ.” his eyes glance at your bag. several jars clink emptily. “you’re foraging, yes? there happens to be a berry hedge on the trail down. i could lead you there, if you so wish.”

“that’s okay. it’ll be dark.”

“then i could accompany you on the way down,” he offers, “if the dark is what worries you.”

“i’ve faced worse—and i really should be getting back to ramshackle soon. grim will be hungry.” not to mention the three other teenage boys who might be ransacking the place.

“even so, you can never be too careful.” 

you cut the pleasantries. “and what would you get out of it?”

“pardon?”

“what are you getting in return?” your eyes bore into his. “i don’t have anything to give you, but frankly, i’m not interested in any kind of exchange if that’s what you have in mind. you won’t get anything from me.”

jade leech blinks at you twice in rapid succession, eyebrows raised, before his features school themselves into something neutral. concealed, even. you’re almost comforted by the sight of normal jade.

key word: almost.

“is that what you think of me?”

“how else am i supposed to think?” your eyebrows furrow. “i could never tell with you before, but i knew you weren’t malicious at the very least. i don’t have a clue where we stand now.” excuses. truths. you hold your basket closer. “does it matter, anyways? i don’t have any business with you.”

the sun is lower on the horizon now. the lamplight flickers.

jade leech sighs—sighs!—so inaudible you might’ve thought it was the wind. his eyes fall shut for a moment. when they open again, his left one shines gold. “you’re still nursing injuries, are you not? as vice housewarden of octavinelle, it would be remiss of me to ignore someone personally hurt by the actions of our dorm. i’ll ensure your safety against anything on the way down.” his gaze meets yours. “an eye for an eye, yes?”

you scrunch your face. “i don’t want your eye. i don’t want anyone’s eyes.”

jade blinks at you—(wow, that makes it, what, three times now?)—before unexpectedly giving into chuckles. it’s breathy, and true, and a whole host of other adjectives you wouldn’t normally assign him. that must be the floyd in him, you think as you stand there awkwardly. you wonder if you should just leave.

jade gets a hold of himself soon enough though, and he ushers you down the mountain under the guise of benevolence and whatever else he tries to sell to you on the way. you ignore it the best you can.

what you don’t see is the lingering grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, the entire trip down.

[melodead]

i know we'll reunite one day, up there in the clouds

[melodead]

once upon a time, a child from nowhere dreamt a strange, enchanted forest of centuries ago. the soft grass, ever the slightest damp with morning dew, tickled little ankles. the watery dawn tipped over the horizon, spilling through the gaps in the foliage. a small hand rose to the air. scraped yet still soft, it closed around nothing. light fell through those fingers into memory.

in this long-forgot forest, the child met a boy spun from moonlight and dawn. twilight’s scion. they are but children, yet the child knows this in that young, blundering heart: this has happened before, histories ago. it will happen again, long after this star-blessed meeting. it is a reunion across worlds and a chance encounter and an inevitability stitched into fate’s eternal loom. it is a waking prophecy.

you wake to a dream again.

the reverie, untouched by the eternity between your childhood and now, wraps around you like an embrace. the pale, gilded dawn spills across your skin—warm and cold, barely even there—and drenches you in its impossibility. your fingers sink into the soil beneath your knees. you peer up into the rosy sky, hoping to find an answer.

(you find a kindness you have never been able to afford in your life, and you are certain: this is a dream, and it is wrong.)

rustling rapidly approaches. you look just in time to see him emerge from between the hazy arbor.

even in sleep, silver is loved by the world. the wind combs through his hair lightly. flora seems to turn to him as he passes by, unwilling to look away from this vision. it is through this that you know this dream loves him. you’re almost envious of how loved he is—but you can’t be, because, if not this false reality, the fondness that rests in your chest is not a lie.

his hand reaches out. silver bends to meet you as you rise from the ground, falling into your orbit as though he were made to do so. he thinks it true sometimes: that somewhere, in some way, he was meant to meet you. an ancient piece of his soul belongs to you, has belonged to you for longer than this lifetime, and as he gazes at you, dawn-kissed and ephemeral and real, he knows his fate is sealed.

brilliant. clever. brave. silver knows what you’ve realized it before you even speak, the truth of this crafted reality. he knows you’ve realized the same of him. the clarity of your eyes tell it all.

