don't be shy.

you'll kill me. [writing blog]

[kyoune]

i want to write something for ray/saeran’s route but im not done crying yet

[kyoune]

recurring

fandom: mystic messenger word count: as yoosung would say.... “around 600 2000?” notes: saeran “ray” / mc, persephone & hades reincarnation au, takes place on v’s route, beware of spoilers! 

in your dreams, instead of an elixir, you see pomegranate seeds. 

The newly opened florist attracts a mean crowd.

Ivy vines crawl among the cracks of the tattered brick, framing the building’s GRAND OPENING banner, slung carelessly across the center sign. Though the initial front of the store looks worse for wear, it’s lively - filled to the brim with customers, they swarm among the doors, buzzing

The breeze that tickles you feels familiar, brings back memories of wildflowers and spring days. the fields of Nysa are in full bloom. They’re so pretty this time of the year, hm? A maternal voice hums in your ear, from a figure whose slender fingers (like yours, strangely) glide through your hair.  

You don’t know why or how you can recall that specific place; it’s a place you’ve never been, yet the nostalgia is so strong.

When you open your eyes again, you are in the middle of the streets of Seoul, a bumbling young woman thrown to and fro by the rambunctious afternoon crowd. Ah, right. There’s somewhere you need to be, and your stomach is growling and -

-- there’s an unknown app on your phone.

Why do characters in horror movies act so stupidly? you used to ask. A handful of popcorn in one lazy hand, you’d binge watch the latest productions on your TV screen, shrouded in the dark and shaking your head, cringing at the thoughtless acts of “bravery” the protagonists would perform. How foolish, you had thought.

Little did you know, your own mockery would soon turn sour in your mouth.

It’s incredulous how a few taps and a phone call later, you’d gotten yourself into an unknown car, let yourself be blindfolded and taken away. It was stupid, yes, stupid, you admit, but there was something in that voice you couldn’t let go, a melancholy immune to time.

The car slows to a halt, graceful and soundless. Must be an expensive car, you think, as the nauseating lurch of gravity gently guides you forwards, putting more bubbles of anxiety in your stomach.

When the blindfold comes off, it is not the light that hits you hardest; it’s white hair, and a magenta heart, eyes the shade of a blue so shockingly otherworldly.

You’ve seen those eyes before.

“Ah, there you are.”

Decked in purple and black and greys, from head to toe, Hades, god of the underworld --

“Ray.”

“I don’t know what your tastes are, but I hope you like it.”

You do. It’s pink, and posh and god is it your dream room. Perhaps he simply has the same tastes, or perhaps he’s been stalking you - either way, it perturbs you that you almost don’t mind.

In a way, he feels less like a captor, and moreso a protector. Hell, with all these preparations done and his anxiety apparent, he appears like an admirer.

You wonder if this “Stockholm Syndrome” thing is getting to you, but then lunch comes, and food erases any debate of it from your mind.

(While you lift a forkful of eggs to your lips, a scenario pops out of nowhere: A tall man, robed in darkness strides towards your general direction. When your eyes meet, his face is kind, and lonely, and looks a little too close to someone else you know.)

As night befalls the residence, the screams and cries (of happiness! or so Ray claims...) die down. In their place, footsteps and shaky whispers brush along outside your floor, and the building turns into a haunting likeness of Hell. It’s a bizarre place, and it makes you uneasy, but for some reason, you don’t feel like much of a stranger. In fact, call yourself crazy, but you feel secure.

The underworld is intriguing. Outside is the river of Styx, of inverted nature. Souls and hands of the lost yearn to latch onto you, but Ray promises he will protect you, he swears.

“I shall be no unfitting husband for you…”

When you sit up and rub your eyes, however, he’s nowhere near you at all, and you wonder why your dreams are someone else’s memories.

“How do I pursue you, Ray?” you had joked, your smile reaching up to your eyes, and he’d been speechless, breathless. You are so lovely, so unlike him. Your voice lilts up the air and fills it with an energy he didn’t he was lacking, and perhaps, just perhaps this is what people mean when they say they’ve found their missing half.

Speechless and out of breath, he fumbles against embarrassment, fingers idly thumbing his tie. Dismissing the idea with a casual laugh, Ray flashes you a smile, sincere and twice shy, and tells you that unfortunately, those AIs are the only options.

You shoot him a pout at this, to which his smile widens. Before he figures you can do any more damage to his poor, lonely heart, he leaves, but not without parting words.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Persephone.”

An hour after he has taken his leave, you muse over that statement.

...your name isn’t Persephone.

“If you drink this elixir, you can be with me forever…”

Persephone is smarter, this time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

But you have no shame, you remember pomegranate seeds and your first exposure to a real “contact”. You recall the beginning of no returns, and of periods where the Earth grew barren in grief over your disappearance.

Now, V’s face is the sad, mourning Earth, stripped of Mother Nature’s gifts. In his urging shouts, and alarmed “Run! It’s dangerous here, go!” you see Helios, the Sun. Go back, he pleads, your mother wishes for your return.

Hurried footsteps of hooded believers clash against the monotone droning of the computers behind you, and the mixture of V and Ray’s screams confuses you. Where do I go? Where can I run?

Caught between the chaos of the present and memories of someone else’s past, you blink, and see pomegranate seeds rolling on the floor, all red, red, red, and it makes you forget about the teal-haired hero and the sound of shattering glass.

“You…..”

As a new chaos unfolds before you, you wonder who you really are.

These are not AIs. You’ve known this from the start, because you are no fool.

How you know it best, however, is when the RFA members yearn for you, attracted like sunflowers to the sun. V and 707, red and blue, drone on and on about “research”, and a peculiar desperation in their searching rings a bell somewhere within.

But you’ve never known these people. Never in your life have you seen these faces, or heard their names (well, Jumin is an exception, probably, but it doesn’t strike much of a memory), and yet they are your family.

Maybe it’s the power of friendship? you tease, fitting in the group with ease. Their replies, as always, are hilarious: Jumin muses about the scientific validity of such a force, all while ordering Jaehee to compose another report. You can practically hear her sigh through the texts, joined by 707 playing along, Yoosung’s shocked stickers, and Zen being Zen.

This everyday banter is what you fall asleep to.

And you can feel it now, your lids heavy with the weight of sleep and stress. As if on cue, a total darkness consumes your vision, and a high-pitched shriek begins to ring in your ears.

