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heizours · 2 years

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GLITCHES

summary. when they find out that you're planning to delete the game under a few reasons

tags. gn! reader, grammatical mistakes may occur

cw. angst if you squint, mentions of explosions, sumeru archon quest spoilers on scara's part, they are lowkey freaking out like it's the end of the world

feat. xiao, scaramouche, heizou, zhongli, kazuha

note. there will be no endings/parts where the reader deletes or doesn't delete the game. to make it easier, the characters somehow already knows another way to prove their existence, and that it is ;)

< back to event m.list

INTRO.

Recently you have been busy for the past few days, as you're trying to accomplish all the works that was given to you before the given deadline.

And that also meant, not being able to spend the rest of your day opening the game. You really tried managing your time, but even that advice can't stop from the overflowing requirements that were continuously being given to you.

Which led to this scenario- apparently your laptop's storage has already reached it's limit, and because of that you can't save the file that was tasked to you

"Are you seriously playing with me now?" You grumbled under your breath, as this minor problem is starting to making you feel frustrated.

Meanwhile, your dear character has been very worried about you. He haven't seen you log in for the past recent weeks, and each passing day was a dreading feeling for him.

Till, all his answers have been granted when that familiar feeling came back again as he heard the sudden sound, which indicates of you logging in. The feeling of your presence, made him feel at ease again. But, of course, he seriously didn't expected it to be thrown away in an instant.

"Perhaps playing one last time, should erase the guilt I'm going to be feeling while deleting this..." You mumbled to yourself, not even the slightest aware that it was clearly heard by him beyond your screen.

Oh, no.

What have you done?

XIAO.

any outsider would think that there’s nothing going on inside his mind. the truth is, he’s trying to understand if what you had just said was just a joke or not, that he didn’t even noticed that he’s actually panicking the minute he heard it.

Xiao’s breathed hitched in nervousness at the statement that he had just heard from you, not too long ago. His eyes widened in both shock and fear, as he needed to control his breathing so that you won’t be able to noticed the odd actions about him.

He tried to keep his composure, but he really can’t as his thoughts continue to spiral and emerge from every corner of his brain.

Did he do something that you didn’t like?

Is it because he isn’t build enough to surpass your expectations?

Or maybe, you just came up with that excuse to indirectly say that you’re tired of him?

No amount of words can be describe by the amount of predictions Xiao is coming up with, as he looked back to reflect on his actions if there is something that bothered you so much, that you refused to play the game for the past few weeks and now, you’re mumbling about deleting it from your gadget’s existence.

His eyes kept darting every where that is surrounding him, except the direction that leads to yours, as he could feel the sweat from nervousness and fear are starting to kick and come out from him.

“But- they were always so happy and glad after logging in. It’s impossible that they are getting tired of it l, they even always use my abilities and skills to complete quests..” He mumbled to himself.

He looked up to look at you again, and there was no denying that Xiao can see frown that was evident on your face even though you tried to hide it in the first place, while you’re taking every last explore in the map, to be worth it and cherished before logging off.

If there’s anything that affects Xiao the most, it is seeing you under the clouds.

Suddenly, the thoughts that were brewing inside him, were pushed out of the way, as this time a determination presence has made it known from within him.

He has made up his mind, and even if it will have to cost something, then so be it.

It might be considered as an irrational decision, but anything is a rational one as long as it involves your happiness and well-being.

“Before I knew it, you are the only keeper of my heart. You gave me such a blossoming feeling I can't be able to explain. Then in return, if this decision will be for your own good, then I’m willing to risk it all for you.”

SCARAMOUCHE.

it might be already expected that he would let out a sudden outburst like he usually does, but it was the complete opposite of it. he was as still as thin ice, since that statement alone from you had triggered and brought back such major flashbacks that he had experienced from his whole life.

For a thousand of years he has lived and wandered all his life, this was the very first time Scaramouche has experience that feeling once again.

He thought that it was all over, and that he had left all those incidents all in the past, but you were the trigger for those unpleasant memories to emerged back from the ashes.

He doesn't understand.

What do you mean by that?

Are you also going to be like her? like them?

Are you also going to abandon him?

Scaramouche felt paralyze by those thoughts, because just as he was about to become a playable character and is waiting for the anticipation to be welcomed in your arms, this is what he gets instead?

“That can’t be possible, in fact- they are always excited whenever I get cutscenes especially if they are unexpected ones- or maybe they didn't like my part for Sumeru's archon quest..?" He murmured to himself, as he covered a part of his mouth, while being deep into his thoughts.

He looked back up to the screen, only to see you very focused on defeating a group of hilichurls that you were commissioned to. But no amount of focus can cover the sadness that is displayed on your face.

Scaramouche often has a routine, that since he is still an NPC and can be able to also roam around whether your online or offline in the game, he had made it a point to himself, to subtly follow you wherever you go, so that he can also be able to secretly help you to defeat the opponents much easier than you expected.

He for once, thanked himself that he never got tired of doing it, even though he sometimes also ‘complains’ how it’s really troublesome to see, that someone as dangerous as himself, is discreetly following you around like a lost child.

He took one last look at you, before turning his back. But as he took force steps away from you, he had halt it. Once again, he turned around to look at you, as a small smile slowly crept up to his face.

Like he suddenly had a big plan on his mind.

After all, if you can be able to enter his, then he too can do the same to yours. Right?

“The hoax, they are just all a gigantic lie in the world I live in. But you, you were different from all of them, in you I found peace and assurance. So, can I be able to find the truth in yours?”

HEIZOU.

as expected from a detective like himself, he’s coming up with every equation, that can fit as the solution to your problem. he gives himself some assurance that it will take not that much of a time before he finds one....or can he be able to?

He is a prodigy, an amazing detective. Surely he can be able to find such major clues, and can put it into the puzzle that's missing it's pieces, to prevent you from erasing the game?

Heizou stands there with his typical detective pose, as he goes deeper in his inner thoughts.

Ah, maybe this can work!

I think I'm gonna have a change of plans, it will not work.

It's alright, I can be able to solve this. Hopefully..

His brain continued to brew and function like it used to be, but every time he comes up with something it was always met by a dead end.

If any passer by will be able to see him, they could literally see the imaginary smoke coming from his brain, and because of his frequent change in expressions.

One moment his eyes would light up, the second he will freeze in pure disappointment before replacing it with a frustrated expression, as he goes back at the starting line.

"This is quite odd...usually I can be able to solve cases with the help of my intuition, but how is it I can't find something for their problem?"

Heizou mumbled disappointedly to himself.

He wasn't even aware, that the "assurance" that he is telling to himself, will be the embodiment for him so start panicking, as the fear that he won't be able to see and feel your presence again, is starting to sink in.

Heizou looked back up at the screen, as the dreaded feeling in him continued to drop. Archons, he hated it so much to see you feeling like this.

If only he can just find a way disappear from this sham world, and can be able to do all the things he is already thinking of to comfort you, then he would gladly do so.

The moment that unintentional statement formed in his mind, a large bright light bulb appeared above his head.

'That's it!'

He snapped his fingers as he mentally exclaimed it.

It was a risky and impossible solution, but how could we say it as an impossible one, when we haven't even tried it yet?

He took a look at you, up at the screen before raising up his hand, as if he was trying to touch your cheek and comfort you, despite the digital barrier that is hindering him from doing so.

"You are the William to my Sherlock, therefore I would like you to wait for me [Name], I promise you I will be the solution to your needs."

ZHONGLI.

he flinched unconsciously from that statement. out of all the possible words he is already predicting to come out from you, this was by far, the most surprising one. can you imagine the look on his face?

Out of all the things that Zhongli has expected, this was the very least he had expected to happen.

It was a very rare yet memorable moment to catch the old archon to be off guard, and there is no denying that he did felt that way when you had spoken to yourself about how you're thinking of ending things already.

He completely understands it due to the experiences he had seen as a witness during his lifetime, as he also has his own beliefs that he can't be able to stop you, especially that it is not his right to know what's happening among your personal affairs.

After all, you're not even the least aware that he is alive and breathing lively inside the device you're using right now.

However, there is still this tingling feeling where he's a little curious of what is bothering you so much, that it this had to happen in this point of your life.

Did something not good happened?

Are you alright?

Will you still remain safe, even if you erase his existence?

Such countless thoughts started coming one after another, as the more he continues to spiral down through it, the more he is getting concerned about your condition.

"One shall not expose their identity especially if it's something unimaginable, but I clearly want to express how concern I am over you [Name].."

Zhongli voiced out to himself, because if he would do it in front of you, then there is a very big possibility that you're going to freak out and will be able to click that delete button without any hesitation, before he can even explain anything about that glitch.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he was snapped out of it after hearing a big explosion that was not that far from where he is standing at the moment.

He has hesitating if he should go after it, especially that there is a chance someone might have gotten in danger because of it, but as he took a look at you are right now, he decided that he would make the travel fast in order to get back to you in a flash.

As he arrived at the area, something worth shocking and unbelievable was existing right in front of his eyes. No, it wasn't an unpleasant sight but it was rather a complicated one.

There stood an unknown portal, and through the portal he can be able to see you, doing what you were doing, but in a more different perspective from what he sees behind the screens.

Zhongli took hesitant steps, towards it. There is an odd presence radiating from it. Knowing that he is usually a rational person, he would usually step back from it just to be safe, but instead he finds himself closing the gap between him and it?

He took again another look through the portal to make sure if what is behind it, is truly not something delusional just to lure him in.

He's not one to make a decision in a fast pace, but just seeing you right behind this portal he's standing in front of, is encouraging him to take the opportunity, as it will be a worthy choice to make and shouldn't be wasted.

His fingers shook, as he got closer and closer to it, and once it had collided with the portal, there was a blinding light that surrounded the area before it disappeared along with the thin air.

"Oh Dear, just how big of a trouble did I got into? Well, there is no time to blame myself. I guess it should be you who I am worrying about, after all how would you react to find me standing right in front of you?"

KAZUHA.

he was able to take that statement calmly on the outside, however the moment he had grasp what you had just said, there is no denying that something shattered inside of him.

It seem that time has stopped around him, the very moment those words had escaped your lips.

But, despite the unpleasant twisting and burning feeling in his chest, it's a surprise that he was able to take it well from the outside.

Do not be fooled though, for if you have the ability to go deep inside his mind, you would be able to see the countless thoughts that are appearing and whispering from within him.

What was the cause of this effect?

Can he be able to reverse it at least?

Are you going somewhere he can't be able to follow or reach?

Such an occurrence like this, brings back Kazuha from the burdens he had to carry because of his past and fallen status.

"I have no right to stop you from doing so, since I firmly believe that you are entitled to have goals and dreams. But, there is a bitter taste in my mouth that I can't be able to erase once you separate the both of us for the purpose of your path."

He mumbled to himself, as he places a right hand near his chest, while reminiscing the unforgettable moments he had with you before you completely take the chance, to erase his data and memories.

He was glad that he isn't part of your team party at the moment, because he can take this chance to just simply look and admire you from the barrier, and take in your breathless form before fading away like the glitches.

That is, until something bright yet risky have been planted on his mind. Not too long ago, he heard some gossips about a mechanism device, being able to grant a wish of whether it can be believable or not.

Now, Kazuha knows that such a device can't possibly be able to do a miracle like that, but even though he is denying it, there is still that glimpse of hope inside him, that he should go for it.

Knowing that he can be able to also roam around like the others that escapes your naked eye, he took one last yearning look at you, as he hastily began his journey, hoping and praying that he can be able to make it to that device before you can even plan to erase all of the game's existence.

"You are the summer to my autumn. Back then I didn't have someone I can be able to protect, but now that you're here, please continue to show me the bright light that leads to yours."

OUTRO.

Peacefully.

You were just sleeping very peacefully.

But, that peace was unintentionally disturbed by his arrival- which you didn't know at all.

You could feel something- no, someone softly caressing your face, as if you're a sensitive vase.

At first, you tried to ignore it thinking that it was just the gust of wind, and it soon stopped.

However, it didn't end there. The lingering and soft touches had already disappeared from your senses, but you could still feel the presence of that someone.

You could feel them staring right into your soul, and if you even show the slightest signs of being awake, who knows what can they do to you.

Despite the warnings you had gathered, your stubbornness still got ahead of you. Because as soon as your eyes fluttered open, the first thing you see is someone breathing above you.

Out of instinct, you push them and hastily grabbed the nearest object that you can use to defend yourself, but as you took another look at the said intruder, you could have sworn that this is a dream.

Unconsciously, you slapped your face with the both of your hands, attempting to jolt your soul to wake up. And the sound emitted a sharp sting, causing the intruder to panic.

"W-wait! I'll explain everything I know, j-just please don't continue to hurt yourself further." He frantically claimed, as he started to feel guilty for making you act like that.

You lowered down the object that you're using to defend yourself, but that doesn't mean that you're guard has also lowered down.

I mean, who would even lower their own guard down when they wake up to find one of the characters from the game that they are playing, are alive and breathing right above them, got into their property without noticing it, knows them and looks exactly like the character itself?

"A-alright, I'll let you. J-just please don't come any closer than that, since this moment actually took a big toll on me, and I'm finding it unbelievable to even believe it." You nervously replied back, as he nodded back eagerly in return.

You think it will only end here? How laughable, truth to be told, this is just the beginning of each other's story.

We may never know what are fate's plan for the both of you, but as they always proclaim-

'Everything happens, for a reason.'

comment to be added in the taglist!

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mors3-exists-dot-com · 6 months

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Befit For The Lonely (TBOSAS Oneshot)

((AN:// I love TBOSAS, and have recently seen the movie. One addition I really loved is the dynamic the movie gave to Lamina and Treech, and it gave me the idea of what if they were friendly back in District 7. Apologies for any grammatical mistakes)) TBOSAS SPOILER WARNING

A chill blew through the arena, the night sky empty and starless, and Lamina wished she had a coat. She curled her body inwards. Who knew a July in the capitol could have such colder evenings? Lamina rested her head on her knees, squinting into the darkened arena. No one. Perhaps they were all asleep, waiting for the morning sun. Well, Lamina hoped that, at least.

Who was left?, she wondered. Some of the tributes died before entering the arena, and about six more were killed in the blood bath. Lamina tapped the handle of her ax as a name came to her head.

Mizzen. Coral. Reaper. Wovey. Tanner. Lucy Gray. Treech.

Treech.

She quietly scoffed to herself. Treech, working with Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner. Treech, the boy who had wrapped his arms around her when Brandy was shot, pulling her to safety. Who held her hand on the train as they traveled to the Capitol. Who she considers a friend. Her stomach dropped with slight shake of her head. No. Considered. Now alone on the beam, it felt ironically fitting how the clarity shone on her.

They weren’t close. No, no. They were friends of friends. Acquaintances from the lumberyard who met because of a lover’s tryst. She smiled ruefully, thinking to the days where their two friends, Treech and herself would sneak into an alcove in the midst of the woods and sit on thick branches, feasting on wild plants and whatever scraps they brought from their homes. Her friend would cling to his friend’s arm, talking to each other like no one else existed. Like Treech and her were trees themselves. She would catch his eye, and they'd share a smile. They thought their friends were overly affectionate in a near silly manner. Lamina an Treech didn’t talk much, but they found themselves confiding with each other when there was no one around. Lamina would confide in him about her dreams, and he would do the same in turn.

Lamina’s eyes stung, but her eyes remained dry, her tears gone. The words they had shared, the friendship they were beginning to form faded like leaves in the wind, if there was even one to begin with. It made their promise in the zoo seem fruitless. Though, perhaps they had always been fruitless. Treech hadn’t said a word to her when they were reaped. He hadn’t said many words at all until they reached the zoo. A chill like this night had been in the air. Treech was resting on the ground, his back just touching hers as they tried to sleep. Lamina’s eyes filled with a few tears, but she wasn’t. She knew one of them wouldn’t make it out alive.

“Treech…we’ll make sure we get home. Can we do that?” she whispered.

Cicadas filled her ears, waiting for his response. She wondered if he was asleep. Or she had said something wrong. Lamina had felt her anxiety curl inside when he responded.

“Yeah, we’ll make it home. You and me.” Treech whispered softly.

Lamina had smiled then, now she waits for tears that weren’t coming. Treech was off with the strong hands, accepting Coral’s offer and killing tributes left and right. And Lamina? She waits high on the beam, alone and trying to survive the night.

How befitting for the lonely.

#the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #the hunger games #thg #tbosas fanfiction #thg fanfiction #lamina tbosas #treech tbosas

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sailxrmxrs · 2 years

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it's been a hot minute but life has been busy and i've been working on some other projects but!! the brainrot is strong. too strong. so enjoy a little victorian period au inspired by a recent reread of an old favourite scene from one of my favourite books the nostalgia is real if i have to suffer so do you no i'm not sorry and today's boy of choice is rory because he deserves it <3 slight rivals to lovers if u squint but really it's just that rory is unable to process his emotions and mc throws it back in his face bc they think he hates them (spoiler: he is, in fact, wildly in love with them. a surprise to no one really) also ft. piano player rory bc the thought is v tasty. enjoy.

Tonight the moon was high and the evening's festivities were well under way. A particularly well-established noble client had called for a formal dinner as a manner of thanks for your work on a recent case. Working for a highly sought after detective agency meant dealing with all sorts of cases and dilemmas from people hailing from all walks of life, though the upper classes certainly offered insurmountable amounts of money for your services; to pass up such opportunities would be a rather unfortunate mistake to make, naturally. Though one sizable problem that also arose when taking on such commissions was being assigned to work alongside the individual who perhaps despised you most. Rory did not make working together simple nor easy, often citing his preference to work alone in the midst of an assignment. It was rare that he could leave a meeting with a new client without vocalising his distaste for higher society with all its airs and graces—not to mention the level of propriety with which one must carry themselves, especially when dealing with all sorts of nobles and aristocrats. While you empathised to a certain degree, Rory seemed to strive to make life as difficult for you as possible, often causing problems with his loose tongue and sour expressions. Not that he saw it as a problem, that is. Even tonight he wasn't taking a break from his frosty demeanour, face contorting with barely concealed disapproval at the smallest of comments. One small saving grace was that tonight's attendants were all very accustomed to Rory and his ways, taking his quiet disposition in their stride.

"Would it hurt you to smile even once, Rory? I've filled paperwork less dull than your expression tonight," you whispered, leaning as close as propriety would allow in such a public setting. Though your proximity was the least of Rory's concerns as his frown turned incredulous, his head whipping to scrutinise your scathing comment.

"Perhaps if our company actually spoke of mildly interesting topics I might take on a more sunny disposition," he retorted as he reached for the glass of wine he'd taken refuge in throughout the night.

"If that is your excuse, then how might you explain your sour mood on any other excursion we've taken together?"

"And how interesting it is that the common denominator here is, unsurprisingly, you." Rory punctuated his remark with a sip of wine, signalling that he was bored and done with speaking to you. Months ago the gesture would have left you seething and itching for an argument but now it was almost endearing. Rory was infuriating and yet somehow the routine annoyance he displayed was also a familiar comfort. When those stinging quips turned to blank silence or a look of indifference is when you knew things had taken a turn for the worse.

"Oh, they'd make such a handsome pair if it weren't for that egregiously sour face of his," the host of the evening's dinner tittered, a delicate hand concealing her pointed smile. Beside you, Rory set down his cutlery with a force that was enitrely intentional, rising from his seat.

"It appears I have lost my appetite. A headache suddenly ails me, likely brought on by fatigue so I'm afraid I must retire for the night. Enjoy your evening and thank you for your hospitality." Despite his formal words and the perfection in his bow, Rory's words were far from genuine; it did not take an expert detective to notice. Watching him stride out of the room, footsteps teeming with frustration as his fists clenched by his sides. Uncertainty wracked your body, manifesting in the way you fidgeted in your seat, completely and utterly tuned out of wherever the conversation had drifted upon Rory's departure. A itching desire to follow after him crept up your spine, reaching for your fingertips at they toyed with the hem of your garments. Glancing around at the animated discussions taking place, it became apparent that your absence would not be too detrimental.

"Perhaps I should accompany Rory and ensure he takes some proper rest." You rose from your chair, all soft smiles and manners as they dismissed you, soon returning to airy conversations of noble gossip you weren't privy to.

Walking the corridors of the impressive manor was truly a sight to behold. Elaborate portraits sat atop the floral wallpaper, the detailing of the gold frames proof of their exceptional quality. But as much as you longed to admire the upholstery and decoration, our thoughts remained fixed on Rory. Upon arriving at the manor, one of the servants had led you to a set of guest rooms to stay for the night and it required all of your focus to remember the route. For as beautiful and opulent as these homes were, navigating them was quite the headache. Reaching the door to Rory's room for the night, you gently knocked to receive no response. It was hard to determine whether he was elsewhere or just ignoring your presence—both were equally viable options. It wasn't until you heard the faint sounds of a piano coming from down the hallway. It was a melody you hadn't heard before, though the sound was as beautiful as any famous composition you could recall. Following its glittering trail, you soon came across its source. A door had been left slightly ajar, the crack revealing Rory at the piano as his hands graced the keys with such ease that it was mesmerising. While the piece was unrecognisable and new, the emotion it carried was enough to steal whatever words you'd planned to say to him. For someone so guarded with his emotions this felt like an entirely new person sat in front of you, peaceful and serene beyond measure.

Once the song quietened to silence, you finally regained the ability to speak. "I've never heard that one before."

Rory stiffened in his seat, turning with intense speed at the intrusion. As his eyes landed on you, his shoulders relaxed and he turned back to the instrument. "That would be because it's one I wrote. And did not intend for you to hear."

Ignoring his later comment, you closed the door behind you so as not to incite a further audience. Rory's hands played with a few stray keys, no specific song or melody in mind as he let his fingers drift wherever they liked.

"I didn't realise you played. Nor that you wrote music."

"My mother taught me when I was young. Even then she knew I wasn't the most...forthcoming of children. And so she taught me as a means of expression. Each one is an amalgamation of my inner thoughts and feelings." Rory's expression was unreadable, entirely foreign from how he usually appeared. Something about this version of Rory was far less guarded, as though he was offered the freedom to be truly himself when alone with only his thoughts and a piano for company. And now you had found yourself pulled into those same comforts somehow.

"And what kind of thoughts and feelings went into the piece you were just playing? If you don't mind my asking." Taking up a seat beside him, you placed your own fingers on the keys, tapping out a simple tune you'd learnt years ago.

"Ah," Rory spoke, clearing his throat as he shifted atop the stool. "It's about a certain someone I can't seem to rid myself of. They revel in tormenting my every thought, both waking and sleeping, and yet I cannot fathom a life without them by my side."

"Who might the lucky suitor be? Don't tell me it's the lady of the house's eldest? They are rather handsome, I will admit," you trailed off, a teasing lilt to your voice as you glanced in Rory's direction.