“we need to wake up,” you whisper as your fingers cradle his face. he leans into your touch, presses a kiss into your palm, and hopes it won’t fade with waking. he knows, he knows, he knows—

“will you find me, silver?”

he would follow you to the end of the earth if you wished it. “anywhere.”

you—brilliant, brave, clever you—will find your way out of this if he cannot. you always do. but even if the long-forgot forest may disappear from his conscious, these feelings will linger. it is the only thing he can count on for himself.

(he hopes you won’t be alone.)

his hand curls around yours, and you wake.

[melodead]

birds, flowers, stars, and you

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Xavier pines after you like a fool! Oh, and who's Jeremiah anyway?

xavier ♡ gn!reader

warnings: jealous boyflop xavier, reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, allusions to xavier's myth lore, pre-established relationship

notes: MY SPIRIT ANIMAL IS WHEN XAVIER DOES THAT LIKE PATHETIC SAD INNOCENT FACE OF HIS I LOVE HIM ヾ(≧▽≦*)o

“Do you like birds?” Xavier asks, hovering over your shoulder, his eyes never once parting from your face. 

“What?” The movement of your pen comes to a halt. You crane your head over to catch a glimpse of Xavier, not ready for the proximity that exists—or rather, doesn’t—between your faces. In the reflection of his blue-grey eyes, you can see yourself; shocked.

Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from yours, his blue-grey eyes never taking the time to blink, desperate to drink your expression in; sublime. 

“Do you?” he reiterates, his voice steady. You wonder if you’re the only one who’s bewildered. 

Turning away, your face growing warm, you respond, "Yeah, I like birds.” 

Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from the expression on your face, the way you begin to fiddle with the pen, the way your eyes cast downwards, staring at the post-mission report. What would it take? Xavier wonders, his lips drawing into a thin line. To become a report? 

What would it take to be the pen that balances in between your fingers? What would it take to be the chapstick that glides over your lips? 

Xavier wonders if you like birds (they’re always chirping outside his window), if you like strawberries (is that why that’s your chapstick flavor?) or if you like stars (you know, he knows a thing or two about stars), or if you like fish (he likes fish). 

Most of all, Xavier wonders if you like him. 

He’s always wondered that, really. Back then and now. Xavier has always had so much wonder within him; it stretches across planets, across galaxies, across timelines. Xavier’s wonder coexists with the rumble of his stomach, the spasm of his heart—it coexists as the wildest, however, with his brain, tucked away like a chain, tied to the fervent thought of you. Wonder. 

You look up at him, remaining seated in your chair, watching Xavier drift off into his own reveries, his brows furrowing while his bottom lip juts out slightly. 

“What about you?” you ask, feeling half-bad for him as he snaps from his stupor, staring at you with that look of his; that look where he frowns, just a little; that look where his eyes grow wide, glimmering; that look where he seems so tiny and so adorable that, for but a second, you forget that he’s supposed to be one of the best hunters at the Association. 

“Me?” He tilts his head a little, discombobulated. 

“Do you like birds?” 

“Yeah,” Xavier responds, nodding. “I love birds.” And fish. And stars. And you. 

“That makes the two of us then.” You grin. Xavier mirrors your smile, his blue-grey irises reflecting the expression which it beholds.

The next day, Xavier pulls up with a bird in hand.

“What?!” you exclaim, shocked. Xavier’s index finger and thumb come to form a circle around the neck of the bird, its feathers splaying all across his hand, its beady eyes blinking once, twice, before a chirp resounds from its opened beak. 

Despite being held like a fine lab specimen, the bird doesn’t seem to mind Xavier’s grip. You stare at its head, a shade of pale yellow while the rest of its body fades into a tender grey, spotted with white. 

“This is Alarm Clock,” Xavier finally explains, lifting the bird up slightly towards the artificial light. Alarm Clock juts its chin up towards the roof. You think you can make out the rays of the sun protruding from its head. 

“Alarm Clock?” you echo. “You keep birds, Xavier?”

He lowers Alarm Clock, the hints of a smile ghosting across his face. “No, not really.”

“But… you know this one?” 