( Demeter, your poor mother - her wretched wails can be heard from underneath the surface of the Earth. Like a banshee, she cries and cries, walking the Earth and demanding for you. I want my daughter back, give her back… )

An all-too familiar pop! tears you away from the vision, and you sit up again, gasping. Reflected off your phone screen is a message from V: “..those are the coordinates of my current location.”

You really should stop dozing off...

(Or you’ll get captured by Hades again.)

“Please stay with me… please don’t leave me... “

It’s a curse, you swear; you’ve seen this before. On his knees, Ray begs, pleading with the same desperation you thought you saw from the RFA. Voice cracking and soaked with tears, his fear of abandonment tears deep into your heart, a double-edged blade that cuts both you and him. One side needs you, the other wishes to save you, and the two worlds unknowingly engage in a game of tug-of-war with you.

But all you are is just a girl.

You are Persephone, you are the maiden of spring, and you are leaving.

“I will return to you.”

You lace your fingers into Ray’s, a soothing hand ruffling his hair, and seal your promise with a kiss. Head held high, a blank face betraying any hesitation you might feel, you beckon for 707 to hurry, before the Savior can catch up. Your lips move without you knowing.

“Come along, Hermes.”

707 slows, just for a bit, and shoots you perplexion.

“Who’s Hermes?”

The months fly by, and the calendar dates start to feel off. When did time start to hurry so much?

“Mint Eye’s headquarters have been detonated.” Someone, maybe 707, maybe V tells you, one day. “Rika went to one of our parties.” is told to you on another. You don’t really recall whose voice it was, because you’re lost in fuzzy daydreams of Hades and Persephone, and the possibility that Saeran is still alive.

Then, a phone call arrives one day, and your hands begin to tremble when the name “Saeran Choi” is uttered from the other line.

-

The hospital is a pallid white, too industrial, too formal. You wonder if this is also some alternate form of the underworld, because it makes you uncomfortable, makes you feel sick (ironically). But it has that same feeling, that certain security you’d feel nowhere else…

Or maybe you just feel that way because you see him, Ray, Saeran….

Embalmed in tangled sheets and IV drips, he’s barely even a person; as soon as you dare step in his direction, the nurses sense your intent and rein you in, their voices weary and their grip on your arms a touch too forceful. Substance abuse and mental neglect had shaped him into a violent, unstable man, and they all fear for your safety, but it’s alright, it’s alright, because he was once a god too.

So you raise at them the eyes of a God’s wife, silently imploring for their understanding. They’re the eyes you’ve used in your dreams, and it comes natural to you now. Though you don’t expect them to work, they do, and when Saeran rises, they fully back off.

Your eyes meet blue again, the otherworldly blue you love so, so much, and the maiden of spring intertwines her fingers with the god of the underworld.

“I missed you.”

author’s notes: god playing v’s route i thought of two things: 1) this kind of feels like persephone and hades with regards to ray/mc’s relationship and 2) please tell me ray gets a happy ending (and im heartbroken to learn he doesn’t...) so! this fic is a little kind of self-indulgence, a reincarnated hades/persephone! ray/mc thing with the added bonus of them having a happy ending :)

i havent written fanfic in a year & kind of rushed this + moved around some parts of the timeline so sorry if the events are kind of out of place... 

more saeran fluff is on the way… and i do want to try my hand at zen or vanderwood fluff soon.

[outcastsuggestion]

keep drawing. keep writing. keep making what you love. keep loving what you make. whatever you create is probably what the world needs right now, no matter how different or unusual it may seem

[kyoune]

transitory

it's nothing but time and a face that you lose.

summary: very very short vignettes about unsavoury childhoods.

note: spoilers for suitors’ pasts, may be slightly inaccurate so please tell me if something’s off, mostly angst/some family fluff

alyn & leo.

there are shapes in the smoke. a dinosaur, a vampire, the bogeyman, some midnight monster. and ah, mother and father, of course. the warmth of their fingers lingers on the edges of leo’s palm, father’s “get out, get out!” and mother’s banshee screeches ringing in his ears. how many minutes has it been now, since they’ve thrown the twins out, performed their tragic sacrifice? leo doesn’t know, he can’t hear or see anything else, and something tells him he won’t sleep tonight.

alyn’s face is twisted, he’s someone leo doesn’t know - anger frames him, clenched teeth and runaway tears, eyes smashed shut and his voice is loud, demanding. it’s so much like his father’s that leo can barely hear his screams of why are you so calm?! why?! 

help arrives in the form of panicked bureaucrats and a slew of knights, swarming the crawford estate like a pack of dogs - while his twin reiterates the tragedy through tear-choked words, leo stares, stares, stares. the council of nobles and knights shift on their feet, simultaneously drawn to alyn’s summary and repelled by leo’s fish-eyed inspection. 

“that crawford has issues”, one mutters to another, who elbows back, hissing “he can hear you, you imbecile.”

eventually, the embers burn themselves out, and so do the twins.

byron & nico.

he's born with a silver rapier in his hands, the latest volume of stein's greatest classics, and a hole in his heart.

from the start, that's was all he was: royalty and excellence. in every corner of the castle, the maids bow before him, all fear and reverence. the nobles coo "what a gifted child, only the most suitable and capable for our future king", they pepper him in praises and salt him with insincere flattery.

he pays them no mind. they were only shadows: insignificant, and unknown.

much like his mother, he supposes.

he'd only asked about her once, to which he was met with tranquil anger and a “please do not mention her again. ever.”

but it is difficult to sate a child's curiosity, especially when it is something they desire. bryon sees a noblewoman coddle her infant son once, and wonders why there is such an uncomfortable stirring in his chest. it feels empty, as if his heart is missing something. perhaps it was just that, a mother's love.

can you really miss something you never had?

a question for ages, prince byron, now king, finds the answer in a shivering little boy, pink haired and pink cheeked from the cold. the alleyway is dark, glaring, no place for the king. strangely, however, it feels like a second home.

the boy - nico, was it? - brings to mind tiny flashes of rumours, of forbidden love, the words “half-brother” and “affair”.

it's too much of an unsavoury topic, and too late to discuss what happened, what could have been. most of all, it's too painful for both of them, two little boys, loveless and missing a childhood.

the king stretches his hand out, pulls his half-brother up.

"come home."

"huh?"

the boy does not understand, but he is grateful, and that is all that bryon needs.

louis & sid.

"are you reaaaally going with this?" sid - no, that's not his name anymore, pardon, Lloyd - swings his legs up and down, face perched on his palms. there's a scowl of disbelief plastered all over his face, eyes narrowed as he peers at louis' perfect posture and expressionless face.