"I can't believe I once thought you intimidatingly intelligent. For your sense of awareness is atrociously appalling."

Before you could scoff some kind of offended retort, Rory's lips were gracing your cheek, the gesture teeming with uncharacteristic softness. Your cheeks warmed, the spot his lips had touched tingling long after he pulled back. Eyes wide and words stolen from your throat, all you could do was stare blankly at the growing redness of Rory's face. Never in a thousand years could you have predicted that he would kiss you.

Rory cleared his throat, diverting his gaze to try and conceal his embarrassment, though his attempts were in vain considering how close the two of you were sat. Neither one of you could hide the range of wild emotions that played upon your spirits.

"Forgive me for my impropriety, but it seems you have me utterly enchanted and bewitched. Are you sure that wasn't a siren song you played?" You teased, a gentle hand reaching to hold Rory's jaw, softly guiding him to look at you once more. Never had you seen him so red, the blush covering his cheeks and stretching to the tips of his ears, almost blending in to his hair. Edging closer, your lips hovered mere millimetres away from his, offering him the chance to move away should the act make him uncomfortable. Rory, however, did not move away. Instead he eagerly closed the gap between you both, lips moving in a synchronised dance. To be so indulgent, and alone together no less, would surely be worthy of a six month sentence to a chaperone. Though that was the least of your concerns right now, all thoughts honing in on Rory and the hand that reached for yours, fingers weaving together. Despite himself, Rory managed to pull himself away, though he could not manage to move far. Responsibility tugged like a strict leash, the knowledge that anyone could walk in should curiosity take control.

"I despise you for what you have done to me," Rory whispered. "Such romantic thoughts are unbecoming of me. And yet I cannot pry you away from the vice grip you have on my very being." The words were so unapologetically Rory, mild insults laced with truthful confessions. "There are no words in this language or any language in the world that can describe my affections for you, but can I play them for you?" He gestured to the piano, hands shaking ever so slightly as the nerves danced upon his skin. There was no answer you could give beside the affirmative nod, settling into his side as you watched him play, the beautiful melodies infusing the room with a novel of unspoken words. Rory would play long into the night, for as long as you sat at his side listening intently to all that he had to offer. And when sleep coaxed you into a hazy drift, he'd quietly lead you to your room, softly bidding you goodnight at the door before retiring to his own room where he fell asleep to the unwritten melodies he'd yet to write circled in his mind, each and every one a sonorous ode to you.

#infinite blue #infinite blue fanfic #infinite blue x reader #infinite blue rory #infinite blue rory fanfic #infinite blue rory x reader #we're not going to talk about how it's been a month since i posted here #but i want to get back into the routine of it tbh bc i miss writing fics it feels cosy #and brain hurt from planning other projects rip #anyway have this piece of my brain that is fixating on infernal devices again bc apparently 15 year old me is making a comeback this year #also possibly fics for new fandoms coming to a tumblr near you possibly maybe soonish #also this fic may or may not have helped inspire a scene from the book i'm planning i am SOBBING #anna writes

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self-shipper-snowdrop · 1 year

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Self Ship Valentines - Day 10

Prompt: “Future forward”

Description: Flayn has questions for Rhea and Bronwen about their future together.

Warnings: Major spoilers for the game if you don’t know about Flayn, Rhea or Seteth and their whole deal. Proceed with caution! Also, pregnancy mention if that bugs you at all. But like... if you squint.

“Auntie Rhea? Auntie Bronwen?”

Rhea hummed a bit, nodding towards Flayn with a smile on her face as Bronwen took a sip of the chamomile tea they’d prepared for their tea break together with Flayn and Seteth. “Yes, Flayn? What do you need?”

“Will you and Auntie Bronwen ever have kids together?”

Rhea froze up, face going bright red as Bronwen nearly choked on her tea, but managed to swallow the sip she’d taken before coughing. Seteth managed to compose himself and pat Bronwen on the back, helping the woman regain her composure while Flayn innocently looked on. Or- perhaps- maybe not. Flayn was also over a thousand years old, she more than likely knew exactly what she was asking.

“Flayn!” Seteth scolded, “What is the meaning of this?”

Flayn shook her head a bit, as if trying to display her intent wasn’t to embarrass anyone, “Nothing! I just want to know if I’ll ever get to have cousins.... I’ve been an only child for a long time. Uncle Indech and uncle Maculi haven’t had children. It’s lonely being the only child.”

Bronwen and Rhea looked atone another for a moment, hearts pounding so intensely in their chest one would assume they were schoolgirls about to confess their feelings for one another. Seteth was saying something to Flayn about the remark, but neither Bronwen nor Rhea could seem to hear much of anything as the embarrassment washed over them. They huddled together a bit while Seteth and Flayn were distracted, muttering together and asking one another what they should say.

“I don’t know Rhea, I don’t think we told them about the relic yet or anything...” Bronwen whispered, “Especially because we didn’t get married just yet.”

Rhea nodded a bit, “But the goddess made it for a reason, I know that they won’t judge our decision. It’s been part of our plan for some time now... we have been together for a few years.”

“B-But she asked it so casually too! Flayn has to know this would embarrass us...” Bronwen said, face a bit red, “Do you think she noticed me acting weirdly?”

Rhea chuckled a bit in reply, “No, no. Surely not. Almost no one has but me. Really- I think the only one who noticed was Byleth, but she’s always been deeply observant. But it is your choice, my dear.”

Bronwen hesitated for a second, but taking Rhea’s hand, she found some solace in it. Then, she nodded.

“Okay, I think we can tell her the plans. She’s family after all.”

The two turned back to Seteth and Flayn, Rhea clearing her throat and getting their attention. Flayn looked a bit excited at their interruption, and Seteth looked a touch tired; then again, he was a busy man. When didn’t he look tired? Bronwen had been urging him to rest for some time now anyway.

“Actually, Flayn, Bronwen and I have been considering that. Your timing is strangely good.” Rhea chuckled a bit, watching as Flayn’s expression grew to greater heights of excitement and Seteth adopted a look on surprise. “Bronwen, my love, you do the honours.”

Bronwen nodded with a small smile, “We’ve been talking about getting married for months now. No proposal yet- we agreed to wait for the right time. But... well.... we uncovered a relic the goddess left behind. It turns out, it’s meant to help couples like us have children. We’ve recently gotten confirmation that we’ll be having our first.”

Seteth’s jaw dropped and Flayn squealed in delight, getting out of her chair and pulling her father up, spinning him around.

“Father, father! I’m going to be a big cousin! Oh- isn’t it so exciting?!” Flayn laughed, “And a future wedding?! I can’t wait!”

Rhea laughed in reply, “Yes, it is wonderful news, isn’t it? Perhaps the goddess knew I’d meet a wonderful woman like her... regardless, we are quite excited. We do plan on having another someday, Flayn, but don’t worry too much about that now.”

“Come now, Rhea- leave some of the plans a surprise!” Bronwen giggled, resting her head on the archbishop’s shoulder, “You’re spoiling everything so far.”

The excited chatter of Flayn and the surprised sputters of Seteth seemed to be but a bit of background noise as Rhea gently kissed the top of her beloved’s head, hand rubbing slow circles into the back of Bronwen’s hand.

“I can’t help how anxious I am for my future with you, my dear.... you are my greatest blessing, after all.”

#romantic; the archbishop and the queen #wlw selfship #wlw self ship #self ship valentines #selfship valentines #the dreamer’s diary of escapism #Alt description; Flayn makes her gay aunts choke on their tea

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rsmrymnt-tea · 2 years

Text

a two-way introspection (1/?)

a/n: it’s just dola talking to herself. literally. references to lesson 16, late s2 spoilers. mention of past suicidal thoughts. hints (kind of) of how her immortality works & backstory if you squint? this is just a bit of brainvomit. for context, in her canon, barbatos wasn’t able to make the dead version of herself disappear when he erased the original timeline.

It’s been some time since she last visited her own grave.

A funny thing to tell herself, really. The weakest puff of amusement left her as she neared where her body was laid to rest.

It was somewhere hidden in the forest behind the House of Lamentation, far enough beyond the garden where the rare visitor couldn't possibly encounter it, but close enough that the wards protecting the House still kept curious explorers from coming near.

It didn't take too long for Dolasach to reach the small clearing, a deep breath taken as she walked through the overgrown path to her marker. In the years since her burial, rare varieties of Devildom flora had flourished all on their own, somehow overtaking and killing a few of the surrounding trees. Satan once described it as intriguing, as many of the herbs and wildflowers were apparently species that thrived where there were powerful magic.

Sometime later, they'd all learn just how powerful that magic was.

The last time Dola had visited her grave was around that time, right after Diavolo and Solomon told her about the Ring—a never before encountered phenomenon that promised the end for all three of the realms, slowly destroying not only the three realms but Dola herself from within. It did plenty to make one contemplate the option of becoming the lone body to bury instead of rendering all three realms a graveyard.

After all, death wasn't so bad. Between the three times she had a taste of it, Dola wondered if the version of herself six feet below her was actually having a better time than she was right now.

She shook those thoughts away before they could grow any louder. With a heavy sigh, she knelt down before her grave marker and placed a bouquet of hyacinth and asphodel down.

Death wasn't an option for her anymore, anyway. Not with her immortality. It’s conditional, yes, but that’s all the more reason for her to not linger on any deathwishes and musings.

"Did you miss me?" Dola gave a weak smile to the stone grave marker in front of her. "I'm sorry I haven't come to see you in some years. Things have been pretty busy."

Silence. It wasn’t as if she was expecting a response, considering her company. But then—

"It's alright."

Within a second Dola was on her feet, magic already sparking and pooling between her fingers. Before her was... Herself, standing over the offered bouquet. Her hair was still long, and she still wore what Dola knew she wore on that day: her old favorite paint-stained hoodie and visibly mended jeans. If it weren't for how she wasn't fully opaque, the living Dola would’ve thought she’d come back to life a second time somehow.

The ghostly Dola looked just as shocked as the living Dola did.

"You heard me?" asked the ghost. Her voice seemed so close yet so far, layered and echoing.

"I did," answered the living one. She relaxed her stance and dissipated the magic. There was a heavy silence as she eyed her ghostly self up and down, the reality of her existence slowly twisting her gut with cold fingers. "I... Didn't think you'd still be around."

"Well, I am." She bit back the urge to tell her that she'd always been around, but she knew herself well enough to know that she didn't need to say it.

The shock on the ghost's face slowly morphed to confusion. "Have you always been able to see and hear me?"

Dola shook her head. "No. It's... A recent development," she said. The ghost slowly nodded, oblivious to how the living version of herself wondered how she missed any sign of a ghost's presence on her way here. Perhaps she was just too distracted by her own thoughts?

"I... See. I'm guessing Sol taught you that trick?" The ghost tried to flash the best smile she could muster, but the both of them knew it was hollow.

"It's... a long story."

The ghostly Dola shrugged. "I've got a lot of time to kill."

"I can imagine," Dola said, sighing. "But right now, I just—why are you still here? And why have none of the brothers ever said anything about you being here?"

The ghost mirrored her sigh and sat down on her—on their grave marker.

"Give me a moment to gather myself first,” she said. “I wasn't exactly expecting that you'd visit today, let alone somehow be able to communicate with me."

#dolasach #katha #idk what this is but i’m posting it #i just thought it would make sense that the dola that’s died was a ghost #since her life was only starting to get better when she was killed #unfinished business yknow

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teyvattherapist · 3 years

Note

Hi! Do you remember the headcanons of the god of fate request you had?

Can I request the same but with Kaeya, Venti and Childe.

Still male reader :)

This is a part two to this piece >God of Fate< So for more context, go check that one out first!

Thank you for the request, this whole idea comes somewhat easy to me, then I immediately get nervous it isn't what you want haha! Oh well! I hope you enjoy<3

Tags: m!reader/Kaeya, m!reader/Venti, m!reader/Tartaglia, Khaenri'ah spoilers, Kaeya spoilers, Tartaglia's real name, Venti's real name, God!Reader, angst if you squint, canon typical violence.

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Khaenri’ah wouldn’t have had any survivors if it hadn’t been for a particular man that seemed unfazed by the battlefield the once prosperous nation of humanity became. Neither Khaenri’ahn nor from Celestia, simply an outlander. Despite showing great fighting prowess and strategic skill, Khaenri’ah had still fallen under the watchful gaze of the man. Of course, this was just a legend, a small rumour only known by the most curious of historians or academics. And even then, it’s debated. With the legacy of Khaenri’ah long gone, all that was left was anecdotal evidence.

Kaeya Alberich

-His biological father told stories of a man dressed in the silk of the Gods that drew steel against steel in the war of Khaenri’ah.

-He didn’t really believe in that though, to him, it was just that. A story. Just a fairytale to explain what time had lost.

-Kaeya had almost completely forgotten these fairytales, his childhood a hazy blip he did his best to forget. But the oddest stranger arriving in Mondstadt made it hard to forget certain aspects of those stories.

Kaeya slid into the seat across from you, sliding a wine glass to you. You raise an eyebrow at the suddenness of the situation, eyes flicking to the glass of glorified grape product. “You’re new to Mondstadt right? I’m the Cavalry Captain, Kaeya, I’d be happy to show you around.” His voice was smooth, suave as if he were hiding something. You picked up the wine glass, sniffing the wine. Mortal food and drink always smelled so weird. Tasted weird too. Kaeya watched you with a curious eye and you hummed, setting the wine glass back down.

"Kaeya Alberich right? I knew your father."

"Master Cr-"

"The other one." You smile at him, sliding the wine glass back. "I don't drink this stuff. Thank you though." You pulled your sleeve up, checking one of the watches on your wrist. Kaeya seemed taken back and you wondered if you perhaps misjudged his ability to lie. He seemed to recover quickly enough, eye narrowing at you. "Do you have questions, Captain? Or may I return to my work?" Work. Yes. That was one way to describe the recording of history and fate itself. A job.

"So it is you. You're real." Kaeya dropped his voice as you picked your book back up. You give him a short nod and he sits back, processing the turn of events. Fascinating, how many people you've run into who know of you. A stark difference to the last time you had been in Teyvat, recording the fall of a nation. "Tell me why you're in Mondstadt." Kaeya dropped his pretense, much preferable to you. You merely shake your head, it isn't your place to discuss the fate of Teyvat and the endless routes that will lead to it.

Venti

-Much like Morax, Barbatos had fought you in the war. Unlike Morax, Barbatos didn’t let his surprise stop him. Barbatos recognised your divinity, but elected to ignore it in favour of drawing the bowstring back.

-What was more surprising was his arrow being deflected by something he hadn’t seen before, that was when he realised you weren’t a rogue from Celestia but an outlander from somewhere else entirely.

-That was years ago though, he didn’t talk about the war, and he wished desperately to forget it. Barbatos opted to up the persona of Venti the Bard instead, but upon his return to Mondstadt, his past would follow.

Venti’s eyes widened when he pushed the tavern door open, his eyes immediately drawn to one of the visible tables, the cavalry captain sitting with a strange and far too familiar man. Feeling eyes on you, you lifted your head, making eye contact with the teal eyed bard. Kaeya turned his head to look over his shoulder at the bard. Venti drew closer when Kaeya beckoned him to do so. You watched as the God of Freedom sat down beside the Khaenri'ahn captain. So many familiar faces indeed.

"Hello Bar-"

"Venti, actually. Long time no see."

"Venti, alright. Yes I believe the last we saw of each other you tried to kill me." You tapped your pen against the leather bound book on the table, a small smile on your face. "No hard feelings, of course. I had stepped out of line anyway." Your revelation surprised the God, the sight somewhat satisfying. Venti swallowed thickly, grabbing the abandoned wine glass, he downed the beverage. "Well fate waits for no one, I have to go." You stood with the book in hand. Venti watched you intently as you left the tavern, the bard gesturing to Charles for more wine.

"Have a bad history?"

"He deflected a flying arrow in the middle of a battlefield, he's terrifying." Venti shuddered, shaking his head. While his Geo counterpart may have been curious of the God's appearance in the warning letter he had sent to Venti. Venti was anything but curious. He didn't want to know why a God from a different world was once more patrolling the land of Teyvat. Especially now that his gnosis was gone, he didn't want to know what it meant or what it could possibly imply.

Tartaglia

-Tartaglia knew the Gods were around, he served one. But regarding Khaenri’ah or that cataclysm he wasn't entirely sure. His time in the Abyss was spent solely focused on surviving.

-He was never really in a position to learn about any of that, living life blissfully aware of worlds outside of his own.

-Then the Traveler showed up and he heard whispers of them being from beyond, then they were followed by a man in a cloak made of material he had never seen before.

-And well the Traveler was a good opponent, why not this other stranger?

You lifted your head, eyes curiously looking ahead. There was a rustling above you and you slipped off the rock just as an arrow hit where you had been sitting. A tall ginger jumped from the tree, drawing his bowstring back once more. You clicked your pen, the item turning into a sword that was then used to skillfully cut the flying arrow in half. "Your form is sloppy.." You sighed, flipping the sword in your hand as he readied another arrow. "I'm not going to fight a human, is there something you need or are you just suicidal?" Another arrow flew by your head, embedding itself into a nearby tree.

Your words seemed to dawn on Tartaglia who lowered his bow slightly. "Human? You're a God? That'll just make this win more rewarding!" The ginger readied his bow once more. You just wanted to take a nice rest in the Snezhnayan forest, but of course it wouldn't be that easy. Before he could knock another arrow something invisible wrapped around his wrists, tightening until he had no choice but to drop his weapon into the snow. When the occasional ray of sun hit the clearing they were in, the invisible thread around his wrists shimmered an ethereal gold.

"I'm just.. a keeper of records. There are more enjoyable Gods to fight. Now if you don't mind." You flicked your wrist and the ginger was brought to his knees much to his chagrin at the turn of events. Your pen returned and you tucked it securely into your pocket. For a moment you just stared at him and he stared back, dull blue eyes boring into your very soul, or perhaps lack of. "Well. Nice meeting you in person, Ajax. You should keep up the work on the anger issues." You turned to leave, listening to him struggle against the binds.

"How do you know my name?"

Oops.

"I know everything and nothing!" You wave over your shoulder, snow crunching underfoot as you leave him in the clearing alone. Tartaglia watched your retreating form until he couldn't see you anymore. And it was then that the invisible threads retracted, allowing him to gather his weapon and give his wrists a quick rub to ease the sudden stiffness.

In your multiple times to Teyvat, it would always be the world that proved most in need of intervention. Though that wasn't part of your job description, you couldn't help it. Even the sky above warned of the brewing storm that would take the continent by storm. Most recently it had been the Cataclysm, this time? You weren't sure which way Teyvat would lean. Too many possibilities, too many options, and none were yours to make.

#Kaeya x reader #Venti x reader #Tartaglia x reader #Childe x reader #m!reader #asks #Anonymous #Lane Writes #Kaeya Alberich #Tartaglia #Venti #Genshin Impact #Genshin Impact x reader #i suck at tags help #kept the intro from the last one since its just easiest #God of Fate

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

Text

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans + mentions of animal death Genre: Hurt + comfort Summary: Time to meet the family! What exactly has Cassandra told her mother? Can Bela convince her family to calm the hell down? We'll find out! Spoiler: there's the start of a cute date afterwards Notes: Once more we visit Bela's private study, which I first described in a chapter of Serenade. Added a few more details this time. PS reader is probably low-key a theater nerd with a hint of a goth phase, just saying. Also this chap is a little short, sorry. Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow, 2: Tangled Strands

3: Rumbling Thunder

Heart racing, you step into the dining room, just behind Bela. Both of you are nervous, but find comfort in each other. Still, what you see upon entering only makes you feel worse. At the head of a large table stands none other than Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. Besides her is her middle daughter, the one who confronted you earlier, who sends you a knowing smirk as you walk in. Lady Dimitrescu, on the other hand, is scowling. Her eyes are squinted in a clear display of disapproval. If not for Bela’s hand squeezing your own, it was likely that you would have fainted from fear.

“I see Cassandra has wasted no time in spreading rumors,” Bela said bitterly. You’re amazed by her ability to stand tall in the face of her family’s tension. Yet there was a part of you that wondered if you were worth the struggle, at least for your soulmate. Thankfully, you are not given much time to ponder the thought. No, you’re being pulled towards the closest side of the tabe, guided next to an ornate seat. Neither Bela nor yourself sit yet, however. “Please, mother, do not be hasty to make your judgement. I promise that-”

“Do not presume to tell me of my own business, daughter. The timing of my judgement is my prerogative, not yours,” Lady Dimitrescu interrupted, staring right at you. A shiver runs down your spine at the eye contact. What did Cassandra say to her? You wonder, struggling to breathe past the lump in your throat. Even Bela becomes visibly nervous at the interaction. “Now… are you certain, without a doubt, that this is your soulmate?” Did she really even have to ask? What were the chances that Bela would save you, one person out of at least a dozen in the cellar, for any other reason? Still, your soulmate straightens up at the attention, and replies as confidently as possible.

“Yes, of course, mother. I would not dare risk your anger for any lesser reason,” Bela assured. Then she gives your hand another soft squeeze, before pulling hers back a little, catching the thread that bound you together with her fingers. Lifting it, she tugs it somewhat absentmindedly. Out of habit you immediately return the action. Unfortunately, those around you would be unable to see the display. For all they knew, the two of you could be faking it, simply attempting to get out of the situation unscathed. Surprisingly though, you see Alcina hesitate. Her left hand twitches as if she was thinking of her own red string. Has she ever met her partner? Did she know the pure joy that her daughter had so recently felt?... Maybe she’d be more sympathetic to your situation if she had.

“We will see if your defiance pans out in time, Bela. For now… Why don’t we hear what your pet has to say about themselves, hmm?” Lady Dimitrescu suggested, giving a somewhat devious smile. Next to you, Bela grimaces, then sends you a pleading look. Alas, you cannot read her mind, and can only guess as to how you’re supposed to respond. Bowing is a sign of respect in virtually all cultures, you think, probably a good place to start.

“It is an immeasurable pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Lady Dimitrescu,” you said, before giving your full name. Then you rise from your bow, once more making eye contact. Out of the corner of your vision you see Cassandra rolling her eyes. “I know that I am a mere human, and hardly the epitome of a prime specimen. But I am determined to prove my worth, for there is no prize on this earth more grand than being allowed to love Lady Bela. Every ounce of my willpower is prepared to devote myself to this task, entirely, so that I may give Lady Bela the courtship and happiness that she is deserving. It is both an obligation and an honor.” Hopefully your soulmate wouldn’t mind you using the same line twice, at least under these circumstances.

In the seconds that follow, several things happen: One, you see Cassandra frown a little, and refuse to look in your direction. Two, Lady Dimitrescu makes a surprised face, but quickly shifts into an expression of satisfaction. Thirdly, Bela’s hand finds your own again, giving it an incredibly soft squeeze. Last but not least… someone you haven’t seen before enters the room. She has red hair, a green pendant around her neck, and eyes that light up with curiosity when she sees you. If you had to guess, you’d assume that she was another one of Bela’s sisters. Here’s hoping she’s a tad bit friendlier, you think.