“Alarm Clock wakes me up every day. That’s why it’s named alarm clock.”

“Oh.” You mirror his grin, and although his face doesn’t betray his thoughts, Xavier rejoices. He is going to go home today under the impression that he absolutely nailed it. You smiled at him like that too back in Philos, wholly, with your crinkled eyes and your gummy-like expression. That was love.

“Do you have more birds?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. Xavier sets Alarm Clock down, its beak sifting through your various reports and pens. 

“Yes. There’s one called Fatso.”

You laugh. “Wow.” The sound stays with him still, pervading, despite your gaze departing from him to stare at Alarm Clock, its outstretched wings drowning in your attention. This—he doesn’t pay any mind to the bird, his blue-grey eyes absorbing your features like light in a vacuum—this is love.

The next day, Xavier’s impression—that he swept all potential competitors, that he triumphed and won your smile and therefore your affection—completely shatters. 

You’re smiling. At Jeremiah. Who even is that? Xavier had brought you to a flower shop in an attempt to surprise you with a new side of himself; the gardener, florist side, which he doesn’t really tend to often, but he knows enough about since he knows Jeremiah—wait, no, because of sheer luck and personal passion. 

His flower knowledge has nothing to do with Jeremiah. Who even is that, anyway?

He did not intend to bring you to a flower shop so you could hit it off with some Jeremiah dude. 

“That’s hilarious!” you exclaim, unable to contain your laughter. Xavier scowls. What’s so hilarious? Jeremiah? Is Jeremiah hilarious? Maybe you’re just so joyous, finding mirth and humor in places where others don’t. Xavier likes—no, he loves that about you. 

“Right? And then—oh, hey, Xavier. When did you get here?” Jeremiah asks, smiling that damned smile of his. Xavier’s brows furrow for but a second, only a second, because your gaze quickly finds him and Xavier can’t afford to be frowning when you’re looking at him.

Like a vacuum, he absorbs your stare, your light, basking in its color and its magnitude. Colossal.

“I was here the whole time,” Xavier mutters, not even wanting to look at Jeremiah, for he can’t afford to waste his eyes on some random guy (again, who even is that?) when you’re right there. Tangible.

“Have you two known each other long?” you ask. Jeremiah hums vaguely. Xavier shakes his head. 

“Not that long.” 

Jeremiah doesn’t even bat an eye. 

“I’m just a florist.” Who even likes flowers anyway?

That’s right, Xavier thinks. Know your place. 

“Your flowers are really beautiful,” you affirm. “I love the lilies.” 

Did Xavier ever mention that he likes flowers? Maybe he should bring it up, so the two of you can talk about lilies and flora, and this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can go back to doing florist things. Or maybe not. Maybe this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can just see himself out. 

“Do you know flower language, [Name]?” Jeremiah asks, feigning ignorance to the piercing stare which stabs the side of his head, the faintest essence of a light blade which manifests at the base of his neck. He shivers. 

Still, Jeremiah thinks that the prank comes first. This is necessary. For Xavier’s own good. Because lilies, in flower language, symbolize rebirth; a fresh start; innocence. Jeremiah looks at you—the blade materializes fully, cool against his skin—and he thinks, truly, wholly, that this is it. The rebirth. The start. 

He looks at Xavier, who withdraws his scowling glare, and his sword, the moment you turn towards him. Well, Jeremiah thinks you were turning towards him, to be polite, of course, but Xavier makes an effort to step forward, effectively blocking your view of Jeremiah. Who even is that guy?

“No,” you reply glumly. “What do lilies mean?” 

Xavier thinks, You. Jeremiah responds, “Rebirth.” 

This is a fresh start. This is a chance at redemption. This is it; the rebirth; the life; the moment. Everything will have been worth it. Every life, every death, every planet, every protocore—everything, everything! 

Xavier looks at you; like light in a vacuum. He absorbs the sight of your face greedily, the features which leave an imprint in his mind, a figure, a wish. Xavier has waited. He has always waited for you, after all; but this last time, he has waited a little longer. Three hundred years. 

Xavier looks at you; it was all worth it. The curve of your lips, the shape of your face, the ridge of your brows. Rebirth, a fresh start, a change. And yet, Xavier thinks that, across every life, every planet, every universe, you have always been as you are: ethereal. Otherworldly. Radiant. 