"what do you mean?"

to be honest, no, this was not what he wanted. but what he wanted would never be relevant - there are hundreds of children, hundreds who would kill for his position. to have a real family, a noble one no less, was a blessing.

or so he had been told.

no one from the orphanage knew how much colder it was here. the howard mansion is all space and no talk, his "parents" gaze at him with a gush that is reserved for valuable materials, and if he really was being honest? Louis Howard is nothing more than a mere trophy child in this household. golden hair, cerulean eyes, he's the striking image of a Victorian ball-jointed doll, and his luck in the genetic lottery is really the only thing that got him here.

a house is not a home.

"I don't understand you." the boy sighs, frustrated. "what's the point of pretending to be something we're not?"

when he doesn't answer, sid walks away, his steps carrying a resolve of steel. maybe that's it. I don't have a point to chase after, but you do, Louis thinks.

you have living parents and plans for vengeance, and all I have is a bird who shares my solitude.

giles

the quill in his hand feels unfamiliar. he's not used to it at all; he's a christophe, and christophe hands are meant to brandish iron swords and steel shields, bear battle-forged wounds and royal pride. but lady fate has other plans in her repertoire, and she just happens to have one for him.

memories burn fresh in his mind. the reel of his brain replays the same scene over and over again, and giles sees the disappointment in his parents' eyes, the gossipy whispers that exchanged: how could a christophe turn out like this? did you lie to me? did you?

it hurts, especially so when one of his vices is pride, and from that day on, he swears he will not disgrace the family name.

(that is, until years later, when he's royal chamberlain and it's still not enough for the likes of mother and father, he meets a princess whom he falls in love with, and decides that he'll start his own family instead)

robert

the children clamour around him, tiny hands tugging at his sleeves. show me something pretty! show me something cool! the boys and girls plead. it's a bit awkward for him at first, but a laugh bubbles out eventually. 

robert tries not to force it, even if it is too uncharacteristic of him. he needs to iron out his wrinkles, throw away his history books. forget about the war and the failures now, because robert blanche needs to reinvent himself. and all his tools are right here, in wysteria. his brushes, his paints, amber. but the children, oh, the children, they are the most important. they are everything old robert is not, and everything new robert needs to be.

a few months later, he moves to stein. the peace in wysteria proved to be a bit too painful for him.

[kyoune]

a party for n(one)

the greatest tragedy, giles thinks, is that all of them are completely useless. byron thinks it’s the fruit punch. 

summary: a modern au drabble about the suitors throwing a party for their princess, and how they’d probably ruin it without giles there. some minor spoilers (regarding byron and nico) and implied mc/everyone

“We should throw a party.”

It is Leo who suggests it first, though this isn’t particularly surprising. Leo is always looking for some excuse, party or not, to avoid doing work - as is the case now, his half-finished paper dripping over his desk, begging to be finished before it inevitably succumbs to gravity. He pays it no mind and clicks his pen.

Giles’ forehead crinkles up, eyes concentrated on the dying paper. Amethyst burning into red eyes, he snaps back, words tuned like a death threat, “Finish your work first.”

As always, Leo ignores him, dismissing his reprimand with a wave of his hand and a devil-may-care smile. He continues, “Yeah, yeah. But you know, it’d be nice to surprise the “princess” for finishing her final exams.”

It’s not a bad idea, Giles has to admit, but it comes from Leo, so he’s tempted to decline. Speaking strictly from personal experience, anything that Leo thinks up is a red flag for disaster, though that wasn’t sufficient enough for him to turn down such an innocent suggestion. 

Fortunately, there was no need for that this time.

“With what money?” Alyn snorts, halfway stumbling down the stairs. He’s got a point, as well as a dumbbell and a cannister of protein powder in his hands. “If I remember right, a certain someone managed to spend it all on food and drink last time we were at the bar…”

Perhaps that little incident had slipped everyone’s minds, as immediately after it was spoken, the room went silent. The older Crawford scrunches up his face, expressing no more than a disappointed huff, back to the drawing board. He wheels around and faces the paper, forgetting for a moment that he indeed had an assignment to do (again), and then hastily wheels back, completing a full 360 spin on his chair. Leo Crawford is not done procrastinating. Yet. “Where is that guy, anyw - ”

“Aw, we can do that! I bet she’ll love it.”

Horribly off cue, Nico springs out from behind the couch, causing Alyn to drop his dumbbell and Giles to jolt in his seat. Leo, an experienced jump-scarer himself, merely widens his eyes, watching the two mutter curses at Nico under their breaths. Not that guy, Leo mentally notes.  

Only Louis is unfazed; sitting idly at the head of the couch, the blonde sips his tea and serves Nico a scowl of disgust. At this, the pink-haired boy pouts, drawing up his most dangerous weapon: the puppy-dog eyes. They don’t work.

“How did you even get in here?” He asks, taking yet another sip of his tea. Alyn moves towards him and waves the protein canister as an offer. Louis politely declines.

“The door was open.” Nico shrugs. “And money isn’t a problem! We can just ask Byron!”

Giles and Alyn are both about to open their mouths, asking how the hell would that ever be a good idea, that they shouldn’t borrow money from others, that -

But Nico is too familiar with scoldings - their narrowed brows and sharp inhales mirror the way Albert moves when he’s about to unleash a barrage of lectures on him. Without any pause, he strides over to the entrance and cuts them off with the most over-the-top sweep of his arm, yanking the handle and revealing the key to his plans.

The marbled doors give way to Byron’s intimidating stature, his chauffeur Albert at his side. Standing at 6’0, the young man exuded an aura of razor-sharp regality, as was to be expected of a CEO.

The tension, however, faded when the men realized he wasn’t moving. Or reacting, at all.

“Right Byron? Er… Byron?” Nico’s hype dies when his half-brother doesn’t respond, body frozen in the doorframe, face taut. Actually, upon closer inspection, he’s not even blinking. Is he even breathing?

Leo treads over, waves his hands in front of the CEO’s eyes. Nico joins in on his antics, blowing raspberries and removing his eyepatch (which Albert smacks out of his hand). Byron still doesn’t move.

“Uh, is he… you know…” Alyn makes a cutthroat gesture, “...dead?”

Albert answers him first, with his characteristic Glare (How Dare You Insult His Majesty Edition).

Before anyone else can jump to conclusions, another arrival saunters into the foyer, uninvited. It’s Sid, who shoves the Stein newcomers aside without a second thought, as if he’d somehow didn’t even see them on his way in.