“Did I miss anything? Ooh, please tell me we’re having this lovely stranger for breakfast?” She asked, grinning maniacally. So much for being friendlier, you think, figuring that she was being literal. Based on the way Bela tenses up in response, you’re probably right. Before she can protest, however, Lady Dimitrescu clears her throat and speaks.

“Ah, Daniela… This stranger-” she says the word with far less venom than you anticipated, but it is venom nonetheless- “is your dear sister’s soulmate. We will not be draining them of blood. Again. Assuming that they behave themselves. Is that clear?” She asked, staring down at the newcomer. There’s a slight pause, tension still lingering in the air, followed by a sigh of relief from Bela. Much to your surprise, neither Cassandra nor Daniela seem particularly upset by this announcement. In fact, the latter simply shrugs and takes her seat at the table. Next thing you know everyone else is sitting as well, including Bela, who gestures for you to follow suit. “I’ll have one of the servants fetch you some more… appropriate food. Cynthia, my dear?” Soon enough a maiden, perhaps a decade or two older than yourself, hurriedly enters the room. With a bow, she addresses Alcina.

“Yes, Lady Dimitrescu?”

“Have Miss Bouregard make an extra plate of whatever it is you sort eat, and bring it here. We have an… unexpected guest,” Alcina explained. At that, Cynthia glances at you, her eyes briefly widening in surprise. Without another word she turns away, giving another bow before heading away to fulfill her task. Once more you’re the only human in the room. Oddly enough, you manage to feel quite at ease, as if surviving one round was enough to guarantee you’d win the overall game. Well, at the very least you now had a chance. Regardless of what was to come, you were glad for that, for this opportunity to be with your soulmate. At the end of the day… little else mattered to you.

———————————

Much to your relief, the rest of breakfast proceeded smoothly. Conversation was sparse, with most of it being hushed whispers from the other side of the table, but you hardly minded. Normally you would find it rude. Now, you were simply pleased that they weren’t being up front with their hostility. More so, it allowed you and Bela to have your own conversation, which mainly pertained to your plans for the day. Several times during your discussion, a glance elsewhere would show you that Alcina was paying attention. Exactly once you even saw her attempting to hide a smile. A sense of pride had swelled in your chest at the sight.

It has remained there, even until now, as you move into Bela’s private study. One quick survey of the room tells you a thousand things about your soulmate. For starters, it’s clear that she’s musically inclined. There’s a harp in one corner, adjacent to a folded music stand, as well as a small bookshelf dedicated entirely to sheet music. A couple medium sized instrument cases are nearby, but you don’t immediately recognize their shape. Further into the room is a rather old looking desk, slightly worn, yet clearly cared for. Possibly passed down the generations? Next to the desk is a massive window with a couple spare chairs. All across the walls were bookshelves and mementos, including several skulls (at least one of them human). Every book you looked over appeared to be well read, with many bookmarks inside, some held together by tape and prayers.

“This… this is sublime, my darling. I could rest here for a month and hardly finish cherishing half the space!” You said, grinning at your soulmate. She’s equally pleased, seeming a tad relieved as well. Perhaps she had worried you’d be thrown off by the skulls? Wanting to reassure her, you approach that particular shelf, examining them closely. However, you do not touch them, not wanting to risk damaging her collection. “Truly marvellous. Dare I ask where you got these specimens?” It’s a joke, but Bela stiffens nonetheless, making you quickly redact your statement. “My apologies, I meant it as a jest. Though you are welcome to tell me more about them if you so desire! I will listen with rapt attention, I promise.”

“Most of them are gifts from Cassandra. During the summers we hunt, her more so than Daniela or myself. I… dislike wasting anything, and there’s only so much to be done with most bones. They have quite a few ornamental uses, however. Useful for study, as well,” Bela mentioned, smiling softly. Then she moves to stand next to you, carefully reaching to grab one of the skulls. “This was from one of our hounds, actually. I raised her from puppy to adult, took her on every hunt, even let her sleep in my quarters on colder nights. When she got sick I…” A pause, mouth open but unmoving, eyes slipping shut. “I couldn’t bring myself to put her down. Even argued with my mother, night after night, begging for another choice. None came, of course, and in the end even I could not deny her the softest embrace of death… Still, you must think me strange, to keep such a thing as a reminder of her.”

“Not at all, my dear. We all remember, and grieve, in our own ways. I’ve often found myself intrigued by skulls, of all sorts,” you admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “All we are, our minds or mayhap our souls, contained in one hard shell. It’s incredible, and terrifying, all at the same time, to hold one in my hands, or even merely examine one. Oh, what stories these bones could tell, if only they could talk… Though I suppose there are entire fields of science devoted to such a thought…” With that said, you look back at Bela just in time to see her staring fondly at the canine skull. Then she places it back on its perch, dusting her hands off afterwards, taking one last moment to appreciate her collection.

“I’m glad you and I agree on this,” she said softly. Once more she’s looking at you, smiling wide. “Now let’s make memories of our own, to hold in our bones forevermore, yes?”

#bela dimitrescu x reader #bela dimitrescu #resident evil: village #re8 village #tw animal death

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miss-1ng · 3 years

Note

Dimiclaude kiss prompt no. 55?

this turned out... longer than i intended lmao

also hope you're okay with a soulmate au, because this is the only idea i had for this lol! thanks for requesting <3 <3

(also a warning for spoilers about claude's backstory and maybe dimitri's a little bit but otherwise i'm pretty sure everything is spoiler-free!!)

His name is Khalid, is what Dimitri’s mind - wide awake from the searing sting of finally gaining his soulmark - says, barely a whisper while when Ingrid got hers, she screamed with joy the moment she found out her soulmate was Glenn.

That was a year ago, on the fourth of the Guardian Moon, precisely the day of her birth, which was celebrated with her family and friends.

It’s legend that you become of age to receive a soulmark from the day you turn twelve to the day you turn sixteen. Sylvain, two years older, had, unsurprisingly received his two years prior to Ingrid and Felix who both received theirs when they officially became of age.

Dimitri however, while not exactly a rare case, though not a complete normality, had received his a year later than which his childhood friends did, at age 13.

Her mark glistens a glittering gold on the inside of her left wrist, corresponding with Glenn’s which is on the inside of his right one. Dimitri remembers her gushing how when the first time they held hands, their marks shone when they touched.

He also remembers Felix gagging and glaring at the two lovebirds for the rest of the day, completely enraptured with one another and nothing else.

As of that day, their betrothal was made official, now that Ingrid had her mark to confirm the one Glenn owned.

That was a while back now, and today, an exact year later, is Dimitri’s birthday. The mark on his arm stings, but as his eyes really take in the word in beautiful script on his wrist, he begins to ignore the pain.

Exactly three hours later, he’s at the Felix and Glenn’s home, sitting outside on the grass with the two of them, having recently abandoned the wooden training swords. Glenn is a full four years older than all of them, except Sylvain, who is only two years older. Yet despite his age Glenn still treats them the same.

When Dimitri finally shows the two his soulmark after lots of nagging, he notices the way Felix bites his lip and averts his gaze.

But before he can question it, Felix teases “You’re going to have a boyfriend!” before bursting out into laughter.

Dimitri hadn’t even thought of that, fully focused on the fact that he has a soulmark and not on the fact that his soulmate has the name of a boy.

He… isn’t too sure what to feel about that.

“And you are too,” Glenn calls in a sing-song voice to his younger brother, only to get fiercely elbowed in the stomach. A scowl has found its way onto the bright-eyed boy’s face.

Dimitri doesn’t say a word. Felix has been oddly secretive about his soulmark ever since he got it a month after Ingrid’s, while she had been flouncing it around whenever she got the chance and wasn’t with Glenn. Though at the same time, even at thirteen, Felix has been secretive, spending more time by himself than with the group unless he was absolutely forced too.

“Shut up!” he snaps, folding his arms and pouting. “I hate you.”

“So kind, Fe,” Glenn teases with a grin, ruffling his younger brother’s hair.

Silently Dimitri wonders what it would be like if he was in Glenn’s shoes, and he had a little brother of his own.

The silence Dimitri’s indulged in gets broken with a familiar call, and Dimitri turns to see Sylvain, even taller than the last time he saw his friend, standing alongside Ingrid who immediately rushes to greet Dimitri with a hug before running over to Glenn.

“Happy birthday, Dimitri!” Sylvain hollers the second he closes the door, separating the kids from the adults indoors. He joins the group. “How does it feel to no longer be the only soulmate-less one?” He adds a wink as if the very phrase itself wasn’t terrible enough.

A collective group of groans reverberate around the circle they’ve formed.

“You’re an idiot,” Felix grumbles to the older teen, averting all eye contact and instead vouching for a heated glare at the grass. Oh, if looks could kill.

“Aww, I love you too, Fe,” Sylvain teases, still grinning merrily as if he nothing is wrong with the world.

Felix’s face flushes. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Ingrid laughs. “I can say it too, if you’d like.” She clears her throat, as if beginning some long and important speech. “Aww, I love you too, Felix.”

“Now that’s left is Dimitri,” Glenn notes, looking at him.

The younger Fraldarius looks just about ready to bolt as Dimitri says “Aww, I love you too, Felix.”

Instead, he just mutters “It’s your birthday so I’ll take it. Just this once though.”

Sylvain leans close to Dimitri and whispers in a not-so-quiet voice “A little birdy told me you received your soulmark!” Bold black cursive writing stares up at him with non-existent eyes and he feels his heart start to thud.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

He doesn’t reply, instead peeling his sleeve a little higher above and shows Ingrid and Sylvain his soulmark.

The taller of the two squints at it, as if it’s hard to see. Ingrid’s reaction is more surprised, by the way her eyes widen, and her jaw goes a little slack. She fixes it when she sees his eyes on her with a small smile. “That’s great, Dimitri! It’s so pretty,” she gushes in a very un-Ingrid manner, but the twinkle in her eyes is all the same. “I wonder when you’ll meet your soulmate…”

“Khalid’s not a Fódlan name,” Sylvain offhandedly comments. Dimitri frowns at him, and he hastily continues. “I mean it’s not a Fódlan name I’ve heard. Who knows? You could get some hottie from Duscur or Brigid.”

“Of course, someone from Duscur or Brigid would come all the way over for our Prince,” Glenn drily says, pecking Ingrid on the cheek at her wide-eyed smile. “We’re not getting rid of him that easily.”

His soulmark was something Dimitri was very focused on for a while.

Then Duscur happened and everything seemed to fall apart.

His family, his friends… everything changed. The mark on Ingrid’s wrist faded to a black splotch, and the golden writing had completely disappeared.

Felix had shut himself off completely, not leaving his room unless he was training and not talking to anyone unless he was yelling at them.

Sylvain… seemed more closed off – more subdued. Dimitri saw him less and less as the months ebbed on.

And Dimitri… Dimitri couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus, couldn’t even think. His dreams being haunted by the dead, his father begging for revenge, Glenn hissing in his ear, taunting him, his mother, crying at his feet.

“You should’ve saved us,” they hiss. “Kill them for us. Kill them all!”

It’s not the first time he wakes to a cold sweat, a scream hanging on the edge of his lips.

He’s sent to live, along with the Duscur boy he met, Dedue, at Rodrigue’s place, and there Dimitri finds it frequent where he gets the full brunt of Felix’s verbal abuse. He wants to talk back, to say it wasn’t his fault, but he can’t find the words, can’t even find the motivation to speak. Instead, he just nods, silent, and Dedue finds him, concern lingering in his gaze.

It’s like that for a while.

Then the rebellion happens, and Felix seems to hate him even more.

It’s almost a relief when he arrives to the Officers Academy.

There he meets Edelgard von Hresvelg (or reunites, perhaps, if his hunch is in fact correct), heir to the Empire, and Claude von Riegan, heir to House Riegan.

Claude is… well… Claude is a lot of things.

In their audience with Rhea, he is stiff and stoic-faced, though the second they’re released from the chamber, he introduces himself properly to Dimitri. “So, you’re the prince,” he says with a wink. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is good to meet you too,” says Dimitri in return, dipping his head. He offers a small smile.

It’s not the only time they talk. As the year ebbs on, Dimitri gets to know Claude, should it be through sparring together, or even tea times Claude has insisted on. Claude is… well, first of all he’s nice and he’s kind, and he’s also very funny. He seems to bring a smile to Dimitri’s face whenever he’s around, and not only that but he’s…

…he’s beautiful.

Maybe it’s his smile, Dimitri supposes, his genuine one, or maybe those piercing green eyes. He’s also been good looking.

Sometimes when they train, Dimitri catches himself staring, and Claude’s caught him too, offering a wink and a teasing comment without any heat.

Not only that but Dimitri’s heart flutters whenever he’s around Claude, and he has to remind himself constantly that this isn’t okay because Claude is not his soulmate. The mark on his wrist proves just that much.

“You’re staring, your Highness.”

Dimitri flinches, almost forgetting that Sylvain is opposite him, lazily twirling his lance. He smirks at his childhood friend. “Got your eyes on someone?”

It would be great if he was immune to Sylvain’s teasing, but he is only human, and heat rises to his cheeks. “No!” His voice sounds a few pitches higher than it usually is. He clears his throat, averting his gaze from Claude who turns away from Hilda who he’s sparring with (how he got her to do so remains a mystery to the school) to offer a questioning brow. “I mean, uh, no. Of course not.”

“Sure, sure.”

Sylvain doesn’t sound at all convinced. He leans closer, whispering in Dimitri’s ear, “I mean Riegan is pretty hot. I don’t think even your soulmate would blame you for checking him out.”

Dimitri splutters, “W-what?”

“I have to go,” Sylvain says. “Pick up some of the ladies- oh, hey, Fe!” He runs off towards the direction of Felix who enters the training ground, and Dimitri doesn’t stop him, staring into the distance as his cheeks turn redder and redder as the seconds pass.

Nevertheless, Dimitri still goes out of his way to spend his time with Claude, pointedly ignoring his soulmark whenever he does.

“Your princliness!” Claude calls, waving in greeting as he runs over to him. Dimitri tries not to blush when he yet again winks.

“Claude!” He tries his hardest not to sound too surprised. “What-what are you doing here?”

He looks amazing. Dressed in a sharp suit he’s seen many of the other students wearing, his hair tousled and falling in front of his eyes. “I think the proper question is what are you doing here? Dedue’s worried about you. Says you haven’t even showed up to the ball and-”

Dimitri’s brain seems to shut off, his mind not listening as he surges forwards, closing the distance between them with a kiss.

It lasts two seconds. Maybe three.

Because immediately after their lips touch Dimitri lets go, eyes wide. “I- that was out of line,” he rushes. “I’m sorry, Claude, I shouldn’t have done that-”

But Claude pulls him back in, and Dimitri feels the mark on his wrist burn and-

He stares down at it, watching the white handwriting shimmer to gold. “What…?”

“I have been waiting so long to do that,” Claude breathes, oblivious to Dimitri’s confusion. He raises an eyebrow, clutching his hands. “Hey, what’s wrong…?”

“Khalid,” Dimitri breathes. Claude’s eyes widen. “That’s your name?”

“I-” Claude pauses, before nodding. “Yes. It is.”

Dimitri pulls him close, arms wrapping around him. He kisses Claude – or is it Khalid? – again, and again, and again. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“Mmhm.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Their night ends not in the ballroom, but outside under the moonlight, the memory of soft kisses and warm embraces never to leave Dimitri’s mind.

#fe3h #dimiclaude #request #kiss prompt #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #my fanfics

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lambourngb · 3 years

Text

a skeleton of something more [2/6]

previously here. malex wip fic. a short serial leading up the premiere.

spoilers for the trailer and promo, will be instantly AU. If I’m going to the trouble of writing a malex fix-it for the season 3 opener, why not fix 2x13 too?

**** THEN ****

After Alex closed Tripp’s journal, he met Michael’s gaze across the table at the Crashdown.

His golden-brown eyes were heavy with pain, the reminder of how his mother’s story had ended was still fresh between them despite the span of months since the fiery end of Caulfield. What had resulted in being the fiery end of them, even though Alex hadn’t known it at the time. The look of sleeplessness in Michael’s face reminded Alex, that outside of this small piece of Nora, he had the weight of Maria still in the hospital recovering from the pathogen Flint had released. The press of the Deep Sky ring in his pocket warred with the hesitation to place one more burden on Michael, would the abacus of their fragile friendship balance out?

He flashed to that last argument in Michael’s bunker, a disaster of his own making, thinking he could believe in his father, but thankfully harm was averted at Crashcon. That recent memory was motive enough for Alex to decide. Whatever happened next, he needed Michael on the same page with him.

As Isobel moved to leave the table, explaining to Michael that she needed to check on Max, Alex held Michael’s gaze deliberately. Then he folded his fingers down, until the last three fanned out in a downward W.

“After what happened with Maria, maybe you should come with me, Michael. You can help me shake some sense into Max,” Alex heard, tuning back into Isobel’s voice. Her eyes moved back and forth between them, a crease of suspicion wrinkling her upturned nose, as she stopped on him. “It’ll be a good distraction.”

Without looking at Isobel, Michael’s eyes remained trained on Alex’s hand. “No, thanks, I’m good here. I’ve had my fill of stubborn ass people who don’t want to listen to sensible advice from me, so I’ll catch up with you later, Isobel.”

She made a dismissive huff but did not argue, leaving with the barest semblance of a polite goodbye to Alex, but that was typical Isobel Evans. Michael waited until his sister was on the other side of the door, before speaking quietly, his gaze finally moving up from Alex’s hands to his face. “I haven’t seen you flash that sign to me in years.”

“Glad to know you haven’t forgotten it.”

“You, making the ‘wait for me, I want you now’ signal? Nah, that’s been burned into my brain over the years.” Michael said it with a faint trace of bitterness. “I guess news travels fast, Maria only dumped my ass this morning.”

Alex winced and looked down, swallowing the surprise and spark of hope that welled in his throat at that disclosure. It was better to concentrate on the unique talent he had of stepping on landmines around Michael, than wonder about what had happened with Maria. It looked like he was still good at causing harm without intention, judging by the stung bite in Michael’s voice. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have-”

“No, I’m sorry,” Michael cut off his apology firmly with a wave of his hand, calling a time-out. Alex waited, his teeth pressed into his lower lip as Michael rubbed his eyes with a weary half-smile. “I’m being an asshole right now, and that’s not fair to take it out on you. It’s been a shitty day already, and — anyway, … you definitely know how to get my attention, Alex.” He tilted his head, self-deprecation on his face, “for better or worse, you’ve always been good at that.”

It had been the sign they had developed whenever their paths had crossed over the years while Alex had been on leave in Roswell, but it had started that summer after high school. After Michael’s hand had healed poorly from Jesse, the last three fingers had been left frozen in a claw, it had been a shared fuck-you to his dad to use it to form their own secret communication. A three-fingered W, turned upward meant it wasn’t a good time, and he would find Michael later; turned downward, well, that meant it was safe to approach him, and it had often ended in a hurried blowjob in his car. Perhaps he should have used more care in using it now, but Michael wasn’t the only one running on the fumes of insomnia and stress. “Sorry, I needed to talk to you, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t leave with Isobel-”

“It’s fine, really. It’s not a bad memory either, remembering that we had our little secret language.” Michael wiggled his fingers in reassurance, his left hand still wrapped with a bandanna. “I can make that signal a hell of a lot easier now, too. But anyway, what did you need?”

There was still a voice inside Alex’s head that said ‘you’, no matter how long it had been. He shoved that down deep, along with his curiosity about Maria, and concentrated on his purpose. “Your advice on something, and then if it’s not too much to ask, your help.”

“Anything.”

Alex blinked, nonplussed by the easy acceptance.

Michael gestured encouragingly, “seriously, anything, just tell me what’s going on because the way you’re hemming and hawing, it is freaking me out.” Suddenly, all expression washed out of Michael’s face as a horrible thought occurred to him. “Did you get deployed or something?”

“Not exactly, not how you’re thinking,” he winced at the earned glare from Michael as he continued to stall while the words still tripped and fumbled around his mouth, heedless to the mounting frustration between them both. He sighed, and regrouped. Pushing the closed journal aside, Alex dug into his pocket and laid the signet ring on the table before Michael. “Let me start at the beginning, I found this in my dad’s things.”

“Jesse never seemed like a jewelry kind of guy to me.” Michael picked up the ring, examining it closely with a sarcastic smirk. “Other than parading around town with that wedding ring, when everyone knows your mom left him back during the Bush years, Dubya that is.”

“My father is all, was all, about appearances.” Alex placed the photo of the group on the table, sliding it over to him. “That ring marked his membership in this paramilitary group called Deep Sky. Every man in that photo worked at Caulfield, at one time or another.” He tapped his finger over the face of his father, then moved it to the right. “That’s my dad, and that is Ricky Long.”

Michael frowned, pulling the picture closer to squint at the faces. “Wyatt’s dad?”

“No, Forrest’s.”

“Nazi guy? Seriously?” He rubbed at his chin, the stubble longer than usual painting his jawline. Alex dragged his eyes away with effort as Michael considered that information. There was a reluctant understanding in his eyes, having recalled that Forrest Long wasn’t just ‘Nazi Guy’ to Alex, but someone who had expressed interest in Alex. Personal interest. “I guess that’s something you guys have in common then, dirtbag dads.”

He didn’t look thrilled to admit that to Alex, but it was a mark of how far they had both come as friends that Michael had said it anyway regardless. It was kind of him. It was the same type of empathy Alex had extended toward Michael, when he had expressed interest in Maria. Cut open, bleeding under his skin from all the ways he had squandered his own chances, he had said something similar to Michael once upon a time. That was what love was all about. Then he had kept saying it, until he believed it most days because wanting Michael to be happy was the easier ask.

It was a gracious sentiment that was entirely wasted by Michael when it came to Forrest Long.

“It would be, uh, something to bond over, if I hadn’t noticed that Forrest wears the same ring now.”

Michael’s eyes sharpened. “Family heirloom or do you think he worked at Caulfield?”

“I don’t know, but he is an ex-Army vet.” Alex tapped the photo of the members gathered together, “That was part of what I’ve been looking into, identifying everyone who worked at Caulfield right until the end. As for Deep Sky, I don’t know if it’s military service, Caulfield, or a family legacy that ties every member together, I just know that Dad kept in touch with those who were involved at the prison.”

“Makes sense, Jesse was able to get a hold of the atomizer and pathogen that Charlie developed from somewhere. For all of his strutting around at Crashcon with a uniform on, that didn’t look like it was an official use of government property.”

“Right, it definitely wasn’t, and before you tell me to leave it alone-” Alex began, remembering Michael’s response to the investigation into 1947. He had considered Alex’s actions back then to be an act of futility, something that could only hurt by being revisited. The past being the past, unable to be altered.