“Thank you for spending time with me today, Xavier,” you say, smiling. Only today? Xavier thinks. What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? His two-hundredth spring—how many days is that? Not enough. Xavier looks at you, Not enough. 

This—his gaze traces over your face, stopping and shuddering within the reflection of your pupils—this, this is not enough. His hands have become jealous of his eyes, unable to cup your face in between his grasp the same way that his irises can clutch onto your figure like a claw. 

To feel the warmth of a star, to hold the world, even for but a moment; Xavier wants. After all, he has only ever waited.

What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? Or two? Or three? Or, or—he returns your smile—or, a millennia? A universe? 

“I will always spend time with you,” Xavier states bluntly. “Always.”

Today, tomorrow, and the tomorrow thereafter, and many more tomorrows. This is a start. A rebirth. A change. A chance at redemption—and Xavier thinks that this is it. This is life. This is love. 

After all, both you and him like birds. And lilies. So, really, Xavier thinks that the two of you are meant to be; this is love.

[melodead]

the delicate chain strung around silver’s neck carries a blood debt forged centuries ago. its history entails the invasion of an ancient land, the legacy of a fallen kingdom, and the blood of a mother. it is a promise of love. it is a sentence.

silver feels the weight of this tragedy in the marrow of his bones. his heart threatens to tear from his chest. the ring clinks against argent armor, clear as day amidst the roar that shakes stone itself. he thinks you must be a wonder, for how steadfast your clever hands remain in fastening the golden clasp behind his neck. he can only hope he can do the same, now that history has come to collect its due.

its harbinger is the inky, draconic silhouette spilling across the wine-dark sky above the campus. wings and thorns unfurl to blot out the swirling tempest above. his liege. his family. he owes them everything he has and everything he is. silver will not fail this task—he can’t.

your hands pull away and grasp his own unsteady ones. 

“this won’t end in tragedy again,” you promise softly, eyes fierce and bright with conviction. “it won’t.”

“how do you know?”

“my record speaks for itself, don’t you think?”

the sand is falling faster than ever, down, down, down the glass. (you should take your own advice. he doesn’t ever want you to turn it again, not if it means another sacrifice.)

silver has never had enough time, having leeched from a centuries-long loan of it, but he hopes—as he presses his lips to yours in a rush, as you hold onto him despite the crumbling walls around you—he hopes that even a fraction of his love will come though.

silver knows duty. he knows the sins he must bear. but he knows love just as well, and if he’s to be selfish one last time, he wants nothing more than a happy ending to this story. he’ll give you one. he swears it.

[melodead]

when i made my username for minecraft circa seven years old it was just after i’d watched the little mermaid sequel and it became the name i’d use for any kind of internet interaction, so the progression went:

melody (movie character) > melodie (alt spelling) > melodie (melo-die) > melodead

whoever wants to continue go wild take this as an open invite

ok i saw a thread of people explaining the story behind their URLs, so i wanted to hop on and explain my URLs. tagging @andromeda-nova-writing @mimi-cee-genshin @perpetualcynicism @woofwoofwolf @strxnged @nenjuu / @andersdotters @akimind @dkniade

no pressure!!

milkstore -> i really love milk. i like the image of my blog 'selling' bottles of milk. it is a metaphor for sharing things i really like.

thomine -> although it's just thoma + mine, the reason why i wanted to merge 'mine' with his name was because of the lyrics "you weren't mine to lose" from taylor swift's song, august.

malovedaptive -> i found the term 'maladaptive' through maladaptive daydreaming. added 'love' to spice it up. (ultimately, unhealthy or not, it was an adaptation to survive and i'd say there is love within the will to survive.)

firestun -> fire (lighter's element) + stun (lighter's type).

shoyosh -> a play on shoyo and the 'yosh' noise he likes to make. also 'yosh' as a onomatopoeia whenever he gets the zoomies.

xiayz -> yizhou is caleb's chinese name. i thought it was funny that if you abbreviate his full name, it is just xyz. xyz is not available as a URL and wont make sense so i used his surname bc i like summer.

[melodead]

Birb