“Oi, heard there was gonna be a party.” Grinning like he’d won the lottery, he takes in the dumbfounded faces around him and promptly realizes something is amiss. Throwing a glance (and his ponytail) over his shoulder, Sid finally notes the snarling Albert and definitely-not-a-statue of Byron leaning against the door.

Without missing a beat, the giant walks up to Byron, and flicks his forehead. Nothing changes, to which Sid chuckles.

“Aw, he’s sleeping with his eyes open? Cool.”

The comment seems to spark something in Albert, who is now frantically shaking Byron’s shoulders. Apparently, even Byron tires of his own childhood friend sometimes.

Nineteen minutes and five rounds of shaking later, the man finally comes alive. Blinking his grey eyes slowly, Byron’s movements are stilted, but firm, as if he were a buffering robot.

“Ah… good morning.” The greeting is spoken slowly, drawn out as its speaker shakes out the grogginess in his body. Beginning his stretches, Byron is halfway through a forward fold when the collective awestruck silence begins to dawn on him. He looks up, surveying the crowd, and arches a brow.  “What?”

“We are intending on setting up a party for the ‘princess’.” Giles, always the sensible one, explains, “However, we are short on funds, so we would like to ask for your assistance.”

“You know? The girl you’ve got a crush on?” Leo winks, and Giles wants to say ‘everyone does, everyone adores her. how could you not fall in love with her?’, but instead he holds his breath, keeps his mouth shut. This was to be a party, after all, not a battle royale. The image of nine, maybe ten men slaughtering each other with biting remarks and eyes set to kill (no actual violence, or so he hoped; all of them were gentlemen, weren’t they?) flashes briefly through his head, and he shudders.

There is silence, for a minute. Byron does nothing but furrow his brow by the slightest angle, immersed in thought, his expression neutral.

“God. This guy’s even more of a doll than you are.” Sid mutters rather loudly, nudging Louis, who snaps back “Don’t touch me.” 

It’s like this for a while; no one speaks, waiting for Byron’s reply with bated breaths, all except for Sid’s taunts and Louis’ “I’ll kill you. Do not speak to me ever again.”

“Okay,”  At last, the one word brings Byron back from his mini-reverie. “What do you need?”

All at the once, the room explodes into chants and requests, mostly unrelated to the event at hand. Alyn rattles off the names of fitness supplements and a gym membership, Leo whips out a list of difficult-sounding titles, Sid clicks his tongue and says, “Surprise me”, and Nico modestly asks for strawberry ice cream.

“For the party, gentlemen. For the party.” Giles sighs, fingers pinched around Louis’ collar, who has been trying to escape the room for the seventh time. Huffing, the blonde protests that he’s met his “Sid Tolerance Quota” for the day and needs to recharge. Now.

The tutor ignores him. “We’ll need fifteen watermelons and five pounds of cherries,” He begins, the pen in his hand beginning to work up a frenzy. The others stare at his handiwork with amazement, observing as the list fills, handwriting neat and organized, the Ts crossed and Is dotted. That is, all but one person.  

“What is this, a math problem?” Sid snipes, throwing an arm around Giles’ shoulder. This earns him the privilege of being the fourth person Giles has ignored today, and a seething “So, who will do the honor of going shopping?”

Eye contact never wavering, the tutor almost needs to drag the question to his lips, and there is murder in his voice. Sid instantly backs off.

“We’ll go. We got it.” Leo affirms, grinning as if he was now Giles’ Most Okay-est Friend.  

“We?” The younger twin repeats, incredulous in disbelief. Alyn is shaking his head so turbulently that he does not notice Leo’s steel grip on his left arm, dragging him to the entrance. Byron watches the two elbow each other out of the room.

“We should get started now.” Giles sighs, rubbing his temples.

“I agree,” Byron nods,  “We don’t have time to be sexy.”

The entire room freezes, allowing Bryon’s statement to ferment in an uncomfortable silence. Everyone looks to each other, a What? plastered to their faces. No one has any idea what he means, except for Albert.

“AHEM. I believe he means to say, ‘We cannot afford to stand around and look pretty.’” Albert clears his throat, clarifying Byron’s misspeak, “Anyhow, we will take care of the preparations outdoors.”

‘We will?’ Bryon mouths at Albert, head canted in bewilderment. A gloved hand gently tugs the perplexed CEO towards the backyard, attempting to relocate Byron before any more damage could be done. Nico trails close behind, skipping across the foyer to the glass doors, but does not leave without flashing the tutor an apologetic grin.

“Good luck!”

If he could, Giles would return the sentiment, but an earsplitting clang from the kitchen conveniently drains him of any hope in humanity.

“Thank you... I’ll need it.”

To everyone’s surprise (and Giles’ relief), the collaboration is quite peaceful. With each person assigned to a particular role, the preparations run smoothly, and the only discord that has occurred so far (it’s been twenty minutes) is the discovery that Louis is absolutely horrible at blowing balloons. Sid begins howling, Louis begins seething, and Giles has to force the two into duties located at the far ends of the dorm, or else they’d have a case of Louis “accidentally” strangling him.

When the twins return, Alyn has 9 bags of groceries strung down his arms, while Leo leisurely reads a brochure about the various types of apples, bare-handed. Hefting the load a few centimeters past the door, the weight proves to be too much of a strain, and the poor younger twin is shaking as the bags slide downwards.   

“Need help?” Leo laughs. Alyn gifts him a death glare, and through some newfound source of sheer force (probably Leo-hatred), manages to stumble five inches further into the living room. He trips.

Sid, wordlessly, passes by the fatigued knight and takes half his haul with ease. There are no crude remarks, no insults, not even an ounce of amusement; he’s completely silent, as if to say ‘You’re pathetic’ in his own Sid kind of way. Alyn sighs with relief when he’s out of sight, but when Sid returns, he scrambles to shoot him a ‘What the hell I totally could’ve done that myself’ look.

Sid sneers, his lips curled into a challenging smirk. Alyn replies with an almost quite realistic bark. The two immediately engage in a grocery weightlifting competition, much to Leo’s amusement, and Giles decides that oh, he really needs to go walk his dog or something (“You don’t even have a dog,” Louis remarks, from the back of the room) And by that, he means he needs to check on the Stein trio.

Outside is not much better.

Albert is stuffed into a "#1 dad" apron two sizes too big, and Nico darts about the yard like a child on a sugar rush. One minute, he's on his 8th try at hauling the bag of coal over, and the next he's behind Byron, tightening his matching "Kiss the Chef" apron.