This time Michael cut him off, “No, I was wrong about that. I, um, I finally realized that just because I don’t see you connected to that place or the rest of your family, doesn’t mean you don’t. And while I wish that you didn’t, Alex, if digging into this gives you some sort of peace over it, then do it.”

Alex looked down, feeling the weight of relief that Michael understood. After his father’s body had been removed, after the questions and lies had been spun, he had spent the entire night sleepless over having been made into an effective weapon to force Michael’s compliance. Helena had known where all the weak spots were thanks to Flint, and had armed herself with a depowering agent. Once Flint was recovered, there was nothing stopping him from employing a similar tactic in the future.

“If anyone’s going to destroy me, it might as well be you.” Michael had once declared with a bold carelessness that had infuriated and terrified Alex at the time, but that was nothing compared to now having a lived experience to back it up. His mind had easily used the memory of Maria’s collapse after the faintest exposure at the Crashcon and had exchanged her with Michael, being torn apart molecule by molecule, by an invisible threat.

Give him an enemy that he could see any day, especially one that bled.

“I’ve been fighting so long, I don’t know what peace looks like anymore.” Alex held out his hand for the ring, and Michael gently laid it in his palm, brushing his fingertips over Alex’s skin. A lifetime of controlling himself kept the reaction off his face as he rubbed his thumb over the raised emblem of Deep Sky. “But I have learned recently that when something seems too good to be true, it is.”

Neither of them mentioned Jesse and his performance from the last few months, but Michael frowned again, “Wait a second, you think Forrest targeted you on purpose?”

“A member of a secret paramilitary organization just happens to ask me out after I was involved in the destruction of Caulfield? You really think that’s a coincidence?” Alex raised his eyebrow skeptically at Michael, before looking out the window to watch the pedestrians on the street.

“I think you’re the hottest guy in Roswell, so I’m not surprised he asked you out.” Michael flushed a little when Alex turned back to stare at him in surprise over the flattering comment. “Seriously, you’re a catch, but I will agree, it’s not a good look that he’s got that ring. But maybe it’s crap he wears because of his dad, and he’s got no idea he’s parading around?”

“You’re being awfully generous.”

“Isn’t that what you want? Because last time I checked, you were the one telling me that I should have faith in people, even if they give me no reason to.” Michael flattened his hands on the table, drawing Alex’s attention to the bandanna on his hand again. That damn fight kept echoing between them to Alex’s dismay, but Michael didn’t let him linger over it, “While I stand by what I said about Jesse, ‘cause he messes us both up, all I know about Forrest Long is that he is way too interested in Nazi history and he has good taste in guys.” Michael wetted his lips, nervously to tack on, “I also know that I trust you, and your instincts, so if you say there’s something not right about him, then I believe you.”

“There’s something not right about him,” Alex repeated seriously.

“Then I believe you, so what do you need me to do?”

“He wants to get close to me for some reason, probably related to what I know about aliens, so I’m going to let him. And I need you to back me up in case something goes wrong, and maybe use that lock pick you have in your brain?” Alex waited until Michael nodded in agreement, feeling the swell of gratitude at his support. Anyone else would probably think he was being paranoid, or that this was a delayed reaction to his father trying to kill them, but Michael, for all of his previous counter-arguments, had never truly believed in the good of humanity. Maybe in a few days, Alex would feel guilty in relying on that. Maybe in a few days, his suspicions about Forrest would be eliminated.

“He’s involved in running the open mike night at the Wild Pony with Maria, so I thought maybe I could perform a song or something? He drives a Prius, and while he’s listening to me sing, you could slip out mid-song and insert this into the code reader of his car.”

On the table was a small device that mimicked a thumb drive, small and black. It was the type of technology that Alex had used in the Air Force, tracking terrorists abroad. It had taken a fair amount of searching to purchase the equivalent stateside to have on hand. Michael picked it up curiously, turning over his hands.

“It’s designed to download the GPS history of his car,” Alex explained, before rubbing the back of his head in thought. “That’s how I uncovered what my dad was up to, first by tracking his movements. If I let Forrest take me home, I can gain access to his laptop and phone.”

Michael furrowed his brow in concern, “You’re really willing to go that far? And what if he is involved in something shady, what then?”

“My father and brother both used me to get to you, there’s really nothing I wouldn’t do to keep that from happening again and if it means playing along with this guy, letting him lead me to the members of Deep Sky? Then I will.” If anything, his words only deepened the concern on Michael’s face, but Alex had been committed for a long time. Since the red level threat. Since the short ride to the recruitment office. Maybe as far back as his guitar going missing in the music room.

“I’ve slept with guys for worse reasons.”

CONTINUED HERE

#Malex #roswell new mexico #malex fic #alex goes undercover #not forrest long friendly #getting back together #Season 3 speculation

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xiaomoxu · 3 years

Text

Lucien - From the Heart Date

SPOILER ALERT!!

A date from CN server which hasn’t been released on EN server yet. Might contains some spoiler.

Recently, the company undertook a variety show on love. Today is the first day of filming of the new program.

The gate of the studio is facing a leisure park. After winter, the fallen leaves of the platanus will cover the road and creak when stepping on it.

There are occasional wild boars here, but nearby residents always place cat food for them in conspicuous places, so their lives are quite moist.

He always eats chubby, lying on the fallen leaves in the sun.

It happened that Xu Mo had a lecture today at a nearby hotel, and we made an appointment to have lunch together in this park.

But the work in the morning ended a little later than expected.

When I arrived in the park in a hurry, Xu Mo seemed to have been sitting on a bench for a long time.

The winter sun poured a lot of wine on his shoulders, drawing a warm light on his slightly drooping side face.

After running his fingers across a few lines of headlines on the news, he casually turned a page of the newspaper lying on his lap.

Perhaps disturbed by the sound of the paper, the magpie, which had been resting on the treetops, suddenly spread its wings to win the sky, hovering around the plane trees behind him.

With a "click" sound from the phone, Xu Mo raised his head and met my sight in the golden sun.

I was about to speak, but Xu Mo laughed a step ahead of me.

Xu Mo: Don't be sorry, it didn't take long.

MC: Professor Xu knows how to read minds, he can guess what am I thinking.

Xu Mo: Mind reading is simple, and so will you. If you don’t believe me, you can try and guess what I’m thinking now.

MC: You should be thinking how to punish this late person?

Xu Mo: Well, a good guess.

MC: Why not punish her to eat dinner with Professor Xu at night.

I sat down next to Xu Mo. He put away the newspapers and took out the coffee and sandwiches prepared for me from the paper bag.

Xu Mo: It's a good proposal. However, your new show has received very enthusiastic response. The filming of the last few issues should be very busy, right?

MC: These two days are okay, and no matter how busy the work is, it is no more important than eating with Professor Xu.

I took the coffee and opened the drinking spout on the lid of the cup, and a hazelnut scent spread immediately, making the noon breeze mixed with the sweetness of winter.

MC: How about you, how about today's lecture?

MC: Sneak out during lunch break...

MC: It should disappoint many professors who want to have lunch with you and take the opportunity to exchange a few more words, right?

Xu Mo gave a frank hum, but his expression was always relaxed and casual.

Xu Mo: It doesn't matter, I have a valid reason, they can understand.

He crossed his legs, leaned back in the chair and squinted.

Xu Mo: I told them that I was in charge of the program as a consultant and encountered some problems during the filming, so I had to take the time to communicate with the producer at noon.

I was stunned for a moment.

MC: Professor Xu, based on my assessment of the status quo, it can be understood as: Have you lied to them?

Xu Mo showed a serious expression.

Xu Mo: If the producer is willing to talk to me about the shooting of the show, I think this cannot be called a lie.

Xu Mo: How is it, has the problem you mentioned to me been solved?

During the shooting of this love variety show, something unexpected happened to me.

A female guest told us after the filming of several episodes of the show that she really had a feeling for a male guest on the show.

She proposed an idea and wanted to make a confession part in the program.

This is not only a brilliant idea in terms of program effects, but also fits the theme of the variety show. After several discussions, we decided to cooperate with her in planning.

But the specific way of confession made us tangled for several days.

MC: At that time, we were a little too solemn when we wanted to give gifts. We were deliberately alone and afraid of embarrassment.

Xu Mo turned to me with his arm on the back of the chair, listening patiently.

Xu Mo: And now, is there a conclusion?

MC: Of course~ I am very professional in doing matchmaker.

I vividly described to Xu Mo the opinions that the program team finally reached.

MC: We are going to put her confession note in the clue box in advance.

MC: This is a puzzle-solving session of a two-person team. When the time comes, the male guest will be alone to open the box.

MC: If he is surprised when he sees this note, it will be Happy Ending!

After listening to my description, Xu Mo sighed.

Xu Mo: It takes courage to express your feelings frankly.

Xu Mo: Girls, are always braver than I thought.

The prosperous sunshine shrouded Xu Mo, and I looked sideways at his silhouette overlapping with the light, and every corner of my heart was covered with light emotions.

There are long white clouds floating in the sky, I am holding hot coffee, and my thoughts are also floating slowly.

MC: The moment when ‘liking’ happen, the feeling of heartbeat becomes a seed.

MC: It will grow instinctively, facing the sun and rain.

MC: As for what kind of flower will eventually bloom, it may no longer be important.

MC: The important thing is an instinct.

I leaned closer to Xu Mo, looking at him tightly with my eyes, making a meaningful hint.

MC: As long as this person's eyes look at me, the sun will pour down, and the seeds will surely break through the soil.

He propped his chin and smiled faintly.

Xu Mo: Is it the same instinct as moths attracted to fire?

MC: .....

I suddenly stopped talking.

Xu Mo showed some doubts.

Xu Mo: Did I say something wrong?

MC: Hahaha although it is a bit horrible... but what I think of is a big mosquito lying on the lampshade.

The warm atmosphere was inexplicably broken, and Xu Mo's expression was emotional.

MC: So it's better not a moth, it can be a better looking insect.

Xu Mo: .....

Xu Mo: Haha.... hahahahaha

I don't know why I got into his smile. Xu Mo laughed out of nowhere. He even stooped slightly and put his forehead on my shoulder.

After a while, he raised his head and looked at me, still smiling while talking.

Xu Mo: Well, it's not a moth, it's the instinct of the world's best-looking insect to attack the source of fire.

Seeing that Xu Mo was in such a good mood, I couldn't help but want to tease him a little bit, so I deliberately made a distressed expression, sighed and lowered my head.

MC: What a pity....

Xu Mo: What's wrong?

I took the last bite of the sandwich and patted the crumbs on my fingers, pretending.

MC: The atmosphere was so good just now, I could have taken the opportunity to kiss you.

I caught the slight astonishment in Xu Mo's eyes, and learned his tone mischievously.

MC: I'm teasing you, don't be nervous.

Suddenly he got up and stepped in front of me, bent down directly, and got close to the distance that crossed my breath.

The clear eyes in front of me fell into a pale yellow halo, swaying gentle ripples.

He did nothing, was silent, and looked at me quietly with these eyes.

One second, two seconds, five seconds...ten seconds.

I lowered my gaze subconsciously several times, but every time I lifted it up again, I could see an inch of smile on his lips.

Damn it, lost again!

I turned my face in discouragement, put on a stubborn expression and no longer looked at him, he gave a triumphant smile, and pressed his lips to my forehead.

Xu Mo: Okay, I have to go back to work.

Xu Mo: The spare key is still in the same place. If you can't find it, remember to send me a message.

The voice was soaked with warmth, as if the sun had melted in it all winter.

I feel my auricles are burnt red, nodded.

At the end of lunch time, I hurried back to the studio.

In the afternoon, I mainly took some empty shots with very little content. The ending time was two hours earlier than I expected.

According to the agreement with Xu Mo, I went to his house in advance to wait for him.

When the door was pushed, the wind from the balcony exposed the corridor, blowing a bunch of papers hung on the wall. I quickly closed the door and walked to the paper curiously.

MC: When did Xu Mo paint these...

A thin hemp rope hung on the wall, and seven or eight semi-finished paintings were clamped on them with wooden clips.

All the paintings are me.

I was standing in the snow, I was squatting on the ground to pick up maple leaves, and I was standing in the wheat ears during an outing...

The reason they are said to be semi-finished products is because Xu Mo only gave them half the color.

Many scenes still have traces of sketches, only me and the things around me have color.

It is like a drop of paint falling in water. The color in the middle is dense. The more it spreads, the lighter the color.

But there is only me in these paintings...

I personally made the next decision and took out the easel from the corner of the balcony.

MC: But...

I looked down at my cashmere coat. If I rubbed the paint, it should not be easy to wash.

After a short hesitation, I pulled out a white coat from Xu Mo's laundry basket, which he had not put in the washing machine, and replaced it.

I'll help him wash all these later.

After I was ready, I rolled up my sleeves, picked up the paintbrush and traced Xu Mo's profile on the drawing paper...

Time always flies quickly when you focus on doing things.

When I raised my head again, the window was already a little gloomy, leaving only a faint golden sunset on the curtains.

There was a creaking sound from the door. Once I looked back, I found that Xu Mo had already walked in.

Xu Mo: Sure enough, you were earlier than me.

He put down his briefcase and put on slippers.

Xu Mo: Are you painting?

MC: Uh, yeah~

Xu Mo: It's a good pastime. I'm still worried on the way back. You won't know how to pass the time.

I put aside the paintbrush, stretched my waist, and scratched my wrist.

MC: Although I used Professor Xu's drawing board without authorization, I have a reasonable use.

I removed the half-colored draft from the drawing board and showed it to Xu Mo excitedly.

MC: Although the grading is a little frustrating....

MC: The color of the hair is darker, the complexion on the face is whiter, and the lip color seems too red.

MC: But on the whole, it still shows 80% of the beauty of Professor Xu.

MC: How do you rate it?

Xu Mo didn't speak, but just stared at the painting in my hand and looked again.

He lightened his tone, and gently ran his fingers across the paint on the painting, and the wet color was on his fingertips.

Xu Mo: The painting is so good, I like it very much.

Seeing him a little lost, I shook the painting in my hand in front of him again.

MC: Andㅡit has a little secret!

I took one of Xu Mo's paintings, overlapped the two papers, and clamped it in between.

Although the brushstrokes are different and the colors are very different, the backgrounds of the two paintings can blend together well.

The golden wheat field connects to the azure blue sky, me and Xu Mo are facing each other in the painting, and our eyes intersect.

Naturally as if this is the original picture, there should be two people

MC: It didn't turn over!!!

Before I painted, I didn't expect that my technique had advanced to this level.

Xu Mo stood behind me at some point, stretched out his hand to embrace my waist from behind, and pulled me into his arms.

Xu Mo: The painting is very good, I really like it.

I look back and stuck to the his side profile.

Xu Mo: I also like the paintings you paint, but if the paintings are the two of us together, I would like them better.

Xu Mo tightened his arms.

Xu Mo: I didn't mean it.

Xu Mo: Otherwise, if you talk about it, people don't have themselves in their memory. How do you draw a picture of two people?

MC: Hm.

MC: You're right.

Xu Mo's chuckle came in my ears. I pressed against the warmth of his chest and looked at the painting in front of me.

MC: Xu Mo, are you painting these, is it something to commemorate?

MC: I look at these paintings. They are all scenes from our previous trips. Some of them are from a long time ago.

Xu Mo: It is a part of memories, but it is not a memorial.

Xu Mo: It's just that these pictures are all in my mind, so I simply painted them.

Xu Mo: Or...

He paused suddenly.

Without urging me, we fell into a long silence.

The setting sun outside the window has completely sunk below the horizon, and in the dim room, the sound of the two people's interlaced breathing one after another

The gloomy light cast our shadows on the wall. From this angle, I saw that his bent waist ridge showed a slight arch.

The skin on the side of the neck is filled with a moist smell, which is the breath of Xu Mo that I am most familiar with.

Xu Mo: MC, there are some people in this world.

He spoke slowly, his voice was always calm, and his arms tightened again around my waist.

Xu Mo: Not realizing that "heartbeat" is the beginning of all beautiful stories

Xu Mo: When they find that they have the emotion of "like", the first thing they feel is uneasy.

Xu Mo: They will choose to suppress themselves, resist the occurrence of "likes", and always remind themselves not to fall into this emotion.

Xu Mo: The heartbeat they feel is a complex emotion mixed with anxiety.

Xu Mo: For such people, it can be difficult to express yourself frankly.

Xu Mo put his chin on my shoulder, and stretched out his hand, rubbing his palm on the drawing paper in front of him.

Xu Mo: I have been practicing this candor since a long time ago.

Xu Mo: What you see is the result of practice.

MC: ....

I was speechless for a while and didn't know how to describe my feelings at the moment.

He suddenly bent over and picked me up, strode to the front hall, and put me on the table.

Dark blue night was thrown into the room, and the deep eyes that were close at hand had dark gutters, and they were silently conveying something.

Xu Mo: Or maybe I paint these paintings just to tell you what kind of flowers the seed planted in my heart bloomed.

The ice layer, which had been covered by snow for a long time, finally cracked a tiny mark and made an inaudible sound, but it clearly fell into my ears at this moment.

What followed was that the invading ice tide finally broke through the heavy ice and flowed into the spring.

I fixedly looked at him, as if finally seeing the person in front of me as the person I knew best.

Xu Mo: You are right, the upward growth of seeds is an instinct.

Xu Mo: Even if you know that you will risk tears when you build bonds with others.

Xu Mo: Even if this effect can be explained by factors such as dopamine, phenylethylamine, norepinephrine, and endorphins, I cannot suppress this instinct.

He paused and took my hand to his lips.

Xu Mo: I am willing to obey this instinct.

All the language that expresses emotions is stuck in my throat, and there is no way to convey and vent it.

Xu Mo smiled and came up.

When our lips touched, I saw the tide surge in his eyes.

Xu Mo: .....

All the senses are overwhelmed by such turbulent emotions, as if falling into the deep sea, the hands we hold together are tightly clasped.

Sanity is slowly being pulled away, only the hot breath is getting stronger and stronger.

I opened my eyes slightly, and saw the most straightforward expression in his eyes, which he always used to be silent.

MC: Xu Mo....

Between my lips and the tip of my tongue, I called his name softly, as if reading a mark on my heart.

Xu Mo: Hm..

Slowly, Xu Mo's lips and teeth went down and gently bit on the side of my neck. I was itchy by him. Several times I tried to turn my head to avoid, but I was caught by him.

He seemed to be aroused, and nibble all the way from the side of the neck to the earlobe.

I stepped back half an inch, and he went one foot in until he forced me to the corner, completely circled into his arm.

MC: Xu Mo, you shameless...

After I protested in a low voice, he finally let go of me slightly, his eyes full of interest.

Xu Mo: I know.

Xu Mo: But no matter what I want, you will satisfy me, won't you?

MC: Bad guy.

He has an innocent tone.

Xu Mo: Is this a bad guy?

I nodded heavily.

He put on an expression of serious thinking, but reached a conclusion within a few seconds.

Xu Mo: Apart from making you a little irritated, there seems to be nothing wrong with being a bad guy.

Xu Mo: Besides, your face now is really cute.

Xu Mo: People can't help but want to bullied the cute.

MC: ...

MC: You are still righteous!

Xu Mo: Oh, yes.

Xu Mo smiled, buried his head on my shoulder, and exhaled gently.

Xu Mo: MC, Do you know what instinct brings me?

He opened his mouth softly and whispered.

Xu Mo: Happiness.

Xu Mo: A pleasure in which desires are satisfied and worries are filled.

Xu Mo: In other words, it is this kind of happiness that makes me unable to resist this instinct.

His hand slid across my waist, cupped my cheek, and kissed every inch of my skin.

But every time, it was just a light touch.

Not a strong desire, I feel more of a gentle invasion at this moment.

From the side of the neck to the cheeks, from the corners of the lips to the eyes.

Like tides over the ankles and fine sand over the toes.

He distanced himself and looked into my eyes carefully.

Xu Mo: I want to thank the light coming from these eyes.

Xu Mo: Let the seed in my heart bloom a beautiful flower.

Hot fingertips ran across my skin, Xu Mo clasped my hand and pushed me completely against the wall.

The fine kisses linger on the side of the neck, and he sucks lightly and hardly, leaving warm red marks on it.

The night enveloped the city.

The deep night mixed with the beautiful blue slowly spread out, and the deep background color was reflected in Xu Mo's eyes.

Xu Mo: I am glad I did not miss the beginning of this wonderful story.

Xu Mo: As for the ending of this story...

Xu Mo: What do you hope it looks like?

I thought for a while, but couldn't answer.

MC: I didn't think about it.

MC: But it must be better than the beginning.

I stretched out my hand to pull Xu Mo's tie, and skillfully pulled it out of the collar.

However, the brain becomes clear inexplicably under the action of complex sensory organs, and plays back one memory after another.

MC: In fact, at the beginning, I was not always firm, and I was a little uneasy, a little bit uncertain.….

MC: I often feel that you are in front of me, but so far from me.

Xu Mo paused slightly, but did not stop.

Xu Mo: And then?

I tried to think about it, and couldn't help but giggle.

MC: I'm so happy, so happy that could forget this anxiety

MC: You look happy when you look at me, and you are happy when you talk to me.

MC: If you stay with me for a little while, I can even be happy all day.

Xu Mo reached out and stroked the side of my face, sighing in a low voice

Xu Mo: Silly girl.

I pulled on his collar, trying to get him closer to me.

MC: Xu Mo, I want to hug you.

MC: ... also want to be held by you.

Xu Mo pulled me completely into his arms, tightening his arms hard enough to prevent us from leaving a little gap.

I clung to his embrace and kept in mind every bit of his feelings.

Looking back now, maybe all the good stories in the world have their beginnings to follow.

But someone stood in front of me, and I was very happy because of it.

Then he looked at me, and my heart bloomed.

---------- END ----------

I’m sorry if there’s some mistranslation. Kindly tell me if you found some :) thank you for read it~ ^^

#mlqc spoilers #mlqc translation #mr love spoilers #mr love translation #mlqc lucien #mlqc xu mo #mr love lucien #mr love xu mo #mr love date #mldd date #mldd lucien #mldd translation #MLQC

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gtanddragons · 3 years

Text

Caught

A companion piece to @hopemakesstuff‘s works “Protecting Assets” and “Role Reversal”, this one is tied into our friend group’s Shifter!Makoto AU! In which everyone’s favorite lucky boy can (somewhat) control his ability to change his size, and all the shenanigans that ensue as a result.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for chapter two of DR1.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—!)

He’s practically mumbling those words to himself in a feverish mantra as he forces himself to hurry down the tiled hallway of Hope’s Peak Academy.

(Need to find somewhere to hide—!)

Makoto is trembling, panting from the effort of making his way through the school— although it would normally be a simple task, it was certainly anything but now that he was stuck at a meager three inches tall. Despair hung heavy over his head as what would ordinarily be a few minutes’ walk to the first floor classrooms had already taken him… what, twenty minutes at this brisk pace? Thirty? It felt like an eternity had passed, and yet he still had a ways to go.

The dining hall was closer, certainly, but it was also almost certain that everyone would be gathered there for the breakfast meeting.

He feels guilty for missing it. Just one more reason to scold himself— he should’ve eaten last night. Should have gotten some rest. Shouldn’t have worn himself ragged, because now he’s stuck at his most vulnerable in a school full of other students who could (and maybe even would) kill him without a second thought. Maybe even by accident, and that’s somehow an even more repulsive thought.

The only other student who even remotely knows about his… condition… is Kyoko Kirigiri. Not of his own volition, of course, but she’d figured it out a lot quicker than he’d expected.

…No, there was yet another person who knew. Had known, since they had gone to school together since they were children.

But there isn’t any point in making himself even more depressed by thinking about her. Not right now. Either way, she can’t help him now— and he can’t rely on finding Kyoko to help him, not when she’s likely still with the others in the dining hall. He can’t risk exposing himself to everyone else like this.

For a brief moment, his thoughts go quiet, having finally exhausted themselves.

(It’s okay. I’m almost to the classroom. I can just… hide in there under the teacher’s desk or something, wait to be able to shift back up to normal. And it wouldn’t be a lie to say that my stomach was hurting this morning—)

“Puhuhu~! And wheeeere do you think you’re going, little mister lucky student?”

Makoto yelps as an all-too-familiar figure pops out from seemingly nowhere— but this time, Monokuma towers over him, making the already-terrifying headmaster seem even more like a horrible monster than a cute little bear plushie.

Monokuma leans down and crosses his stubby arms as best as he’s able, still chuckling all the while. “I’ll admit, it’s kiiiiinda cute watchin’ you scurry around like that.~”

Makoto winces and takes an involuntary step back, gulping as the headmaster’s sharp teeth come closer into view. “I— I, um. I’m… going to the classroom…”

The bear pats his cheek thoughtfully, that unsettling grin still a mere foot away. “Ahhh, don’t wanna go to the dining hall, huuuuh? Smart move! Don’t wanna accidentally make one of your classmates a murderer, ‘cause. Yooou know.~ It would be such a shame if someone were to step on ya, or— ohhhh, how horrid! If you wound up as someone’s lunch. How cruel! Gahahaha!”

A chill runs up Makoto’s spine, and it takes all of his willpower to not fall back in fear at that obnoxiously-loud laughter. Thankfully, though, Monokuma gets out of his face as he straightens up.

“Ahhh… I should proooobably let you go. After all, wellllll… just try not to get caught, eh? Puhuhu!”

And once again, the bear is taking off fast enough for Makoto’s head to spin, still left confused over what Monokuma had meant— until the sound of footsteps in the distance catches his attention. Coming from further down the hallway…

Makoto suddenly tenses, his face blanching. He recognizes the sound of the voices drawing ever closer, and even at this distance, it’s easy to see just who’s coming his way.

Byakuya… and, trailing behind him… Toko.

...No. Judging from the obnoxious laughter resounding through the school hallway… that would be Genocide Jack. Great.

(Gghk--! How did I not hear them getting closer--?!)

Makoto furiously shakes his head-- he could take more time to curse Monokuma, and his awful luck, later. For now, he needs to find a place to hide, but staying out in the open hallway is practically a death wish.

He desperately glances in the direction of classroom 1-A-- he’ll have to run towards Byakuya and Jill’s general direction, but if he hurries…!

(I-I’m already worn out, but just a little more--!)

Makoto takes off at a full-blown sprint to the classroom, all too aware of the potential consequences of getting caught. His heart hammers in his chest as the footsteps draw closer, his two classmates coming into view like towering buildings on the horizon.

“Ugh… if this turns out to be some kind of goose chase, I swear…” Byakuya complains, his nose crinkling in disgust. He’d been attempting to enjoy picking apart case files in the archive over a cup of coffee this morning, but apparently even that was too much to ask. First he’d been besieged by Genocide Jack-- his new apparent fangirl, even pushier than Toko-- and then that accursed bear had shown up and caused a ruckus, insisting on showing them something interesting. But as of yet, Byakuya had yet to see anything even remotely worthy of his attention, and he was starting to get even more frustrated.

“Kyahaha! Ohh, Master, you know I can’t resist that stormy, sullen face! This whole ‘goose chase’ is worth every step~!”

Byakuya lets out a world-weary sigh, gritting his teeth as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

(Just keep tuning her out or you’ll get an even worse headache, Byakuya. Why couldn’t she have been the guilty party in this most recent--)

A sudden yelp from Jill drags him out of his thoughts, the serial killer’s arm snapping up to point down the hall in front of them.

“Oh look at that!”

Byakuya’s gaze shifts to where she’s pointing fast enough to get the faintest glimpse of… something. Something small-- a blur of movement in the doorway of the classroom at the end of the hall.

“Oooh, what was that?! A mooouuusee? And it thinks it can run from meeee?”

Byakuya isn’t surprised when Jill suddenly tears off down the hallway towards the classroom, shrieking with laughter. But as he follows after her, he can’t resist the slight increase of speed in his steps-- had that thing really been a mouse? He’d only seen it for a split second, but the color and shape had seemed… off. Some kind of robot like Monokuma, perhaps? A new clue…?

Either way, perhaps this tedious distraction would prove to be fruitful in the end…

Jill is on her hands and knees the moment after she rushes into the room, prowling the classroom and sniffing the air like some kind of wild animal.

“Awww, think you can hide? From me? Cuuuuuute. Now…”

Jill grins madly even as she pokes her head under a nearby desk.

“Come out, come out, whereeeever you aaaaare~!”

—

It doesn’t take long for Byakuya to follow after Jill and reach the doorway to the classroom, but even then… by the time he gets there, he’s met with the sound of desks clattering to the floor in one chaotic sweep, a triumphant yell (“Gotcha!”), and… the sight of Jill huddled up with something clutched in her hands.

Something squirming and… crying out.

Byakuya’s brows dart sharply upwards. Although he can’t quite see, and the sound is so small… he recognizes that terrified squawking.

“Aw, boo,” Jill grumbles. “Tch, not even big enough for one of my scissors…”

Byakuya hardly has any time to react before Jill turns around and—

His hands instinctively snap outwards as something is tossed in his direction. Whatever it is hits squarely in the palms of his hands and his fingers curl tightly around it, a flailing, warm weight that could only belong to a living creature— the thought alone nearly makes him drop the thing in revulsion.

(Did she just throw a filthy mouse at—?!)

“Soooorry Master~!” Jill croons, before pouting and tapping the blade of her scissors against her cheek. “Hmph… here I was hoping for some real meat, or a full-size cute boy… not a bite-sized happy meal with a little Mac.”

(What on Earth is she prattling on about now—?)

Byakuya looks down to his hands, wincing at the feeling of the little creature in his hands struggling in his grip… but as soon as he looks down, he can hardly tear his eyes away.

Caught haphazardly in his fingers, struggling and whimpering… is none other than Makoto Naegi. For once, Byakuya is at a loss for words, blinking disbelievingly at the ridiculous sight.

“Speaaaaking of meat,” Jill interrupts, her sullen mood ending with a quick snip of her scissors. “Let’s keep looking around, Master! I’m sure that goose must be somewhere around here.~”

With an obnoxiously loud cackle, she’s already out the door again— momentarily leaving Byakuya alone with his ‘catch’.

His grip loosens considerably at not feeling any more resistance; for a second, he feels a sudden twinge of grim resignation, thinking that perhaps the tiny boy sprawled out in his hands had died from the impact… though that theory is quickly disproven as he leans his head in closer, noting the subtle rise and fall of Makoto’s chest.

Just unconscious, then. Though, just to make sure (and to satiate some of his burning curiosity), Byakuya cautiously runs his fingertips over Makoto’s limbs.

Nothing broken, and… after using the tip of his nail to lift up Makoto’s hoodie and shirt, he can safely say that his little classmate managed to escape the ordeal with minimal bruising.

“‘Ultimate Lucky Student’ indeed,” Byakuya mutters. He lifts his hands even higher, squinting to get a better look at Makoto’s face.

The boy seems peaceful, at least, although…

…He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. The dark circles under Makoto’s eyes are none of his concern. What is his concern, however…

Byakuya gives the classroom one last, cursory glance before carefully slipping Makoto’s limp form into his blazer pocket. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, even as he exits the classroom.

Finally, something interesting.

Very, very interesting.

#gtronpa #alt title: makoto regrets his life choices (part 1 of several)#shifter!makoto au #giant/tiny #astral makes stuff #the writing corner #fandom g/t

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ravenvsfox · 3 years

Text

Things Fall Apart; the Centre Cannot Hold

Summary: He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

(Adam's perspective throughout Mister Impossible, as his worry reaches a fever pitch, and the two versions of himself begin to converge)

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: mi spoilers, death/suicide mention

A/N: batshit middle books my beloveds. adam pov or bust 😌

Read on AO3

In high school, Gansey would very occasionally call Adam in the middle of the night.

He would speak low and fast, his panic pinched between thumb and forefinger and held at a respectable distance. Adam would smother the receiver with his palm and step outside of his family trailer, listening hard for movement at his back.

The news was always the same: Ronan Lynch was on his latest rampage or bender, exercising his dark talent for bullying his way into people’s lives and then breaking down all of their windows and doors trying to get out again.

Gansey would fret and apologize, guilty for luring Adam out of his wolf-den, guiltier for neglecting his duties as Ronan’s warden. Adam would wait tiredly on the line for Gansey’s anxiety to exhaust itself, and then dutifully join the search party.

He would step into his beaten tennis shoes and pry his bike from the fence, silencing the silvery shock of metal on metal, and avoiding the reedy whir of the spokes by holding the whole thing aloft until he reached the gravel road.

From there, he would venture out into the abandoned Henrietta streets, the crunch of his tires cutting clean through the woolly midnight silence. He often circled the perimeter of the park nearest Monmouth, stepped through the great dark portal into St. Agnes, and nipped under the old bridge, squinting into the darkness for the challenging shoulders, the oil-slick BMW gleam, the slump of a body or clatter of bottles.

This is a part of Gansey that I admire, he would think. And with equal fervour, this is a part of Gansey that I resent. This blood attachment to Ronan, who was not even attached to himself. The insomnia that seized two heads of the lopsided Cerberus that Adam, Ronan, and Gansey were all part of, a restlessness on either side of him that shook him awake over and over again.

He chased Ronan’s shadow, hating him. Hating his thoughtlessness, his privilege, his chokehold on Gansey’s interests, his purposefully and continuously ruined potential, and yet bristling with anxiety at the idea of finding him bleeding.

They hadn’t known then that he was a dreamer, but they’d felt the ear-popping pressure of his grief, glimpsed the hulking animal of his self-loathing, urged onwards by the twin spurs of Declan and Gansey, the past and the future, digging into his sides.

Adam had seen Ronan, teeth bared, hurling himself at rock bottom, and he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled him back by the collar.

Things are completely different now, but he still finds himself sleep-raw and petrified, reaching after Ronan in the dark.

He examines himself in the mirror of the communal bathroom in Thayer hall. The overhead lights are an unflattering yellow, the sink has a long dark hair stuck to its basin, and Adam’s face is gaunt and bruised with lack of sleep.

He’s losing it, a little bit.

He takes his own pulse, focusing on the faraway burble of the ley line. Everything, lately, seems far away.

As if through a stranger’s eyes, he slips from the seafoam tiling and bleach tang in Thayer’s North bathroom to the accordion door of the trailer toilet, the creaky cubicle shower, his gawky, hurt reflection in the burnt-out light. This version of Adam had to watch his best friend’s best friend escape suicide watch and get screaming drunk in public, treading mud and malicious dreams all over Monmouth manufacturing.

He can still smell the salt tang from teenaged Adam’s ocean of disdain.

Now that he loves Ronan, his irritation has only gotten sharper, more deadly. Ronan performs each perilous swan dive into the unknown, each foolhardy act of self-sacrifice, as if the people who care about him aren’t gasping spectators. It makes Adam furious.

Perhaps neither of them have changed as much as they wanted to believe. As Gillian keeps advising the crying club—with the confidence of a seasoned psychiatrist—progress isn’t linear.

He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

He slides fingers over his temples, smooths a knuckle over each eyebrow to ease the tension he always carries there. Sleep is a little knot of gristle lodged at the back of his throat; he can’t swallow it and he can’t spit it up. It never used to be this hard to put his problems to bed. He would worry the weight on his chest into small pieces, and go to sleep knowing that even the worst things about his life were organized correctly.

This time though, he’s out of sorts, divided, always busy but always spinning his wheels. He has a white-hot secret pressed to the roof of his mouth.

Every time he folds himself into bed, his subconscious helpfully reminds him that Ronan might be dead. And then a highlight reel plays in his head like an In Memoriam: Adam’s hand cupping Ronan’s nape, a barn silhouetted against a melancholy sky, a fistful of dreamt light, a dozen hard-won smiles and a hundred easy ones, a white handprint on a flushed thigh, a colourful joke to placate a brother, a kiss pressed to a dream’s forehead. All of that—gone. And Adam, at Harvard.

He highlights long patches of text in his sociology textbook, drinks a sensible amount of jack and coke at Eliot’s birthday party, declines Gansey’s calls by sending cheerful and conciliatory texts, and drifts through the library with his hand knotted in the strap of his satchel, looking for something that he can’t really articulate. He reads the same line of theory over and over and over and over, feeling like he’s scrying, like his focus isn’t his own.

He did all of this before Ronan went missing too, but now it’s a whole different class of performance. It used to be, I’m convincingly attentive, I’m sipping overpriced coffee on the way to class like a good Ivy leaguer, I’m making an impression on my professors, I’m forging friendships. Someday I will cash in these relationship tokens, and it all will have been worth it. It felt impossible that his life could be so simple and rewarding.

Now he thinks, I’m studying for finals and my boyfriend is being hunted by people whose job it is to kill him. I’m drinking a latte and the only people I’ve ever loved have left me, and I'm alone again. I’m putting my hand up in class and somewhere, Ronan’s life is changing, rapidly, dangerously, without me.

He lies to everyone, all the time, and tells himself that this life he’s building is more important than anything.

Once, as they cleared placemats and mugs full of stagnant coffee from the kitchen table, Ronan—still cobwebbed in his most recent dream—had detailed the sensation of hovering over himself afterwards. He was unable to manipulate his physical body or even really recognize it as his own, and his consciousness, detached, had its own limbs, its own intentions. He was like a parasite trying to wriggle back into its host.

Whenever Adam consults his double in a bit of glass, he imagines himself as a nimble dreamer, peering down, working to bring a fantasy to life. He can see his own outline, a slick college student with a flat, pleasant affect and a gaggle of soft-shelled friends. He plays his role impeccably well, but he can’t fit himself into it. If he passed himself in the hallway he would not stop.

Looking in the mirror now, he feels a red pang of fear, then a supercut of the ways he used to let himself love and be loved, then resentfulness hot on the heels of his worry.

His reflection withers, and he looks deliberately down at his hands. It’s a Tuesday, and he needs to sleep, or his tightly-scheduled Wednesday will be a misery. It’s a Tuesday, which means he hasn’t spoken to Ronan in—he stalls. Call me, he thinks, miserably. Just call me.

He can deal with a multitude of challenging and improbable situations if only he can see them clearly. Ronan is, for whatever reason, keeping him in the dark.

The not knowing is bad. It’s not how he functions. It’s not how they function. But instead of dwelling, he puts his back into the narrative that is now his reality: Impeccable student. Devoted friend-group. Tough break-up. Bright future.

Ronan isn’t here. Can’t ever be, physically, so far from the ley line. Adam has to be.

“Croissant, as ordered.” His gaze snaps up, connecting—not with his own image, but with clever, horn-rimmed Gillian. “They tried to foist it upon me without butter, if you can imagine that.” She deposits a crinkly brown and tan paper bag in front of him, and then two little plastic pots of butter. Adam regards the squashed shape of the bag’s contents with confusion.

It’s— “Is it Tuesday?”

“Wednesday,” Eliot corrects airily, licking jam from their thumb.

“My god, Adam. Whatever happened to your infallible circadian rhythm?” Fletcher asks. “You are the Swiss timepiece by which we measure our days.”

A terrible wave of vertigo strikes him, and he’s grateful to find himself sitting, at one of two conjoined wrought-iron tables in the courtyard near Thayer. He can feel the ley line breathing for the first time in a long time.

He must have gone to bed after his late-night breakdown in the bathroom. He must have. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. His hand strays to his hair. Wet. He’d woken, showered, and met his friends for breakfast, and he can barely remember it.

“Sorry,” he chokes. “Sleep deprivation is catching up to me, I think.”

“Aw, chicken,” Benjy says affectionately. “I’ve sung those end of term blues. The profs think we’re machines. Don’t even get me started on Dr. Fraundberg’s Lit Crit for assholes.”

“Whyever would we?” Eliot says. “We want to make it to class before noon.”

“Har-har. You wound me. Adam you’d better get a tissue ready, I’m about to tear up.”

“Also,” Gillian says, pointing her be-honeyed knife in Eliot’s direction. “Speak for yourself. I want to make it to class never.”

“Your presentation is going to be exceptional,” Fletcher tells her. “Your rough draft already drove me into paroxysms of jealousy. I don’t know why you’re so concerned.”

“I don’t just want to pass,” Gillian says. “I want to win.”

“Admirable,” Benjy sniffs.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Adam,” Eliot says, at length. He’s aware that they’re all trying very hard to act like they don’t notice how poorly composed he is.

“Can’t a man savour his pastry, Eli?” Fletcher rumbles.

“No, that’s fair,” Adam sighs. The four of them peer at him expectantly, eyebrows arranged into an array of benign and non-threatening shapes. “It’s possible I’m having a slight breakdown,” he says, adopting the grim hyperbole of a student for whom finals are the beginning and end of their emotional upset.

Everyone at the twin tables indulges in a bit of mild laughter.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Well if it’s only slight, I’ll stow my concern.”

“Harvard or personal?”

He smiles faintly, and says, “kind of both. The personal is political, or something.”

He thinks he’s laying it on thick, but Gillian grins at him. “'Atta boy.”

Fletcher goes to take a sip of his tea, but chokes when his phone lights up with an incoming text message. “Criminy, is it eight already? Starting the day with a bang, as usual. I’ll meet you at Weld this evening, yes?” he asks, shaking out his tweed jacket and thrusting an arm through it, securing the remains of his bagel between his teeth with his other hand.

“Of course,” Adam says. Fletcher gives him a thumbs up, mouth charmingly stuffed, and sweeps away across the now bustling courtyard.

“Hey magic man,” Eliot says. “Will you do a reading for my sister tonight? The break-up with Margot is hitting her kind of hard. I’m pretty sure she just wants to be told she’ll find love again.”

Adam watches the juddering impact of Benjy kicking Eliot under the table.

He shrugs. “First come first serve, but I’ll give her the friends and family discount.”

“You’re a prince,” Eliot says, blowing him a kiss. Adam tries to imagine any of his friends from Henrietta doing such a thing, and can’t. “Come along Benjy. Bookstore or bust. They’re giving out discount computing textbook codes at sixty dollars a pop.”

A slip of paper for sixty American dollars. Adam’s head aches profoundly.

Gillian waggles her fingers at their friends as they depart, then she turns and fixes Adam with that familiar amateur therapist look.

“What?”

“Are you sleeping?” she asks bluntly.

“I’m a very good sleeper,” Adam says wryly. “Ask anyone.”

“But are you actually doing it?”

“Yes, Gillian.” Liar, liar. “Do you want me to keep a dream journal as evidence?”

“Oh, yes please.” That shark’s grin. “I’d pay to know what the fuck is going on up there.” She taps her own temple to indicate Adam's guarded mind.

He spreads his hands between them. “I’m an open book.”

She hums, only half-smiling now. “I dunno. That Southern charm. I’m never quite sure if I should trust a politeness that perfect.”

“On that note,” Adam says, standing. He’s relieved to find that he’s wearing matching socks, and his pant legs are rolled just so. There’s a tiny streak of yellow on one of his shoes, and with a jolt he realizes that it’s dream-crab guts. He presses on. “Thanks for the croissant. And the psychoanalysis. Send me the bill.”

She salutes him with her coffee cup. “You couldn’t afford me.”

He laughs, and turns, and then spends the whole walk to his 9 AM class trying to straighten all of the haywire compasses in his brain so they point due north.

His assignment is in his bag, pressed neatly into a navy blue folder. He has three classes today, a meeting with his supervisor at three, a study block set aside from four to six, then dinner, then tarot readings all evening—his phone rings. His treacherous heart leaps. Ronan.

He stops mid-stride, scrambling for his cell in the front pocket of his bag.

“Hello?”

“I—oh—Adam! I didn’t expect you to pick up. How on Earth are you?”

“Gansey.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m just on my way to class.”

“Fantastic to hear your voice. How’s—not that one, Jane, the I-90—exactly. How’s Harvard? Are you batting away job offers yet?”

“Constantly. How are your nature hikes and hippie communes? Contracted any backwoods diseases yet?”

“Charming. I’m actually in remarkably fine form, health-wise.”

“Is that a brag?”

A guffaw. “More of a curiosity. It’s actually part of the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch. Have you noticed any surges of power from the ley line lately? I mean, of course you have, but do you have any idea what’s causing them?”

He frowns, pinning his cellphone between his good ear and shoulder as he heaves open the ancient door to the physics building. “I could give you my best guess.”

A beat, and then, “I’m listening, Parrish.” Something about the way he says it makes homesickness pulse painfully in Adam’s chest.

He finds a semi-secluded stone slab bench behind an empty stairwell, and slings his belongings across it before he replies, “Dreamers.”

“Dreamers,” Gansey repeats, but it sounds like he’s saying of course! “Plural?”

“At least three.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet.”

“Ronan hasn’t spoken to you,” Gansey guesses.

“Not—in a few days.”

“Is everything alright?”

He swallows, and is horrified to find tears burning at the back of his throat. There’s no pretending with Gansey. It’s why he never calls him.

“Adam,” he says quietly. “Is he in trouble?”

He struggles with his composure for several long seconds. “Possibly.”

A world-weary sigh. “I really wish you had called.”

“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. He checks his watch. 8:23.

“So he’s playing with others. Why would Ronan want to do that?”

“I think—he’ll do anything not to feel powerless.” He understands as soon as he says it that it’s the pockmark in the windshield from which all of the damage is splintering outwards. “And people take advantage of that.”

Gansey makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere a thousand miles away, and it clicks in a lock and opens Adam’s shoulders up. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone in this fight. How could he have forgotten careful, persistent Gansey?