It is obvious that no one in the Stein trio has ever cooked anything before. Bryon overcooks them, and Nico undercooks them, and Albert won't even touch the grill. Offended by Nico's offhanded "Hey, your hair matches the charcoal!" comment, the grumpy male had relegated himself to fruit punch stirrer, away from the likes of the younger boy and his annoying jests. He makes a horrible fruit punch stirrer, whatever that was.

"Albert, there's too many lemons in there."  

"Yes. I like lemon."

"The princess doesn’t."  

"I don't care what the princess likes."

"I care." Bryon interjects, dumping a basket of cherries into the mix. Giles opens his mouths, a protest at the ready, but the ardency Bryon has shown from the start stops him. For all the good intentions the party was thrown with, the kingly young man seemed to be the only one who didn’t give him a headache, disregarding the fiasco earlier.

Then, the doorbell rings.

"Welcome home!"

The cheer is disjointed; Led by Nico, half of it is shouted too early, and the other half echoes after. Somehow, Louis and Nico happen to welcome the princess first. Giles suspects Louis simply has fast legs, and Nico may have slacked off.

Alyn and Leo continue their game of elbowing each other all the way until the duo have shimmied to the front, Sid following close behind. The Stein trio shuffle in a few minutes late, and Bryon affectionately waves to her with his spatula.

Though the banners are angled awkwardly, the music scratches with radio static, and the twins can’t seem to stop jabbing at each other, the effort pulls a smile to her face. Even if it were only to be polite, the princess laughs, and rewards their work with a humble bow.

"Wow... I don't know what to say... but um... is something burning?”

author’s notes: i love seeing the suitors interact because it usually ends up with some really funny moments. also since it is an otome game we see more of the princess’ relationship with the suitors than ones between themselves so i wanted to explore this a bit? Yeah

so as you can tell, i am horrible, horrible with dialogue. sorry if it’s choppy as well! I have to leave for university in a few days, so i wanted to get this out as fast as possible, which means i had to rush it quite a bit. I may or may not try to re-write this better later orz. forgive me.

notes about the au: i know there’s already a modern version of MidCin but this was like college-au-ish. the wysteria boys all live in one dorm with the “princess” (it’s more of a codename than a title or her real name) and the stein trio & their cryptid robert live in a richer dorm down the street, and rayvis has his own apartment next to the stein trio. robert used to have his own place but he partied too hard and got kicked out. Byron is a CEO of a major company and Albert is his right-hand man, as always. also yeah everyone has a crush on the mc but only giles and sid are aware of this… we’ll see how that goes sometime else…

sorry for the spiel (and for the lack of robert and rayvis, i just couldn’t figure out what to do with them)! thank you for all the warm reception on my previous works too, i’m super happy that you enjoy them! ♡

[kyoune]

a magician’s answer

like magic, his love is neither true nor false.

summary: three times nico tries to not confess, and the one time he fails. nico/mc (unnamed)

"do you love me?"

the first time she asks the question, her words are timid, trembling in an anxiety born of fear and tricking out her mouth like blood.

and it may as well be, with how nico needs to dab away her worries with reassuring remarks, heal the wound with cheerful "I like you as a friend, too!"s. his fingers slide into hers, smoothing over clenched knuckles and tracing circles in the palm. as (in)capable a butler he may be, he's much better at wielding daggers and hiding intentions than he is at wielding someone's heart and hiding a forbidden relationship.

though, if he could be honest, he'd love to try.

"but I just can't answer you now, princess." nico laments, still holding her hand, kneeled at her bedside. the candle on her nightstand dims with an erratic flicker, and for once he is grateful for the darkness - the scarce light makes his bitter smile hard to see, and nico really prefers that his precious princess not see it.

a hiss sounds and echoes off the walls. when he turns to the source, he finds the candle dying, the melted wax precariously scorching the nightstand's veneer. it's time to go, it must be nearing midnight, and this cinderella must get her beauty sleep.

nico kisses her fingers, ruffles her hair, and bids her goodnight. when his touch abandons her, and his shoes clack away, the princess sits up with a start.

"will you tell me why, one day?"

there's a painful silence, and the tension in the room grows thick. nico's lips quiver, wanting desperately to confess yes, yes, maybe I'll be able to tell you I love you one day, but instead, he blurts out something else.

"maybe!" nico defaults to his cheeky grin, his face beaming with a faked mischief.

then he runs, runs out like he's the cinderella. there's only so much he can stand, so much of her pleasing voice he can hear before the wolf in him takes over.

"can you tell me no- ow!"

the second time she asks the question, the carriage runs over a rock. what great timing. for her, maybe not, but for nico, it's a welcome distraction.

he runs through the basics, though he's not sure if there's any basics to butlering besides being kind and obedient. hands rubbing the top of her bumped head, nico coos through a string of "are you okay? does it hurt? we're almost there soon, so hang in there, okay?"

the princess nods, smiling at him through her tears (to which she claimed she was NOT crying, she swears. it just hurt a lot, sniff.) nico laughs at this and asks how she could be so adorably casual about it, but the princess only turns her nose away, a faint blush betraying her hostile "hmph!"

then alyn pokes his unwanted face into the window. nico barely makes out the hand signal for “arriving at destination in five minutes”, blinded by the rays of light bouncing off his extravagant suit of armor.

"stein, huh?" the knight mutters, and nico thinks of king byron and the ever so strict albert. he thinks of home, of how he belongs there, but what also intrudes into his thought is how both of them would be able to marry the princess without a consequence.

for a minute - or maybe longer - he's envious. nico envisions white wedding attire and flyaway rose petals, the banners streaming in the air and the pastor announcing "here we gather today to witness the holy matrimony of the princess of wysteria and - "

he would like that too. his name, next to the princess'. his hand in hers, their noses awkwardly bumping as the warmth of her lips meets his. just to hold her and call her his, and not to feel any guilt or fear about it -

maybe that's too much of a dream.

nico closes his eyes, suddenly feeling bitter again.

he doesn't hear the princess ask him if he loves her for the second time.

third time's the charm, they say.

whoever "they" are is correct, perhaps. it is not the third try that gives the attempt a charm, however, so that was a slight misnomer. it was the princess, drenched in wysteria's summer sunlight, plucking away at the petals of a petunia to her heart's content.