“Well. He’s certainly not powerless. I almost feel back to my pre-Cabeswater self. Everything is pleasantly linear. And Blue is—lighting up.” In the background, he hears her say supercharged with relish. “I can only imagine what it’s like for full-blooded dream stuff, with all of that energy at their disposal.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” Adam says carefully. “It’s good for a while, helping all the Matthew’s of the world, and then what? Where does all of that diverted power end up? What makes dreamers qualified to harness it without their worst nightmares manifesting?”

“You’re worried about the Lace.”

The last time they spoke, Adam had told them briefly about his last scrying session, warning them to look out for the hateful, faceless thing that had pierced his cells and magnified all of his pain and fear until all he could possibly do was scream.

“I’m worried about Ronan. I know he’s in over his head, and I know he won’t believe it until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like someone I know. Don’t bite off more than you can chew with this, Adam. I know you’re enormously busy.”

It stings, a little. “I’m still going to—I’m obviously still going to make time for him. Especially when he’s—“

“Struggling. Yes. I understand perfectly.” It occurs to Adam that, unlike his well-meaning Harvard friends, he actually might. A needling murmur in the background, and then, “listen, Blue’s telling me that you should get in touch with the psychics, and Mr. Gray.”

He nods. The rhythm of problem-solving is soothing his frazzled nerves. “I’ve been considering it. I’m also pretty sure that Declan has been keeping his own tabs on things.”

“My money’s on yes,” Gansey says. Adam half-smiles. His money has been on a lot of things. “Poke around when you can. See what turns up. I’ll give Ronan a call, not that it’s ever done me much good before.”

“I’m pretty sure he ditched his phone.” He checks his watch. 8:24. It feels like it’s been much, much longer than a minute. There is so much day ahead of him.

Ordinarily, he would be compartmentalizing better than this. No feverish Gansey phone calls directly before class. No pleasure with his business. No finesse when logic will do the job just as well. But the subterranean, black-eyed Adam is still within him, tethered to the ley line and to his friends, and he wants very badly to fix this.

“Ah, Ronan,” Gansey sighs. “It’s always got to be him, doesn’t it?”

“I know,” Adam says narrowly. “If he’s not looking for trouble it’s looking for him.”

“You sound like Declan.”

Adam makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. Blue must be leaning across Gansey, because she says “that’s a new low,” almost directly into the receiver.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says flatly.

“Update me if anything changes? We’ll come home the moment things go south.”

He resists the urge to check his watch again. “Don’t cut things short on my account.”

“Well. Don’t disrupt your studies on Ronan’s. I’ve never known you to put your future on hold for anything.”

“I’m not—“ he stops. “Ronan is a part of my future.”

“Good,” Gansey says warmly. A test, then. And like most tests, there was never even a possibility that Adam wouldn’t pass.

______

It’s easy to tell when a dreamer is suffering.

As the energy from the ley line ebbs, dreamt creations judder and bolt like horses loosed suddenly from the service of a carriage, galloping towards safer pastures. If the dreamer is in more immediate peril, the dream simply folds its limbs into an agreeable shape and passes into sleep.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, Adam lies awake in bed, dangling his hand between the wall and his bed frame, feeling along the subtle unfilled crack in the plaster. A flagpole casualty, from the day that everything stopped being enough for Ronan, and he slipped away on a dreamt current like a dark Ophelia.

He’s being dramatic.

He feels the drywall flaking, and digs his thumbnail into the split, wanting to rip the whole wall open with his fingers.

He keeps picturing Matthew’s half-lidded eyes, cloudless and blue as a wide prairie sky. The slouch of his posture, the tarnished golden head, the body briefly without a pilot.

Matthew had looked—Adam turns in bed, taking his chalky hand from the wall and fisting it in the sheets. He had looked like a faded old pillow, tucked unobtrusively into the chair by the window. He wouldn’t respond to Declan’s call, fluttering his drowsy lashes, and Adam had thought, ah. This is how I find out. His heart slumped over in his chest, dizzy with sudden grief. The tarot cards in his hands were dead leaves.

This is what happens when your life is tied to my brother’s, Declan had said, diverting his horror into scorn as he often did. The death of any one member of his family ensured the destruction of another. It had always been that way.

Matthew eventually roused, and Adam had closed his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling until he could be normal again. He felt suddenly foolish for peddling lies to college students when magic was so obviously in the room with him.

Earlier, he had called Maura over lunch, and she vaulted right over small talk to ask him, with concern, about his loosening grip on his psychic inclinations. She’d said, “You do know that the ley line isn’t the source of your problems, right? Give yourself some credit. You can fuck things up in a completely non-mystical way.”

She pulled the Magician, reversed, and the eight of wands, and then, without further comment, passed the phone to Mr. Gray.

Unexplained weaponry, he’d reported. The Lynch brothers loosed on two separate worlds at the same time. Buttoned-up Declan for the first time unbuttoned, schmoozing with an array of dangerous and connected people, trading in secrets just as his father had. Purposeless Ronan for the first time with a purpose, wading out from the murky waters of his dreamspace and bringing the tides with him.

Bryde, the name in the corner of everyone’s mouth, joined all at once by Ronan’s and Hennessy’s.

Renegades, liberators of dreams, scorchers of earth. He could see, easily, why this would appeal to Ronan. A mission, finally. A father figure to guide his hand. A world that wanted his dreams, and wouldn’t crumple under the weight of his unusual ambition.

When they were teenagers, Aglionby was just another one of Adam’s jobs, but it was one of Ronan’s nightmares. He would go to school, a hooded bird of prey, seething with resentment and squandered ability. He longed for the Barns because of what they represented: the childlike belief that his family would never die; the possibility for creatures like him to roam free; a landscape powered by unconditional love.

Bryde, Adam knows, must be offering him the same relief. Exquisite flight, after the cage.

It’s not possible, is the thing. It’s a pipe dream. A Niall Lynch fairytale.

Foresight has never been Ronan’s strong suit. He gets it into his head that a solution is right up until the point that it falls apart in his hands. He throws himself entirely into belief. It makes him an extraordinarily loyal and trusting person. It also makes him stubborn, rash, and susceptible to manipulation.

He believes in one facet of something, and the rest follows. He can’t just take a sip—he downs the bottle.

Adam is a boy on a bicycle in November, needing to find Ronan alive so that he can hate him without feeling guilty about it. He never stops oscillating between resentment and love, reality and unreality, understanding and disappointment. He wants to be normal so that he can choose to be abnormal. Sometimes he wants the cards without the magic.

He closes his eyes and remembers a slumbering mouse against an angular cheek. He imagines Matthew like that, perpetually immobile, perpetually innocent, like a taxidermied puppy. The pieces of Ronan’s consciousness that will linger after his death, statues in a graveyard. Tamquam—tamquam—

What would Ronan be without his dreams? Here, Adam thinks. He’d be here.

He stays in bed for another wasted hour, and then stands up, disoriented, in the dimness of the room. Fletcher is snoring softly. Someone outside their cracked window is shuffling over the concrete stoop. His upstairs neighbour is playing tinkling soundtracks while he sleeps. Adam can’t be here anymore.

He plucks Fletcher’s laptop silently from its charging station, tucks his bare feet into stiff leather shoes, drags the cardigan from his desk chair, and lets himself out into the hallway. The glare from the overhead light pins him against the wall for a moment.

He shuffles half-blind down the hall and upstairs to the solarium, nearly losing one of his unlaced shoes in the stairwell in the process. The lights are blessedly shut off up in the attic, and he feels his way to the nearest of the tables hunched in the shadows. Aching with fatigue, he sits, unfolds his stolen laptop, and gets quietly to work.

He’s never had the time nor means to be truly proficient with technology, but he extracted a handful of leads from Mr. Gray, and he’s been in touch with a friend of Benjy’s—a computer science grad student and hacking hobbyist.

He chases key phrases down rabbit holes and assembles news articles, tracking Ronan’s movement by his “unexplainable” signature (code for mind-fuckery, joyful innovation, and dark humour). Adam is a practiced note-taker and serial obsesser, so it’s barely a strain to find Ronan—whom he knows better than anyone—cropping up all over the continental United States.

“What are you doing,” Adam murmurs. The sky lightens gradually to periwinkle. He has work today, but his shift doesn’t start until noon. His mouth is bone-dry, and his head feels cotton-stuffed the way it always does when he’s pushing his body to its limit.

When it’s late enough in the morning to be socially acceptable, he messages Benjy’s friend with the bare bones of what he’s looking for: a project under wraps, a lonely last name, a suppressed pattern. They correspond, remotely, until Adam is reading government files over watery coffee, wearing sweatpants, dress shoes, and a cardigan with cracked elbow patches.

He pores over it all, cross-referencing dates, and ignoring the widening sink-hole in his chest.

Industrial espionage isn’t at all Ronan’s usual brand of destruction. Highly controlled, not much up-front gratification. A little more political than Ronan usually leans. A lot more ambitious. Whatever their agenda, ley energy is flowing more easily now that it's unobstructed on such a large scale. Adam has been feeling its effects rippling all the way out to Boston, a persistent background pressure, unavoidable as a migraine.

It’s clear that the Moderators are desperate to eliminate Bryde’s party. Their reports are a comedy of close calls.

Slowly, Adam begins to understand the scope of things.

Billions of dollars in damages, manmade structures ripped from their foundations. Magical fugitives hunted by a team that specializes in murdering the targets they call Zeds. Visionary headlights pointed towards certain apocalypse. A world that is always awake, but always, always feels like it’s dreaming.

It’s pretty much exactly as he feared. Night terrors. The Lace. Beasts and legends. Adam holds his head in his hands. It’s more than what Ronan must be imagining. It’s more than Aurora waking happily in Cabeswater, powered by the swaying trees. It’s the indiscriminate waking of every incredible thing that’s ever been dreamed.

He’s struck by a wave of hopelessness that rushes all around him and tears at his hair. Ronan, dreamer of baubles that dispense music and light, cars that go very fast, and menageries of curious creatures, recruited to a cause that transmutes creation into chaos. Ronan, promising to wait, and then running full tilt at a future that can’t possibly keep Adam in it.

His dream half is going to destroy his human half, and he’ll take everybody else down with him.

If he could just see him, maybe—

His jaw creaks, teeth clenched tight against the emotional groundswell. The late morning sunshine strikes him, and he feel more like a vague, pale shape than a person. Like a dream, maybe.

Alter idem.

If Adam can’t reach Ronan, maybe the Moderators should.

He feels the weight of that awful thought burning a hole through his stomach lining. He can’t think about it. He needs to go to work.

_____

The next evening, he experiences a surge of power so acute that it nearly puts him in a coma.

It’s another Wednesday night, and another batch of his peers hitch polite smiles to his heels as he passes them by, winding his way up into the high, arched sunroom at Weld hall. They’re all wishing for magical solutions for their mundane problems, the opposite of Adam in nearly every way.

He bumps knuckles with Benjy and Eliot in turn, pulls up his chair, and knocks his last reading from Persephone’s deck, mostly out of habit. He consults his phone idly as his friends try to make pleasant conversation, holding up a finger when he finds a new batch of texts from Gansey.

John Amos power plant in WV shut down Monday

Intense. maura said she could’ve brought HER dreams to life afterwards

no word from Ronan yet? Leads from Declan? pls advise

I’ll assume no news is good news

He puts his phone in his satchel and fastens it closed. Every new scrap of information he gets feels like a stroll through Ronan’s security system at the Barns—hopelessness compounding and compounding until he staggers out the far end weeping.

He needs to focus on something productive. He nods at Benjy to start letting people inside, straightening the notebook where he usually scribbles his observations. Here, he is an adjudicator: powerful, organized, and reserved, tallying points and offering constructive critique.

His curious audience starts pouring in then, amateur wiccans and wannabe believers, aggrieved last-resorters and skeptics following friends’ recommendations. It’s a brighter collection of characters than Aglionby could ever have hoped to foster.

Gillian texts him to say that she just passed Weld and his line-up was out the door. He is a prim and unobtrusive con artist, a false prophet, and business is booming.

Eventually, a bespectacled girl who looks anywhere from five to ten years his senior sits across from him, tucking a bag armoured to the teeth with candy-coloured enamel pins between her feet.

“Hi,” she says nervously. “Anna.” She stretches her hands out in front of her, then thinks better of it and drops them into her lap. “I’m not sure how this usually goes, so you might have to hold my hand a little bit.”

“No problem,” he says smoothly, passing his deck across the tabletop. “Just go ahead and shuffle. Concentrate on what you want to ask the cards.”

She does as directed, struggling a little to keep the papery stack in check. Not a natural born card sharp, then. He studies her neat black shirt, tucked precisely into a plaid skirt. A Marilyn mole drawn on just above the corner of her mouth. A pride flag pin he doesn’t recognize next to a cat wearing a cowboy hat, and the word “rude” in cursive.

She holds the deck fleetingly to her chest, eyes squeezed shut like a child making a birthday wish, and then plops it in the centre of the table. A card slips near the top, slightly uneven, and Adam plucks it free.

He hums thoughtfully. “Eight of cups. Okay. So you’re having some trouble with letting go.” She frowns and nods once, quick.

He lays out the rest of a simple five card spread neatly between them. A couple of stray swords, the chariot, a wand.

“It seems like things are stagnating in your personal life. Maybe your friend group used to feel like your family, but you feel like they’ve lost interest in you. And you love them, but Anna, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re pretty sure you were done with them before they even started pulling away. Right now you’re kind of just going through the motions. A couple of years overdue to convocate, right? Everyone else moved on to greener pastures.” He taps his thumb thoughtfully against the bones of his opposite wrist. “It’s not even the loneliness that gets you. It’s the not knowing. Are you supposed to chase after them? Is there another community out there for you? There is, you know.”

He notices another card spilling loose, and he grabs it without thinking. The Magician again. He thinks, huh, caught in the coils and dust of Persephone’s overturned cards.

And then the waking world disappears.

Adam is airborne, tumbling up into the atmosphere on a geyser of ley energy, whipped by branches and light. He throws his arms out to stop himself, but he’s only a projection, so his momentum doesn’t slow.

Something—Lindenmere? The cosmos?—shows him a series of images: an upturned nose made from oil and turpentine, a coiled old tree stump, a red-haired woman grinning toothily and then exploding, a rose the colour of warm dark skin, a pale scar-split hand cradling a silky head, the animal haunch of something black, a terrible voice booming turn back—

He skitters away, panicked, and bumps into his own body. Or not his own body. A double, blinking confusedly in the bathroom mirror.

His doppelgänger turns to leave, and Adam reaches after him, through the mirror, following himself into a version of Thayer which is not Thayer. Everything is alive, in this reality. Energy sings and saws its fingers together.

It’s a memory, but it’s also the present, and it’s also a nightmare. Wake up!

Obediently, the city wakes.

He gasps, although he doesn’t have a mouth. It’s the heaving first breath of a sleeping witch, like Gwenllian turning in her grave.

Adam struggles against the current of wild power, thick and pungent as gasoline. Everything feels more intense near magical artifacts, dream stuff, supernatural fault lines, and it is with great effort that he hunts for something familiar, something heavy enough to bind him. He was unprepared for this, and although everything around him is bitingly familiar, he's lost. He wheels around and around, reaching for his most trusted tethers—Gansey, Ronan, Blue, Persephone—

Persephone.

He follows the lingering perfume of her intuition, feeling blindly for those old handholds in her tarot deck, that familiar grip, like the hilt of a trusted weapon.

And then he finds himself looking again at the girl, Anna, her fate bunched around her narrow shoulders. And then at his own empty body, a glowing card clamped between his fingers. As soon as he’s aware of looking at himself, he’s looking out of himself, and he stands up quickly, overturning his chair.

“—Adam? Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“What on God’s green Earth was that?”

A palm between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes.

The hand retreats. A murmur: I’ve never seen him like this.

“Is it—is it bad? Am I going to be okay? Is it bad?” Anna keeps asking, horrified.

“You’re fine,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry.” The ‘o’ in sorry comes out a little wide and swerving.

“You went blank,” Benjy says, voice high with residual panic. “For like—ten minutes. Beyond hyper-focus.”

“I thought it was a gimmick,” Eliot says. “But a ten minute gimmick? What is this, Las Vegas?”

“I got carried away. I have to,” he swallows. “I need a minute. I promise everything’s fine.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” Eliot says quickly. “But, fair warning, I’m going to ask you a hundred questions when you get back.”

“And then I’m going to ask another hundred,” Benjy says. “Magic man.”

“A riddle, inside an enigma, wrapped in a sweater vest,” Eliot muses. He can tell they’re still shaken. He’ll have to deal with that, later.

“I'll be right back,” Adam says, touching them very lightly on the shoulder as he passes. The ley line is bursting, and he feels so flushed with its vitality that it almost makes him sick.

He stumbles past them, all the way out of the building and into the street. The winter air tears at his thin shirtsleeves, nips at his sock-less ankles. He shields his eyes against the sun, watching a bird swoop low overhead. A silvery, seagull-sized thing, but with knobby legs that taper into—he squints. Hooves?

He keeps moving, propelled by the mad urge to catch the bird, to pin the wild magic down so he can understand it.

Adam walks for what feels like a long time, trying to find the source of all of this haemorrhaging power. He spots a couple of fidgety-looking students, a few more curious creatures. Somewhere, faraway, there’s music crooning, and it sounds exactly the way a hot shower feels.

He stops in the middle of Oxford street, head cocked towards the natural history museum across the way, the orderly buildings, the sparse evening foot traffic. Business as usual. All of it screaming with energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a parade of scuttling creatures marching towards an invisible destination. Frowning, Adam crosses the street, chasing the peacock blue shimmer from an unfurled wing. He slows, stooping in the alley to pick one of the strange insects from the stream. He peers through a nail-sized hole in its head. Its spindly legs wave fearfully for a moment, and then it goes limp in his hand.

The ley energy punches out of him, and he sits back on his ankles, winded.

Adam gazes down at the jewelled beetle in his palm, its siblings scattered out like shell casings around his knees. Dreams, all of them. Briefly, impossibly roused in a dead city. He stands, letting the beetle drop from his hand and bounce across the concrete. He kicks them all hurriedly behind a nearby bench, mind racing. Bugs from an exhibit next door, no doubt. Dormant animals, transplanted from their habitats and pinned in place for decades.

What kind of ecoterror was wrought to bring about a flash flood of energy in a drought? How must Ronan be feeling, out there in the world, wracked with waking dreams? What unimaginable monsters were just stirring in the shadows because of him? Is Bryde one of them?

His lives are merging. The distant rumbling of thunder is overhead now, and the downpour is rolling in. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep dry.

Standing in that alleyway by himself, drained and ordinary again, he feels terribly alone.

He weighs his feelings against his logic for several agonizing minutes, standing still and watchful as a predator. He recalls the jarringly clinical accounts of Ronan's most intimate dreams, the sparsely encoded language in those government files outlining the world-ending dangers of something Adam had, for a long time, shared a bed with.

If something happens to Ronan now, it might kill Adam. If something happens because of Ronan, it might kill everybody.

Another minute, and he has his phone out and ringing.

“Hello?” Declan answers. Oddly, it’s not his usual prickly greeting. He sounds almost jovial.

Adam looks out into the darkening street, feeling like a death omen, a shadow across someone’s doorstep. “We really need to talk about Bryde.”

______

It’s the worst possible time for Declan to be withholding information from him.

Adam had graciously tipped his hand and Declan was, infuriatingly, holding back, as if this was a low grade in Ronan’s high school algebra class, and not the cataclysmic fuck-up of a powerful dreamer.

Declan, so uncannily like his brother in vulnerable moments like this, had thought of Matthew first. A world where dreams could stay awake, he’d marvelled. As if they could afford to think so small.

Once, Adam had awoken to find his arm glued to the bedspread. Ronan had dreamt a bee-less hive in the night, and it was oozing a steady stream of honey into the sheets between them.

“Score,” Ronan had said, when he’d rolled back into his body. “Sting-free. Fucking vegan.”

“What happens when we don’t want any more honey?” Adam had asked, critically. Ingesting dreams always felt like a slippery subject. “Does it shut off like a faucet?”

It didn’t. Ronan filled a dozen amber jars full, and then abandoned the hive in a dusty kiddy pool in one of the barns near the back of his family property.

A month later, Opal had crept in through a window looking for trouble, and emerged, shrieking, in a viscous flood of syrup.

Combing the mess out of Opal’s fur, her little legs slung across his lap, Ronan had complained about the magnitude of the clean-up job he would have to do, the special honey hoover he would have to create, what a waste of a dream it would be. Adam reminded him of his faucet idea.

“Too late for that, Parrish,” he’d griped.

It was their pattern. A marvel, too good to be true. Adam, the skeptic. Ronan, too in love with creation to care about consequences.

Eventually, it will all be too late.

Ronan will pursue this liberation fantasy, this golden daydream, even if it never stops oozing. Even if it makes the whole world uninhabitable.

______

That night, Adam tries to scry for the first time in months.

He gently pushes the crying club—only tenuously placated after the tarot incident—to have drinks without him, claiming stress-induced fatigue. He leaves his study notes open and blinking on the bed, lights a sad little tea light, and casts himself out into the ether.

Straining hard, he searches for the familiar contours of Ronan’s dreamspace, plucking the distant strings of the ley line and listening for the particular timbre of Ronan’s consciousness.

He doesn’t like walking this tightrope without a net, but Harvard isn’t exactly flush with psychic spotters. He keeps a delicate balance, far from his body, inching closer and closer to Ronan’s mind, the safe plateau at the end of this rope.

Eventually, he finds himself in a grey bedroom. It's full to the gills with water, there's a toy sailboat bobbing past at chest height, and storm clouds huddling nervously on the ceiling. Adam’s hair plasters instantly to his scalp.

“Ronan?” he calls, sloshing through the curiously luminous water. It starts raining harder. A familiar, curly-headed child stares at him through the darkness, eyes sharpened into silver points in the moonlight. “Ronan?” he asks again, gently this time.

A muffled sentence, a sad, crumpled expression, and then Adam is staring at a closed door.

“What—let me in! Ronan!” He pounds at the door. “Come on!” He can still feel rainwater, unnaturally warm on his neck.

A voice in his head, not Ronan, whispers, turn back.

“No,” he snaps, knocking harder. “Just let me—“ A sudden gust of wind in his sails, and he’s ejected from the dream altogether.

He pinwheels for a horrifying, weightless moment, struggling to tune back in to the feeble light from his stubby candle, and then dragging himself, hand over fist, back to his dorm room.

“Fuck, Lynch,” he says, when he has a voice. “Don’t be stupid.” He recrosses his legs, shaking off the pointless, clinging feeling of rejection.

When he tries to reach out again, searching, searching, Ronan’s expecting him. He never makes it past the threshold.

Back in his body, he knocks his candle over, relishing the controlled destruction, the spill of wax, the sizzle of the squashed wick. A fire he can actually put out.