"he loves me, he loves me not..."

she doesn't try the question anymore, he notices. maybe the princess has given up on him finally, maybe she's pining for another man. whatever it is, she still keeps the same longing look in her eyes, and nico is curious if there's any eligible man out there who would refuse her. there couldn't be.

or... maybe there was. maybe it's only him.

nico hasn't had anything in his life. a mother, a father, a proper brother...

so, he reasons, it might be okay to take something for himself this time.

"he loves me - " "I do love you."

their words collide, smashing into a bundle of gibberish. regardless, the princess appears to have heard him anyways; in less than a minute, she had launched onto him, dragging him with her down in the grass.

nico wraps his arms around her, tilts her face closer. losing restraint at the sound of her delighted sigh, he kisses her once and trails down her jaw, her collarbone.

they're covered in dirt and leaves, a music box of giggles and gaps. It's the very image of disgrace that Giles or Albert would faint at, but nico doesn't care to maintain a favourable impression anymore.

they are a princess and her butler, a wysterian and stein couple, but most of all, they are in love.

[kyoune]

lost blood

witch’s baby, mother’s maybe. 

fandom: cinderella phenomenon summary: just some family delora & lucette fluff 

notes: spoilers for lucette’s and delora’s backgrounds. based off the bonding the two had in fritz’s route (but no spoilers for that route in particular)

no sugar, and a splash of milk. 

that was how delora liked her tea. lucette has it stored in her memory, down to the exact measurements. in a way, it was her own silent thank you to delora’s beloved hot chocolate. their favored drinks bonded them best, as they were always shared with a spontaneous heart-to-heart in the late evenings.

balancing two mugs, lucette carries them to the lounge, sets them down on the worn oak table. delora, idle and lost in thought, appears doll-like, and the reminder casts a faint spell of nostalgia over her. 

“delora?” 

“mmm?”

“.... can i hug you?” 

the witch’s lips quirk up, somewhere between her trademark smirk and a resigned smile. “oh? our ice princess has defrosted quite a bit, hm?”

“shut up.” the princess mumbles. she holds an air of fake hostility, but drops it all once delora opens her arms, clambering into the embrace with the eagerness of a three-year old. how long had it been, she wonders, since she’d last been hugged like this? 

all it conjures up are memories of mother, memories that once were so warm and inviting. the idea of mother’s love now is so cold and miserable now, even if secretly lucette desired it still. 

delora laughs. “this feels like i’m hugging my daughter.” 

the statement alone freezes the young princess’ blood. ah, right. delora’s daughter. the little girl whose life ended at the hands of her mother.

“i’m sorry for your daughter,” lucette begins, pausing briefly on hesitance. after those words, she falls prey to silence; what else could she say? comforting was far from her forte, and inevitably delora would always respond that it wasn’t her fault. but lucette is a queen now, the tenebrarum bearer, a ruler in her own right, and the burdens her mother faced and caused are now hers to atone for. 

yet her mouth is dry, her lips empty. the right words to her apology don’t come easily, and instead she seeks further refuge in delora’s embrace. she’s embarrassed. what kind of princess can’t even say sorry? 

“i’m so sorry.” she hears her voice crack, she hears weakness show. normally, it’s not something lucette would dare show to anyone. “ice princess” lucette is strong. she is kind, a reliable authority figure, a leader.

but even lucette knows that ice melts and cracks. so it’s fine, it’s fine if she cracks, if people see her weak, if she needs to melt into someone’s arms. because that is what ice naturally does.

delora’s hand strokes through her hair, understanding and light. it feels like her fabricated impressions of mother - the love, the warmth, the safety.... it was all there, it was as if mother never left at all.

“it’s all right,” the older witch chuckles, her laugh soft. “she may have taken my daughter, but it seems she gave me one too.”

at this, lucette’s throat dries, guilt eating into her; the reassurance is too gentle, too kind, and if she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought it was delora’s impression of parfait. tears bite her eyes shut, an uncomfortable heat blushing up her cheeks. with a slight tinge of shame, lucette clutches emptily at delora’s dress, takes a deep breath and indulges herself in the hug just a little more. 

then she lets go. 

her face still stings with the remnants of her regret session, but she holds her head high, bares her blotchy, peached face and smiles widely. 

she needs to forgive herself too, after all. 

“thanks.... mom.”

“... princess?”

lucette, with her face still hidden under a curtain of wet bangs, mirrors one of delora’s signature smirks, and bolts off.

“princess!”

[kyoune]

wisteria

i’ll cling to you.

fandom: midnight cinderella notes: suitors/reader, a collection of fluff drabbles for the suitors of midnight cinderella (minus one). mostly spoiler free (watch out for leo’s, at least)

alyn

the fairytales say that princesses are dainty little things. they dance, they wear dresses and chatter over afternoon tea, they find a prince charming, and live happily ever after. princesses do not handle blades - danger is not meant to reach them, for what is what knights are for.

damn what the fairytales say.

there’s no drop of royal blood in you anyways, and this is what comforts you when your fingers slide down the cold metal. it does not feel like danger, but it does feel like home.

“are you sure you want to do this?” alyn’s voice is paranoid, overprotective. you can’t blame him, because accidents do happen, and your smooth, clean skin is a temptation for calamity. yet at the same time, as princess elect of wysteria, you have but one duty, and a wound to your flesh is a mere paper cut compared to a kingdom without a ruler.

most of all, you remind him, luxurious silk gowns don’t go well with princess blood.

a sigh tumbles out, but so does “fair point”.  he reaches out and takes your hand in his, starting off with the basics. with his guidance, you mimic and practice the exercises, trying not to imagine the inevitable bloodshed and violence. his fingers trace the skin where it is most vulnerable, where it is most efficient to stick blades in, and now you know why pocket knives are such popular weapons, even for the common thief.

a stab to the heart, a simple knock to the head, just one little mishap and perhaps you’ll never see the light of day again.

“now, come at me. i’ll test you.”

alyn assumes the role of guard on watch, back turned. the veins in your hands pulse like a ticking clock, and as your arms lift up, you can just feel it, the adrenaline behind your force, the almost frightful thrill that shocks your body as you swing the blade forward -

.. and his fingers snatch your arm. alyn’s other hand steadies you, and he steals a kiss when you whirl around in confusion.