______

The next time Adam scrys, Ronan looks like himself. Maybe a little scruffier, with what looks like a tunnel piercing on his right ear, and a rare openness to his posture. He’s lounging in a pasture up against a sleeping cow, boots up.

As Adam watches, he tips his shaved head back into its mottled hide, and the sun makes his eyelashes into lit matchsticks. He loves him very much. He’d almost forgotten.

“Don’t lock me out,” he says quickly. Ronan opens his eyes, and when he sees him he smiles instinctively.

“Adam,” he says, vaguely. And then he locks him out.

“No,” he cries. “Would you listen to me.” He feels for the fissure in space and time, the pocket where Ronan is dreaming, sweetly and inaccessibly, about the only home Adam has ever known.

Nothing gives. Nobody replies. He crawls back to Harvard, weak with misery.

In the next dream, Ronan is older, driving a boxy jeep over a foreign landscape. Rolling Irish hills, skies humming with artificial energy. A woman who can only be Jordan Hennessy, chattering in the passenger seat.

Then it’s Ronan with his head in his dead mother’s lap, stroking the downy wing of a black swan.

Then Ronan and Hennessy again, opposite one another in a sunny gallery. One of them examining an impressionist portrait no bigger than a postcard, the other examining the exit.

Then Ronan, discovering Matthew’s corpse in a dim hallway, blinking furiously at the stranger crouched over his prone body. “What did you do?” He sounds like a kid reprimanding his sibling for getting them both in trouble.

Every time Adam gets close, some defence mechanism stops him, like a firm hand against his chest, pushing him away again and again.

He doesn't know what to do except keep trying.

______

Blankly, he looks down at a sink full of tinfoil and uneasy water. In pieces, he becomes aware of his surroundings—green stalls and laminate countertops, a row of hundred-watt lightbulbs, and somebody rattling the locked doorknob.

“Adam, are you in there?” Fletcher. “We’re going to be late. It’s nearly ten. Adam?”

“Just a minute, sorry,” Adam slurs. He stares closely at his face in the mirror until he recognizes his own features. He has an exam at 10:30. He glances down at his watch. 9:52. He had been so sure that he could just drift for a few minutes, maybe catch Ronan before he woke up. That was almost an hour ago.

He drains the sink, hands shaking, cuffs getting damp. The lightbulb filaments float behind his eyelids when he blinks. He throws his satchel over his shoulder, smooths his hair up and out of his eyes, and rubs the bags under his eyes until they hurt.

When he lets himself out of the bathroom, Fletcher is directly outside, tapping a nervous rhythm on his hips. His hands fly from his body and into the air at the sight of him.

“Adam! Thank god. I’ll cancel the search party.”

“I got lost in my notes,” Adam says, as they both make for the stairs.

“Of course you did,” Fletcher says warmly. “A supremely Adam move. I just hope you’re taking care of yourself. Gillian thinks you might be—well—not spiralling, but—“

“I’m handling it.” He takes several mental paces backwards. “Uh—poorly, clearly. I’m sorry Fletcher, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Fletcher, to his credit, recovers quickly. “I can’t imagine going through my first semester of college and a break-up at the same time. You’re a stronger man than I.”

Adam rather doubts that Fletcher can imagine going through a break-up at all, but he nods conspiratorially. They hop down the last few steps and out into the chilly sunshine together.

“You’d be amazed what one can do out of necessity.”

“Too true. We all have our hidden depths, don’t we,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. For a moment, Adam considers telling him—something, looping him into this tangled web with him, but then he says, “now, chapter twenty-three wasn’t on the outline, was it? I beg you to say no. Lie, if you must.”

And Adam is a student again. He doesn’t have out of body episodes. He doesn’t carry wads of tinfoil in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t keep deadly secrets from people whom he is mostly pretending to like and understand.

They walk onwards, towards a test which Adam will rouse himself for long enough to ace. Then he will think of the next thing, and the next. Appease these school acquaintances of his. Tinker with finicky car engines. Make flash cards. Drift into the beyond using one of Fletcher’s three-wick candles from pottery barn. Text Declan, who activates Ronan’s accountability in a way that Adam does not. Call Gansey, if he can bring himself to face his disappointment.

And clear away his feelings, which keep pouring out of him like so much honey.

______

Ronan hangs up on him, and Adam holds himself in the biting wind outside the library for a very long time.

He’d thought, if he could only speak to him, that he could begin to undo Bryde’s poisonous influence. They know each other. They’ve known each other. Ronan would listen to Adam’s fears as he always does. Adam would appeal to Ronan’s heart, which tends to ache for helpless things. They would see how lost they had become without each other. Adam would be allowed back into Ronan’s dreams, and Ronan would be allowed back into Adam’s future.

Why didn’t you text back?

As if they’ve been suspended in time since Ronan’s last tamquam, and none of it—the running away, warding his dreams against Adam, abandoning his phone, trusting a complete stranger over his friends and family—had ever happened.

It’s absurd. He should have expected it. Ronan was searching for a reason to stay, and when he looked for his reflection, his second self, Adam wasn’t there. For a single moment, he wasn’t there, and now he’s paying for it.

Impatient, wrathful Ronan. Leaping from the moving vehicle because Adam was going the speed limit. Going rogue, and then calling Adam with all of these stinging accusations, like he was the one who’d been abandoned.

He thinks again of Bryde manipulating Ronan, preying on his loneliness, his love for his brothers, his fear of himself. This big bad rumour, older and crueler than the Lace itself.

And Ronan letting himself be manipulated, putting on blinders, using Adam’s brief silence as an endorsement for a glorified joyride with unthinkable global ramifications. Self-destructing because things got a little too quiet.

Adam feels hot rage taking ahold of him with its sticky fingers.

Then he thinks of Ronan saying I need to see you, his thin, frightened voice finding Adam from somewhere out there in the city, and his anger goes clammy.

There’s no way Ronan will call again. Negotiations were off as soon as Adam refused to house them both from the Moderators.

And now, without Hennessy, Ronan is the last arrow in Bryde’s quiver. He’s going to be the explosive that brings everything down. He’s going to be buried at ground zero.

If I'd replied an hour sooner, would he really have waited? If I’d gone to school closer, would I have noticed him disintegrating? If I explained that my dream isn’t what I thought it would be either, that he’s the only thing that feels real, would he have said it back to me?

After everything that’s happened, am I going to be the one who gives up on Ronan Lynch?

Everything is so fucked.

He calls Declan.

He picks up on the first ring. “Parrish—”

“He hung up on me,” they both say at the same time.

“Mother of God,” Declan moans. “Then there’s no hope. He thinks I sold him out to the Mods.”

“Did you?”

“No. I did exactly as we discussed. I negotiated for his safety. I thought—I mean, you said it yourself, Adam. Being anti-apocalypse is a pretty solid platform.”

He shakes his head. “Ronan won’t see it that way. He’s not like us. He doesn’t want to be moderated even a little bit.”

“Believe me, I know that. The way he was talking—about the world screwing them over, all of them, dreamers. That’s not the way my brother thinks. That’s all Bryde. And now he’s taken him—Christ—Christ knows where.”

“He wanted to see me,” Adam feels compelled to say. “He was trying to come here.”

“He said that? That's good,” Declan says, relieved. “Where—“

“I let him get away,” Adam says, through numb lips. “I let him go.”

______

He texts Gansey, things have gone south, and then he turns his phone on silent.

His puts his fingertips to the floorboards, a knobbly hand on either side of a scrying tableau: the leaping flame of a candle, a well-organized pile of cards, his overturned phone and discarded tie. He’s just finished crying, and he feels volatile and ill-prepared even as he ties himself to the flickering light.

His mind races through the night like a skipped stone. Vaguely, he pictures a vast body of water and a glittering mountain range, with no horizon line in-between. Darkness reflected in darkness.

“Ronan,” he calls. The dreamspace whirs and grinds its gears and won’t reply. “You know this is wrong. You know, or you wouldn't be hiding from me.”

It’s all water out here in this sublime mirror-space, but it’s also warm, like the steam rising from a hot spring. Something is moving, changing things on a chemical level.

For a moment he thinks he sees himself, a wan doppelgänger with its hands raised. But it’s not Adam. It’s Bryde. Cool, sturdy, a pale Atlas holding the dream together on his back. He recognizes him instinctively.

Adam deliberately throws his mind closer, into the terrible heart of this fire Ronan is creating. Smoke whispers and catches all around him, and it’s even harder to tell the difference between things now. No horizon, no seam, no reality, no death.

What have you done? What are you doing?

The heat is quickly becoming unbearable. Adam is stretched too thin, and the fire is fraying him, eating through each fibre of his connection to reality.

Ronan, please, I need you to stop. I’m losing my grip. Listen to me.

And then, without any warning at all, he collapses on his dorm room floor.

He hacks and retches, lungs full of phantom smoke. Everything feels very wrong. He thinks for a second that he’s blind, but it’s not his vision, it’s another, less tangible sense, it’s—

He scrambles backwards on his hands, heaving. He tries to pull himself up onto his bed, head first, then chest, but he has to stop with his face buried in the comforter.

Ronan is—he must be—he’s—

“God, no, oh my god, no, no.”

He needs to throw up. He needs to call somebody. There’s complete silence in his head.

He was slingshotted back to Cambridge, swatted back along the zipline to his body, because there was nowhere else for him to go.

He’s sure, in a very non-magical, intuitive way, that every dream in the world has just collectively collapsed. Adam staggers to his feet. There’s a smoke alarm going off, somewhere. A background hum of electricity groaning as it shuts off. A high, scared voice.

As if in a trance, he goes to the window.

There are five dead lightbulbs in the nearest row of street lamps, what looks like a sleeping child out in the middle of the square, and a woman clutching her chest and sitting slowly on a bench.

Panic is deadening his senses, crawling blackly into his mouth and nose and eyes. He thinks of Matthew sitting weakly by the window. Opal slumped over a stump in the woods. Chainsaw falling from the sky like a stone. Gansey’s Cabeswater heart decaying in his chest. Ronan, either dissolving into nightwash or felled by a Moderator’s bullet, dead, lost, or powerless.

Every morsel of magic, every innovation, every cherished friend, every sacred place, turned off like a faucet.

The world outside, drooping and disconnected, is now exactly as ordinary as Adam has been pretending it is.

The ley line is gone.

#mister impossible #the dreamer trilogy #mi spoilers #tdt #adam parrish #trc #trc fanfic #pynch #mine #my tfc besties...... soon #in the meantime. here's some adam pov please clap

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2manyfandoms2count · 4 years

Text

You and me against the world (especially sliding doors)

Me: I will not write any fics based on the NY special. Not yet, anyway.

Also me, seeing @emsylcatac‘s post: Fine, you’ve convinced me

Here, have a sliding doors reveal one shot, hope you enjoy it! (New York Special spoilers ahead)

Read on AO3!

---

“Are you sure there’s no way for me to swing in from the roof?” Ladybug asked, anxiously fiddling with her yoyo string as she looked at the building that stood before her.

“If you were available later this week, you could, but unfortunately the scaffolding is staying up until the works are officially finished.” The event organiser answered apologetically.

“From a window, then, perhaps?” She insisted.

“Unfortunately the bay windows that give inside the main hall don’t open.”

“Is there a back door of any kind, then?”

Her interlocutor looked at her confusedly. People had told him working with Ladybug was easy, that she was very down to earth for someone who spent most of her time fighting on the Parisian rooftops. So far, though, she seemed like a bit of a diva. He agreed that having her make a grand entrance would be better for the press, but today was the only day that fit both her and Chat Noir’s schedules for a daytime event until the next month. Was it too much to ask that they both just entered through the main door, like normal people?

He looked at his watch. The opening was starting soon, and there was still no trace of Chat Noir.

As the organiser fidgeted, Ladybug was starting to regret ever agreeing to inaugurate the new Children’s hospital, which was opening with a flourish after months of works. The superhero and her partner had been specially invited to cut the red ribbon, located inside the building. She had been very touched that they’d thought of them, and had awaited the event excitedly.

The trouble was that, in an effort to provide the best innovation, the only way of getting inside said building was through automatic doors. She wouldn’t have been bothered by this fact had the event occurred before her trip to New York City. Unfortunately, the field trip had left scars -well, bruises- that made her weary of any door she could not open traditionally.

It had been embarrassing enough that she’d been stuck with Adrien in between two automatic doors, making a fool of herself as she ran into the transparent panes time and time again. She wasn’t willing to repeat the experience in front of the Parisian public. Not when she’d let them down so recently.

There was a small thud next to her, and the sound of Chat’s baton retracting as he walked towards the event organiser and herself. She turned towards him with relief. Chat was very good at thinking out of the box, maybe he could figure a way to avoid the main entrance. She’d just continue pretending her concerns were for the image of the event, and not because of a personal fear.

Chat Noir’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Ladybug’s wide smile when he approached. He still wasn’t quite over her words in New York. The way she’d hugged him like he was the most precious thing in her life. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost.

“My Lady.” He bowed and kissed her hand, making sure to keep eye contact with her. “Sir.” He then shook the organiser’s hand.

“Good afternoon, Chat Noir. We were just discussing your entrance.” The latter replied, hoping the leather-clad teenager was a little more sensible than his partner.

“We usually come in via the rooftop.” Chat Noir looked up, squinting to see the top of the building which was drowning in sunlight. He spotted a flapping piece of tarp, revealing the scaffold underneath. “But I’m guessing that’s not going to be possible this time.”

“Indeed.” The man acquiesced. “I’m sure the shots of you two coming through the main entrance will be great, though.”

Chat Noir’s gaze followed the man’s, landing on the sliding doors. He visibly paled at the sight.

“Are you sure there isn’t another way in?” He asked as his heart beat rose in his chest. His thoughts immediately went to Marinette and their common experience with automatic doors. Even his fencing bruises weren’t as bad as the ones he’d gotten when failing to go through them in New York. He didn’t care to get more, not to mention the fact he really didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Ladybug.

“All the doors are automatic.” Ladybug brought her hand up to her mouth out of habit, but bit her suit fabric instead of her nails.

“How… modern.” Chat took a minute to think. He couldn’t possibly make a scandal about going through the main entrance without attracting attention to himself. Inspiration struck. “What if you went to get the horse Miraculous and we entered through a portal? That would look very cool. I’m sure the kids would love it.”

“Chaton, you genius.” Ladybug kissed his cheek. “How long until the opening, sir?” She turned towards their host.

“Two minutes.” He said, barely glancing at his watch.

Both Ladybug and Chat Noir’s cheerful faces dissolved. Even using the horse superpowers to come back, there was no way Ladybug could reach wherever she hid the Miracle box, return and feed Kaalki before they used his Travel power again to get in, in under two minutes.

“Well… I guess main entrance it is, then.” Chat Noir gulped as they faced the sliding doors.

“Yay.” Ladybug cheered weakly. Had he known better, Chat would have thought she was also dreading it.

The event organiser smiled, and headed inside to sort out the last details. The two heroes waited anxiously outside.

When they received the thumbs up from their host, the two advanced cautiously, almost robotically towards the entrance. The first set of doors slid open and they stepped inside.

Ladybug let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding; the doors had been cooperative. She let a smile invade her face as she and Chat Noir continued their path. The entrance airlock was quite a big space. Nothing to do with the American ones.

She started to wave at the children she spotted on the other side of the second set of doors.

Chat hung back a little, observing her. She really knew how to work a crowd, he noted with a smile. Seeing his partner so relaxed helped his shoulders untense a little. He was with Ladybug, the bringer of Luck; nothing bad could happen to him while they were together.

He’d barely registered that last thought when she slammed into the transparent panels that separated them from the main hall.

“Ow!” She rubbed her nose. She heard laughter coming from the other side, and gave the children two thumbs up. They thought it was a skit. Excellent.

“My Lady, are you okay?” Chat rushed to her side to examine her, taking care to exaggerate his movements so as not to worry the people on the other side.

“I’ll get over it.” She scrunched up her nose.

“Do you want a magic kiss?” Chat Noir wasn’t actually kidding. Maybe it would help Ladybug’s reddening complexion.

“No thanks, Chaton.” Ladybug sighed and approached the door again. It didn’t budge. She stepped away, came forwards. Still nothing.

After waving at what she assumed was the movement detector for what felt like an eternity without any results (were there no technicians around to come and open the door for them? Or even just a kind soul?), she let out a frustrated sigh and stalked back to the middle of the hallway, turning her back to her audience.

Chat took over trying to open the door, jumping around to try and trigger the motion detector. He made faces at the crowd inside the main hall, which earned him many a giggle from the children. They didn’t seem concerned about their predicament at all.

He turned towards his partner to get her to join him in the clowing around, but his smile died on his lips as he took in her slumped shoulders.

“My Lady? Is everything okay?”

“I just…” She tucked her bangs behind her ears, shaking her head. “I don’t get why this is happening.”

“I’m sorry, Bugaboo. It’s all my fault.” He embraced her in a half hug, before elaborating for Ladybug’s raised eyebrow. “It’s not the first time this has happened to me. It must have something to do with the fact I carry the Kwami of destruction. It somehow messes with technology.”

Ladybug sighed. “I doubt it’s as simple as that. I’ve been stuck between two sliding doors before, too. If we go by your logic, then they should open by the holder of the Creation Miraculous just looking at them.”

“Any door should do that for you, really.” He winked, and it brought the hint of a smile to her pouting lips. “Really though, you’d think Paris’ superheroes can operate sliding doors. It’s a good thing Hawkmoth can’t akumatise objects.”

“Not too loud, you’ll make him figure out a way to do it.” She punched his arm lightly.

“I’m sure we’ll manage to get out eventually. We just need to work together!”

Ladybug smiled and held out her fist. “You and me against the world?”

“Always. And especially against automatic doors.” He fistbumped her.

They turned around and walked back to face their new nemesis.

“Now, it can’t be a matter that we’re not heavy enough, because otherwise kids wouldn’t be able to come in or out of this place.” Chat noted. “A little awkward for a children’s hospital, if you ask me.”

“You forget they probably wouldn’t be coming in alone; they’d have some kind of adult supervision.”

“Hmm.” Chat stroked his chin as he thought. “What if we tried jumping at the same time? Maybe it would trigger something?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” Ladybug shrugged. “On the count of three?”

“One… Two… Three!”

Both tried to put as much power as they could in their landing, to no avail.

“How about I try and Cataclysm it?” Chat kicked the door lightly, checking its resistance.

“Not sure how good an idea that would be. Remember Reflekdoll?” Ladybug made a face. “I think I’d much rather be locked in than face wild doors.”

“Good point.” He crossed his arms over his chest and resumed his observation. “What about a Lucky Charm?”

His partner’s eyes lit up as she considered it. “You know what, it’s not like we have anything to lose, or like they’re trying to help us get out.” She nodded towards the inside of the building. The guests all looked at them and waved; the event organiser tapped on his watch. “Lucky Charm!”

A small Statue of Liberty keychain landed in her hand. Ladybug rolled her eyes. She knew it was just like New York, Tikki didn’t have to taunt her like that.

“We probably would need that if this door opened with a key.” Chat shook his head. “What are we supposed to do with it now?”

Ladybug looked around, hoping an idea would impose itself as she scanned their surroundings. Apart from throwing the keychain at the door and hoping the glass would shatter upon impact, though, nothing seemed to come to mind.

“Wait a second.” Chat picked up the Lucky Charm and watched it twirl in the air. “Isn’t that the same object you got when we were fighting Techno-Pirate?”

“Doorman!” They both exclaimed at the same time, a smile brightening their faces as they looked into each other’s eyes. “Do you have his number?”

They slumped a little at their synchronicity. What had appeared like a perfect solution clearly wasn’t one if they had no way of contacting the New York superhero.

“Well, I guess that confirms my theory that you’re stuck with me, my Lady.” Chat gave her a small smile.

“You know what, I don’t mind being stuck anywhere with a friend like you.” She tapped his shoulder affectionately.

“Hey, that’s my line!” Chat frowned.

“What do you mean?” Ladybug asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. Yes, she’d stolen the line; but from Adrien, not Chat Noir.

“That’s what I told my friend when we were stuck together in the same situation.”

“Huh. That’s what my… friend told me when we were stuck between sliding doors!”

“Would it be too purr-sonal to ask when or where that happened to you?” He asked almost shyly.

“It was in New York.” Ladybug replied cautiously.

“No way, me too!” He paused. “What are the odds that we’d each get stuck with someone else in the same city?”

“New York is pretty big. With a lot of automatic doors.”

“True.” Chat looked at his feet. “And it’s not like it also happened twice to you, anyway.”

“Actually, it is like that.” Ladybug paled slightly.

“I’m guessing that reduces the odds quite a bit.”

“We’d need Markov or Uncanny to calculate them, but yes, I’d say they’re quite slim.”

They stared at each other, Ladybug becoming increasingly red as the seconds ticked by.

“Marinette?” Chat whispered, a smile spreading on his lips.

“A-Adrien?” She stuttered back.

Before any of them could move or add anything else, the doors slid open. Both turned their heads towards the sound.

The event organiser stood in front of them, and cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but we really are running late now.”

Ladybug and Chat Noir blinked, remembering what situation had brought them there in the first place.

“Right, of course.” Chat Noir extended a hand, which Ladybug took shyly. “Shall we, my Lady?”

“Let’s go.” She smiled weakly. She was holding Adrien’s hand. Which was also Chat Noir’s. Which meant she’d been avoiding Adrien’s advances. The same ones she’d been seeking ever since his apologies in the rain. Adrien was in love with her. Like she was with him... The avalanche of thoughts that invaded her mind made her feel light-headed.

The event organiser moved aside and announced their arrival.

Ladybug and Chat Noir moved forward, walking hand in hand. Maybe the Lucky Charm had been for them to finally find each other. And they had. Everything was going to be just fine.

Together, they picked up their walking pace.

And crashed into the clear door panels, which just had to close as they were strolling through them.

“Guess we really are destined to be stuck with one another.” Chat chuckled as he rubbed his sore nose.

“You know what, Chaton? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

#i have no control over what i write #oh well #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #miraculous reveal #ladynoir #ladybug #chat noir #ml #sliding doors #new york special #elle writes

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madjacobin · 3 years

Text

Albert Rosenfield's Day Off

Albert Rosenfield/Dale Cooper

for @magnificentmoose, as part of the wonderfulxstrange event for the anniversary of the Twin Peaks revival! Albert and Coop go on a trip to the Rodin museum in Philly, mild angst and fluff. No spoilers.

The world is huge, and Cooper intends on showing Albert as much as he can of it. Or at least, Coop is wholly committed to dragging Albert around Philadelphia, giving him a crash course in the city’s arts and culture. For all of his interests in art and history, Albert noted as he chewed on a poppy seed bagel, he usually couldn’t afford to take time off to immerse himself in his new city. The bagel was untoasted, and awfully chewy - the kind that lingered furtively in the break room, untouched and uneaten - and Albert was regretting having skipped his breakfast. Perhaps tomorrow, on his day off, he’d be able to stop by the corner shop and grab some proper bagels.

Grimacing, he put down the bagel and resumed his work on writing the report of a victim of a recent slaying, one whose rope burns and repeatedly stabbed torso indicated a link between this victim and the marks on a few others. The three victims were all found within the same vicinity - on the banks of the Delaware - and the FBI was assisting Philadelphia and Camden police forces. Maybe, with his work, they’d be one step closer to catching what they all knew was clearly a serial killer.

His work dragged on, for a few more hours, and by then Albert was already settled in his working groove. Wholly dedicated to the task at hand, he at first didn’t realize who had walked in.

“Thorough as always, Albert,” A kind voice interrupted him, knocking him from his single-minded focus.

“Hey, Coop,” Albert said drearily. He slowly rose from his chair as Cooper took a swig from his own steaming cup of coffee. Albert’s own cup sat nearby, cold and abandoned. He groaned suddenly, his body creaking from sitting in his chair for the whole day. “Just about done with this report on the Number Three’s autopsy. Besides, what the hell are you doing here so late?”

“I figured I’d wait for you to finish,” Cooper chatted, “We’ve got plans, too. Have you considered what you want to hit up first tomorrow?”

Rubbing his eyes as he shuffled the papers, Albert pondered momentarily. He’d been drawn to the numerous art and culture institutions in Philadelphia, and had done some light readings on Auguste Rodin, who had a museum dedicated to his work in the city.

“I know a place that might be your speed, Albert - how about the Mütter?- they’ve got a great medical menagerie, skeletons and jars and all.”

“You know, Coop, I think I’ve had my fill of cadavers for a hot minute. Why don’t we go to, ah, the Rodin museum?” Albert responded, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Cooper’s own eyes lit up, and he immediately snapped his fingers, exclaiming, “Albert, you’re absolutely right - the one thing we need is a refreshing break from your case. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine, we’ll grab ourselves some piping hot coffee, and we’ll be off on our day!”

Barely registering Cooper’s words, Albert stretched his back and arms and looked up. Cooper had already left, he realized. Turning around, he noted that the sky was nearing total darkness. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he’d be free to spend the whole day with Cooper, and not have to worry about everything else, just one day. Just one day.

He was walking. Down a hallway, where the fluorescent lights reflected off the lifeless linoleum floors. Invisible voices just out of eyesight whispered and chattered, the lights emitted a low buzzing noise. The faint scent of cleaning fluid, and cigarette smoke. It must’ve been Quantico, Albert realized, remembering it was just like his days as a young agent, wandering the old halls. He was holding something. Looking down, Albert saw he was carrying a bouquet of daffodils. The soft yellow and cream colored petals fluttered in some intangible draft. He was looking for someone. Picking up his pace, he walked onwards, but realized his vision was starting to blur. A shadowy, black figure lingered at the end of the hallway, quivering slightly in the distorted, flickering light. His vision swam, and the figure’s darkness morphed with the yellow of the daffodils. The buzzing from the lights changed into incessant beeping, drilling into his ears, and his vision went dark.

The beeping continued. Albert suddenly flipped over and grabbed his alarm clock, which was sounding off for his wake up time of 7:30 in the morning. Of course. Throwing his legs over the bedside, Albert groggily got up and stumbled to the bathroom. After getting washed up, he headed back to his room and instinctively grabbed a white button down shirt, before gingerly putting it back on the hanger and grabbing a sage colored shirt instead. Opting for some relaxed blue trousers as well, Albert got dressed and prepared for his outing, carefully inspecting himself in the mirror.

Later that morning, after he was satisfied with his preparations, Albert walked briskly down the street. His neighborhood was bustling with pedestrians, honking automobiles, and the occasional pigeon flapping its wings. Usually the humdrum of the city irritated Albert, but he felt oddly serene: he walked with a purpose, and with an objective in his mind. He clamped the leatherbound journal in his hands, its pages unwritten. He picked it up at the back alley bookstore, a few blocks from his apartment, not from the kind of place where the books were mass produced. Cooper needed more than just his tape recorder to report his thoughts, after all. With all too impeccable timing, Cooper himself appeared around the block’s corner, carrying a brown paper bag and a tray of two coffees.

“Morning, Albert!” He called cheerfully while striding up to meet him.

Albert gave a half-smile, which looked more like a smirk to the unfamiliar. “Thanks for the breakfast, Coop. How much do I owe-”

“-You don’t owe me a thing,” Cooper gently cut him off.

“Alright, then,” Albert responded, shoving one hand in his pocket and taking his coffee with the other. “So this museum’s down six or seven blocks, according to my map. If we take this street,” he pointed behind Cooper’s head, to the southwest, “and cross over at North 22nd and continue, it’ll be to our left.”

“Excellent. Normally I’d meander around hopelessly without a map, but directionally, I’m in good hands today.”

Albert snorted and rolled his eyes, only for moments later to realize he wasn’t wearing his tinted FBI shades. Cooper, knowing Albert well enough to understand, chuckled, and in a short time they were well on their way.

The museum itself could be considered an artistic marvel, for all Albert cared. Flanked by blossoming cherry trees and verdant beeches, the elegant marble building occupied a peaceful space within the city of Philadelphia, a perfect place to clear one’s head.

“Greek Revival architecture,” Albert murmured quietly, with Cooper nodding in approval. Stepping up and over the white marble threshold that gated the museum, Cooper and Albert walked in tandem towards the main door. “See that black-looking door next to it, with the carvings? Guess what it’s called,” Albert questioned cheekily, eyeing Cooper.

Doing his best impression of someone who was thinking awfully hard, Coop shook his head after a few moments. “I’m stumped, Albert.”

“‘The Gates of Hell’, actually. It doesn’t look so damn agonizing, if you squint a little.”

Cooper chuckled genuinely, with Albert noting that the smile reached his deep hazel eyes. What he’d do to see that expression. He felt that warm and fuzzy feeling grow inside of him, but wanted to stamp it down. Damn it, I’m being stupid again, Albert thought as he pushed the doors to the museum open, following Cooper inside.

The tickets had already been paid for, Albert noted with pleasant surprise. Was Cooper really doing all of this for him? He muttered his thanks to Cooper, his face feeling warm. He didn’t have to do this, really.

Almost reading his mind, Cooper gently squeezed his arm and said, “I’m happy to do this for you, Albert. You need this day to unwind, trust me. Look, let’s go this way.” Taking him gently by the arm, Cooper directed Albert down the stately marble hallway.

Everything was either white, black, or a somber dove gray. The floors, ceiling, walls, everything, were almost all constructed of smooth marble or granite. It felt like his dream, but not as artificial, not as foreboding. Instead of shadow figures and ominous voices roaming the halls, graceful figures languidly stretched out, and some other statues jutted out into the empty space. Curious tourists flitted between the statues, whispering to each other.

“Do you know about this one, Albert? It’s called the Burghers of Calais,” Cooper tapped him and pointed to the group of statues, a circle of emaciated men looking worryingly somber.

“It’s undoubtedly a copy, the real one’s in Calais, France. You don’t know the story behind it?” Albert asked, gesturing towards the hunched, metallic men. “Back during the Hundred Years’ War in Europe, the English army captured Calais and offered them mercy, at a price. These men, local community leaders, decided they would bear the weight of the city’s freedom. They’re going to offer their lives in exchange, they’re going to die.”

Cooper was wordless, his eyes growing dark as he took in the men’s harrowed expressions. “I can’t fathom how they must have felt, knowing it was either them or… everyone else,” he furrowed his brow in contemplation.

“You know what it’s like, to be surrounded by familiar faces and still feel like the world’s loneliest man?” Albert’s own brown eyes met Cooper’s, and for one moment too long, they locked eyes.

“I’m all too familiar with that sensation, you know. But I know I’m far from the only one,” He answered, his voice slightly unsteady.

“That’s the idea,” Albert said, looking back at the statues. “They knew that, logically, but in that moment, emotion takes over. It’s hard to think realistically when you’re walking to your death, for all you know.”

Cooper nodded solemnly. Albert’s hand brushed over his pocket, which held the small leatherbound journal. When would he give it to Cooper? Now it doesn't seem right, but when?

“You know, these aren’t the only statues in the museum, Albert. We can see more,” he said softly, gesturing towards the numerous white figures in their periphery.

Albert obliged, and they continued across the floor, the heels of their shoes softly tapping on the marble. They drifted from statue to statue, with Albert providing historical context and Cooper asking thought provoking questions. Cooper’s eyes were on the sculptures. Albert’s eyes were on Cooper. They laughed (quietly), whispered, and talked about the works of art that lined the halls, and sometimes sat in silent observance. It was good like this, Albert thought, that neither one of them felt pressured to fill the empty air with words. His eyes drifted from Cooper and the cluster of dented looking statues, to the pale white display of two figures wrapped in a passionate embrace.

“Look,” Cooper said, pointing towards the statue in question, “‘the Kiss.”

The two figures - a man and a woman - sat wrapped in each others’ arms, their rippling marble curves and muscles straining to keep each other close. It was a kiss of tender intimacy, the first of many kisses, with subtle awkwardness and hesitation. Their features were nondescript, blank enough to be anyone.

“Marvellous, isn’t it? Rodin had the eye for emotion in a fleeting moment, from creeping dread to tentative romance. It’s like looking at a still from a movie,” Albert observed, directing Cooper’s eyes along the statue’s contours with a finger.

“Clearly. Look at how the marble’s cut and carved - it looks like skin, soft and supple - imagine the skill it took to achieve this, let alone for one single statue out of many.” He suddenly reached for his jacket pocket, but patted it in confusion. “Damn, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Albert asked, puzzled.

“My tape recorder - I think I’ve left it at home, I was going to recollect about today, and the pieces that stood out to me,” Cooper frowned, looking terribly lost without his trusty device.

“Funny you mention that,” Albert said almost too confidently, reaching into his pocket. “It’s a good thing I picked this up a while back. Made me think of you, you know.” He passed Cooper the leatherbound journal, his heart slowly moving into his chest.

Cooper looked in awe at the humble diary, gently opening the pliant cover. “Is this… for me?”

“Who else would I give it to?” Albert smirked.

“Daffodils… pressed daffodils on the front page. I’ve loved pressed flowers, but mine never look as nice as these. It’s beautiful.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Albert said warmly, his own smile matching the one that spread across Cooper’s face. “Just make sure you get good use out of it, okay?”

“Of course, Albert.”

They stood in front of the white statue for a brief moment, with Cooper getting another good look at the gift. There were more statues to see, of course, and the day wasn’t even over. They had nearly the whole afternoon left, Albert realized. And for one moment, he didn’t feel like he was out of time.

#i hope it's good... it's my first time writing TP fanfic #dale cooper #albert rosenfield #wonderfulxstrange #twin peaks #albert rosenfield/dale cooper

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hyper-fixationhighway · 3 years

Text

Beel's Special Bun

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

Those sensitive to talks about pregnancy and birth control should not read this. Nothing is explicitly stated, however if it's not your cup of tea, perhaps this is not for you. Additionally those who have not caught up in the most recent season (3) of the game run the risk of some spoilers. Thank you.

___________________________________________

It all started out like any other night since he had started his vacation with his brothers in the human world.

Beel was freshly out of the shower, donning his nightclothes that still clung to his moistened skin. Belphie wasn’t in just yet, likely having found some new, experimental place to take a nap in the human world that had gotten away from him. He’d have to find him, again, as per usual, before settling down for bed himself.

Well, tonight he was expecting Myreina to drop by. They were due for a midnight snack date, as they had usually gone about naming them, which left him with a warm giddy feeling.

That’s where the routine ended however, as Myreina burst through the door with urgency.

Beel moved to greet her, not really phased by the sudden entrance until he saw the palid look on her face and his smile fell away.

“Myreina? What’s wrong?”

“I’m late.”

“What? We didn’t agree to any specific time tonight. You don’t have to worry about something like that.”

“No Beel.” She stressed, looking at him with dire seriousness. “I’m late.”

It took a moment for the words to really sink in. He didn’t think much of tardiness and even she wasn’t the type to sweat it this much...no, this matter was far more concerning. And as the possibility finally began to dawn on him, his face slowly paled right along with hers.

“Wait. Do you mean…?”

Myreina nodded slowly.

Oh.

Beel took a moment to process that information, slowly digesting it before he took a breath and steadied himself. With a newfound look of resolution, he suddenly felt the need to be just about anywhere else but in this room. Or this house for that matter. He turned to his closet, rifling around in there and crammed his feet into whatever shoes were readily available. He tossed Myreina a coat of his and as she looked up from the oversized piece of clothing threatening to swallow her whole, he approached her slowly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s take a walk tonight.”

And that was how the two found themselves drifting aimlessly in the streets that night, silent as the dead and about as lost to the nightlife surrounding them.

This hadn’t been a thing he’d thought about. How hadn’t he thought about this? It wasn’t too long ago even that this would have become a concern for them.

He shook his head.

No. Focus. This wasn’t all about him right now, it was about the both of them. In fact, maybe even more of them. Which begged the first uncomfortable question of that long night.

“...Is it mine?”

Myreina’s frame went noticeably rigid.

He understood. After all, Myreina was in a committed relationship with all his brothers, even recently dating Simeon and perhaps even Solomon. Those were the conditions they had all agreed to when deciding to take her on as a partner and they respected that each relationship moved at its own pace.

However, given the unique quality of their relationship, it begged the question of whether or not his pace had somehow outdone everyone else's. Or at least lined up in this case. Why else appear at his door after all. Unless of course it was actually Belphie she had been trying to say this to, and he just happened to be in the room.

Would that make this scenario worse or better…? He wasn’t quite sure.

Myreina stumbled along awkwardly while he patiently waited. She seemed so nervous, maybe even scared to talk about it. It didn't make him feel all that great she was undergoing so much pressure.

“Stay here for a second.” Beel said after a while, escorting her to a bench nearby. “I think I have something that can help.”

Myreina obliged, seating herself at the bench and staring off into open space for a while, organizing her thoughts while Beel ran off somewhere. In that time he was gone, she debated how she felt a little more on the matter, recalling just who it was she was so fortunate to call a partner in this miniature crisis. She didn’t think less of her other partners, of course, however she did know that a couple amongst them may have reactions far less grounded than Beel. So at least in that sense she was wholly thankful.

As Beel approached her again, she felt she had found a sense of calm, assisted only when she discovered the reason for his momentary absence; a pair of small cakes and some portable teas, billowing out a sweet and calming scent amidst the steam. It warmed up her frigid frame little by little as she was carefully handed the tea container and the warmth seeped into her fingers through the carton.

“Thank you, Beel. So much.”

“Well, we did say we were going to have a midnight snack date tonight, didn’t we?” He sat besides her and blew into his tea, showing far more hesitation than he was usually known for before all but shotglassing the hot beverage back unbothered. “I don’t see why that plan has to change. It’s nice out tonight.”

Myreina giggled, feeling that warmth matched by something blossoming in her chest.

“You’re right. Maybe we should head outside for these midnight snack dates more often? Satan might not be so angry at us in the morning.”

The two giggled quietly, and things felt normal again. Nothing changed, nothing felt like the world was at the verge of collapse, a feeling she actually did have experience with and yet felt so distant from the pressure at hand. Beel hadn’t had the chance to resolve that crisis with his wholesome date method, but it was a lifesaver now.

After a couple of sips, Myreina sighed quietly into the chilly night air.

“It has to be yours.”

“Are you sure? There’s no one else it could be?”

“Positive.” Myreina nodded. “I um, did have other’s that fit the time frame, but we were the only ones who did it...you know…”

“Right.” Beel recalled. “It was rather sudden.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t expecting it and got carried away. Plus, we were in a game, maybe I wasn’t thinking the consequences would necessarily carry over.”

“Fair mistake.”

“I think so too. I mean, why would it carry over? It feels weird that it did.”

“I prefer it when fiction and reality have a harder line between them, I don’t know how Levi feels so comfortable blurring the line all the time.”

“Well, Levi is remarkably unique in that way.”

“I think you’re romanticising a very real concern, Myreina.”

Myreina giggled. “Maybe. I can admit to that.”

She took another few sips of her tea, giving the cake a once over and sighed, passing it over to Beel, which caught his surprise.

“Did you not like it? No, you didn’t even try it?”

“I’m sure I would have but honestly, looking at it right now makes me a little...sick?”

Oh.

He swallowed the cake in one bite without any further words.

It wasn’t until a little while after that, that Beel went on to whisper his next concern.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Beel shuffled about, feeling his face warm up in embarrassment, stretching all the way over the front of his face and over his ears.

“This isn’t...the kind of thing I wanted you to be stuck with when you remembered our first time.” He stammered over the end of his sentence and looked over at her, alarmed. “Not that I think this is something we’re stuck with! Or that, it’s even...something we can’t welcome! It’s just, I...I don’t want you to misunderstand, Myreina. I love you, so I wanted it to be really special, and we waited so long, after all! I just...this isn’t how I wished for things to play out.”

Myreina smiled and leaned into him, letting his tension melt along as it accommodated her body more comfortably. He was always like this. Effortlessly kind and supportive, caring and mindful of his position. Once again, reminding her that this, for all the important discussion it was, didn’t mean the end of the world. Not with him at her side.

“I will never regret that moment, Beel.” Myreina said, nuzzling into his big arm. The action prompted it to lift and wrap around her, bringing her close to him and surrounding her in his warmth.

“I love you, and this stands no chance against how I feel. It can’t change it. Not my feelings before, not during, not now. So you have nothing to worry about. Our first time together will always be a precious memory to me. Whatever the future that follows.”

She bit her lip.

“That being said…” Myreina took a moment, breathing in and breathing out to settle her nerves then looked up to meet his eyes, awaiting hers in that same, no, possibly more embarrassed gaze. “I...I’m not ready for this. Not now. I have a lot going on for me right now, and I want to give it it’s due attention.”

Her hands abandoned the tea container and found his big hands, wrapping them and eventually interlacing in the most natural way.

“I want to treasure you and the pace of our relationship right now, I want to become a sorcerer that Solomon and the human world can be proud of...I want to see what role I can play in Lord Diavolo’s plan and, well, I want to keep dancing. There’s just too many things I want to keep doing before I think about adding a baby to the mix.” Myreina shut her eyes a bit, feeling Beel lean his forehead on hers, kisses coming up from her cheeks up to her temple. “It’s just not time for it right now...do you understand?”

She felt his lips form that same, gentle smile against her temple where they had lingered.

“Of course I do. I completely agree.”

Her eyes opened slowly, meeting his and they squinted from her overjoyed smile.

“You do? I mean, with you Beel, maybe...one day, I wouldn’t mind.”

Beel nodded. “With you I could do anything. A kid...I can see that.”

His smiling lips dipped down, kissing the exposed fingers laced between his. “Just not right now.”

“Beel…” She unlocked her fingers and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his rush to mirror the same, squeezing her lightly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Myreina.”

Letting the moment rest, they eventually came apart, Beel easily plopping her down onto his lap and the two reestablishing a sense of calm.

“But I do have a question…” Myreina pressed after a while, turning a new concern over in her brain. “Where...do we go from here? I mean, we have facilities here for human babies, but is it the same for demon/human hybrids? Is that even a thing?”

“It’s more common than you think.” Beel admitted, feeling a little embarrassed. “A lot of demons and humans get intimate when summoned to the human world. After all, a pact doesn’t necessarily need to be negotiated with a soul after all. There are all kinds of arrangements.”

“Oh.”

Beel and Myreina laughed awkwardly, feeling themselves flush at the face at the prospect of it.

“But, I don’t know of any facilities in the human world that could accommodate that. We’d have to go to the Devildom, at least if we don’t want to mention this to any of my brothers. Which, I'm going to assume we don’t.”

“You would be right.” Myreina immediately agreed.

“I’ll contact Barbatos to situate a portal for us to the Devildom. I might not be able to evade telling him, especially if I’m already keeping this a secret from everyone else. And he will want to know why he should make a portal for us exclusively…”

“That’s fine. I trust him to be discreet.” Myreina rationalized. “More so even than myself.”

“I don’t think we have to worry, I mean, no one will know you went to the Devildom for the day and if anyone asks where you went, you can say it was a scheduled check up. That’s not technically lying, is it?”

“It’s not lying at all actually.”

She may not be able to tell lies, but she could at least withhold the gorrier details of a truth. After all, she didn’t share every word to her partners. No matter how deeply they interrogated. And as long as no one asked her about being specifically expectant, then there would be nothing more to add to the matter than a simple check up.

Snacks and discussions completed, the two picked up after themselves and began the trek back home, a lot livelier compared to their departure. However, before they could get too close, Myreina stopped and noticed the road back to her original place before moving into the mansion, calling Beel out of his distracted thoughts of procuring a second snack upon their arrival.

“Something wrong?”

“I just had a thought.” Myreina started, looking at him with a certain glint in her eye. “Our first time was in a game. A fictional world.”

“Yes…?” Beel confirmed, blushing a bit at the sudden recollection. “What about it?”

“Well, do you think that’s actually all that fair? I mean, how are we to know if it feels different in a game?”

“Well, I mean, the consequences carried over just fine…”

Myreina laughed at his slightly bitter tone, something so uncharacteristic for him these days, yet still wholly in character as he missed the greater picture.

She stood before him, training his eyes to follow her as she gave him a more suggestive look, marveling as his expression slowly started to become more knowing as to what she had been alluding.

“I just think there's a time and place for fiction, and that there ought to be a clear distinction between it and reality.”

Beel smiled a bit, then began to chuckle shyly. “Are...you serious, Myreina?”

“Very much so. I mean, the way I see it, we happen to be in a very fortunate set of circumstances right here and now!”

“How do you figure?”

“Well…” Myreina pointed down a path in the opposite direction of the manor. “My house...happens to be just down that way. You haven’t seen it before, have you? No one has actually...you’d be the first.”

Beel closed the distance between them a bit, planting a large hand onto the small of her back and drawing her flush onto his body, still laughing in modest amusement.

“Is that right?”

“Yup! Not only that...but when you really think about it…” She leaned up and whispered as close to his ear as her tiptoeing could manage, assisted by his full interest leaning him forward to meet her. “You don’t need to protect against a consequence that’s already happened, do you?”

His face practically burned.

He often forgot how much bolder Myreina had become since accepting them all and leaving behind her inhibitions. He also forgot just how damn good that stood to feel.

Head filled with a different kind of emerging hunger, he pressed a kiss to her lips which she reciprocated with a steamy, unfiltered passion, only whetting his growing appetite for her. He pulled away, their breaths and mindsets building a heated space between what little they allowed between them.

“Let’s go.”

#obey me shall we date #obey me fanfiction #obey me beelzebub #beelzebub #original character #pregnancy #mature themes #female original character #fluffy #not smut #birth control

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