“not bad, not bad.” he laughs, “fierce is a good look on you.”

giles

of all the things you’d expect to see, giles sleeping, face smashed against the oak desk, was not one of them. sleep makes his face look gentle, less like a strict tutor and more like the kindhearted cat lover you know.

maybe it’s not that surprising. he wears many hats, some of which should not rest on his head. yet they fall on him anyway, for there is always something to do, something to achieve. for giles christophe, being busy is a way to prove that his life has worth, even if it meant he couldn’t be a knight, even if it meant he’d have to tire the hell out of himself every night.

without him, the palace could crumble. few men can carry the weight of a country on their shoulders. speaking of shoulders, you figure adding a blanket to those wouldn’t hurt; it is rather cold, and oh, those windows will need to be shut too. around his office do you go, your feet automatically moving, your hands cleaning up a bit here and there.

minutes pass until your hands latch on to some amethyst fabric, embossed in the wysterian crest. bunching it up around your fists, you deem it warm enough, and layer it upon his shoulders.

the moment it touches him, he springs to life.

“princess…?” your title cracks on his tongue, bruised by the grogginess of his voice. how tired he sounds could break your heart.

“please don’t worry about me.” you add, “and … take care of yourself more.”

giles says nothing, though the outer corners of his lips turn up gently as you tuck the layer in. a few more finishing adjustments, and you are satisfied with your work, heels turning to let him rest in peace.

before you can even take a step away, however, familiar hands intertwine with one of yours.

“i love you, princess.”

louis

the harp really does suit him. it’s the picture of elegance; the strings and the base are as slender as he, the notes resonate with an unmatched gentleness, and the way his fingers pluck at it is just so, so graceful.

“would you like to try?”

ah. you’ve been staring too long, it seems. the lovely chimes have long stopped, and the heat of iced eyes gnaws at you. expectant, the duke’s gaze lays down a heavy peer pressure, but you know he’s being nothing but kind - you’d never have the guts to ask or intrude otherwise.

he eases when you break out into smiles and nods, ice melting into water. a featherlight smile balances on his lips, which kiss your knuckles as he takes your hand in his.

lithe fingers cover yours, and while your mind spins into a spell, all you can think about is how this is exactly like your dance lessons: he’s close, you’re blushing, and god is your heart pounding. blond bangs sweep across your forehead for a second, and his warm, soft lips press a kiss to your nose.

“don’t lose concentration now.” his voice is soft, edging on teasing.

“ah, sorry!“

leo

he’s the rumpelstiltskin of words. smooth talker, charismatic aristocrat - he takes words and spins them into gold. whether it was written or spoken did not matter; he was a master of both. paperwork ran in his blood, his speeches just came to him, and on the tip of his tongue always lies a jest, a pick-up line. with them, he crafts a mask to hide behind, locking the secret of who he was behind insincere pleasantries and vague hints.

and you, your heart is too full of compassion, your tiny body can’t possibly hold it all. it’s why your emotions spill so easily on your face, your eyes and lips swinging from one expression to another. in a way, the two of you are opposites, leo with his cryptic, static smiles, and you with your whirlwind face.

maybe that’s why you don’t get him sometimes.

hovering over the palace balcony with his face pulled taut, the bureaucrat appears to be set in stone. red, red eyes burn downwards, as if daring to peek at the midnight blue above would hurt. for the fifth consecutive night, leo hasn’t seen a wink of sleep, and you are beginning to wonder if he’s fallen into the past again.

it worries you, and you want to say something, anything, but you know better than anyone that forcing words is treading on thin ice. the past is thick waves of flames and dead parents, the lost childhood that burnt down with the crawford estate. it is a past that you have no part of, because you are his future, the future of healing waters and happy memories, and he wants you nowhere near that fire, lest it start burning once more.

from the bedroom, you bore hores into his back with your own eyes, adamant. tomorrow he will be gone, off to sort his fiasco of a family, diving back into the matter he hates most. this time, however, you will not let him go alone.

“you know, i’d do anything to keep you safe.” it’s a phrase that sounds foreign on your tongue, so foreign that it quivers. but it does take his eyes away, distracts from whatever might be tormenting him.

“so let me come too.”

he breaks from his statuesque stance, pulls you close, and it’s a mess of limbs and stray bedsheets; his hair tickles your neck when he inclines for a cuddle, and there’s so much squirming that you fear the shuffling could reach giles’ ears. when you two finally settle, with you sitting upright and his head on your lap, the silence is replaced by laughter.

“thanks.”

robert

when robert had asked to paint you, you were excited. as crown princess, it really shouldn’t have been a big deal - portraits were nearly tradition to royalty, and never had they not been painted. but when you’ve spent the last decade of your life in the shoes of a commoner, however, such things were new; they were a privilege, a dream so far that it’d never be truer than a fairy tale.

but this was not how you thought it would be.

perhaps you’ve misconstrued his words somehow. hm… yes, yes that must have been it. rainbows of colours surround you, held captive in glass bottles. brushes of duck feathers and horse tail skim the floor lazily. the painter himself wields one now, dyed in some fusion of scarlet… and gently swipes the end over the curve of your lips.

it’s soft, and it tickles. clutching at the hem of your favourite dress, you bunch up the fabric in imitation of the courage you’re trying to muster, the courage to ask hey, aren’t paintings made on mediums such as canvases, and you know… not me?

before the words can even catch in your throat, robert slips his fingers under your chin, and tilts your face towards him. “what’s wrong, love?”

the affectionate term makes you flush.

“aren’t you supposed to be painting me and not on me?” it’s an innocent question, honest, but somehow it makes him raise a brow and chuckle.

“i’d have to paint your portrait sooner or later, princess. i just thought… something more personal would be nice.“ he smiles, and within that small quirk of his lip, you see mischievous intent.

so you play along.

“tell me what you mean by ‘personal’.”

another grin surfaces on his face, this one a tinge more wolffish. he leans in close, kisses the lip colour off your mouth, and prepares his brush in a new color, a pale peach.

“mmm…i’ll tell you when i’m done with you.”

sid

“they makin’ you study again, princess?” disdain stains the informant’s voice, his fingers clipping up the pages of the book with disgust, as if it were contaminated. “bullshit.”

he continues this game as he tours your study, long legs taking wide strides, sneering at every article. if you didn’t know him any better, he’d seem like he were impersonating the bureaucrats around you, with his nose pointed high, his steps taken with arrogance.  

you purse your lips, hide your smile. amused as you are, the matter of your duties takes priority, and the princess of wysteria has much more important things to do over entertaining her local bad boy.

at least, that is what you tell yourself, eyes endlessly fixated on him. damn him for being so alluring, so distracting in a way.

"I need to study.” it comes out colder than you want it to be, but hey, that’s not your problem. not like it’d affect him much, anyway; he gets this treatment from a fellow blonde duke all the time, does he not?

yet his face collapses in exasperation nonetheless, as if he were already tired of this “princess” thing. dark brows knit for a split second, and when they relax back, his voice takes on a sensual edge.

“really?” another book is tossed to the ground, “guess i’ll have to tutor ya myself.”

“and why, exactly, would you be a good tutor?”

“because i know shit.”

you can practically hear the grin in his voice. it’s his trademark smirk, the one you always want to slap off. or kiss off. either works.

“i really need to study, sid.”

and you whip back, intending to tackle your problem subject yet again, but what you don’t know is that sid has you too close to let you go.

the minute your skin flushes against the leather bound cover of the textbook, his hands have slammed down on either side of you, and the birch desk creaks in protest to the added weight.

“nah. you don’t.”

the man has you straddled in no more than three minutes. lips nipping at the tender side of your ear, he’s got a grin that taunts “just try to get rid of me”.

it would be worthless to resist. like a lion, sid arnault gets what he wants, and he will fight for it.

“fine. just this once, okay?”

your fingers press against the thick fur of his coat, slipping under the layer and peeling it off. the husky chuckle that chafes your ears is telling of his approval, and he glides his fingers down your thighs, tapping the bone of your knees before tracing to your hip.

“this,” he murmurs, “is the femur.”

“that’s… not what i need to learn.”

“yeah, i know. but see? i know shit.”

your laugh stifles into a gasp when he leans in and bites your lip.

nico

fevers are weird.

they’re cold, and then they’re hot. they’re somewhere in between that isn’t “warm” nor “comfortable”, and the only relief for the affected comes from the sweet unconsciousness that sleep brings. most of all, however, they are an unwelcome visitor.

much like nico himself, you suppose, though colds cannot react to chilled glares and whispers of “who let this child into the palace?”, to the unrelenting judgement of haughty nobles and veteran staff, the treatment that you know all too well.

it’s a miracle how all that cheer can fit into him, now that you think about it.

nico meier, he’s always sprightly smiles and spring flowers around you (or perhaps, for you). your personal butler and self-established cheerleader, there is not a day where he has failed to brighten you up, sneaking in extra food from the pantry, or making silly faces when giles dives into another one of his motherly lectures. it never mattered if blurred figures of nobility looked down upon him, it never mattered if it hurt to be an outsider, but what did matter to him was you.

you drench the towel in ice water, fold it into neat rectangles for his forehead. as the cloth wrings in your hands, your heart does too. he does so much for you, never complains, and yet… perhaps you’ve taken him for granted.

the flutter of weak fingertips halts you. nico’s eyes settle open, a hoarse “hey..” escaping as the butler attempts to wrangle on a grin. a few seconds pass, and he’s betrayed by his own body, shivering as he tosses around with a groan.

a finger to your lips, you shush him, ushering him back under the comforter.

“just for today, let me serve you.”

bryon

novels stack his desk, the tower of books neatly aligned in a pillar. normally, they wouldn’t matter to you; it’s usually yet another cocktail of history texts, spiced with a math book or two. if you were lucky, perhaps there’d be a pamphlet about stargazing or the native flora. today, everything in the queue alarms you: they’re all silly romance novels, a “guide to love”, and… wait, is he reading a book about pick up lines? the king of stein, a stoic with hawk eyes, byron wagner.. studying romance?

“bryon?”

you’re tempted to ask why, but the shock chains your voice away. he looks up, but only briefly, flashing his focus back down to a dog eared page.

“are you a library book? because i am checking you out.”

“…”

the intention is sweet. the execution? questionable. you haven’t heard of many men who could charm women with monotone lines. in fact, you haven’t heard of any, nor have you ever met any other man who would say such things with a gaze so sharp it could kill.

you suck in a breath, pretending as if you’ve just eaten a sour candy.

“did sid do th- no. don’t answer that. i already know.”

the king’s expression hardens at the response, forehead scrunching up in thought. it’s almost as if the cogs in his brain were visible, really; there they were, churning about what went wrong.

then, a minute later, he picks up the book and begins again.

“are you a -”

not even three syllables leave his parted lips before you press a hand against him, silencing his efforts. they were appreciated, they (honest-to-god!) really were, but it just doesn’t suit him, and you beg with desperate eyes that he gets the memo.

“is my performance… so intolerable?”

“well, it’s not very you.”

his dejection shows in the way his shoulders slump, his stature frigid as his brain goes back to the drawing board. you take it upon yourself to drape arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, but he’s unresponsive, unmoving. a mile-yard stare extending down his study, and his voice strains.

“what do I do with all these books now?”

albert

daisies splatter the meadow in patches here and there, splashes of white and yellow invading the greenery. though small by stein standards, it feels rather endless - though that may be due to the absurd amount of rabbits dotting the field.

you’d been told that it was the closest thing the country had to a petting zoo. correction: a petting zoo that specializes in only rabbits, but still, one nonetheless.

the brown fluff underneath your fingers feels like luxury. soft, light, and smooth, you wonder what kind of haircare products could achieve this sort of texture and sheen. surely, it would involve part intensive care and part good genetics-

“er… excuse me, princess of wysteria, but i am not one of the rabbits.” albert stammers, in that all too familiar, all too judging ‘what are you doing?’ tone of his. he’s part flustered and part annoyed, such a typical albert mood, and it makes you want to tease him more.

and so, hands still tangled in that neat, neat fluff of hair he has, you smile and nod, “yes, albert. i’m very aware of that.”

the sing-song tone makes his face contort into displeasure, and his lips sputter to voice a complaint. silly albert, always so stiff, even when you’re obviously playing games with him.

you sigh and offer him a practiced pout, fingers escaping onto benjamin’s fur. rubbing behind the rabbit’s ears, you coo, eye faking sorrow, “you appreciate my touch, don’t you?”

the bunny stares with wide eyes, innocent and unknowing. burying his nose into your palm, he sniffs, once, twice, and twitches before settling snugly under your attentive fingers, satisfied.

its approval elicits another string of babyish babble from you, and out of the corner of your eyes, albert huffs, giving in to jealously. ha! beaten by a mere bunny rabbit, hm?

scooting closer to you, his knees knock against yours, and the sensation of cold fingers running up your scalp forces a squeal out of you. the knight flushes to his ears, mumbles something incoherent in his bumbling.

“my hair is soft as well, princess.”

you don’t know what shocks you more: the fact that albert’s statement sounds like a complaint, or the fact that he’s acting a bit…. childish.

“really?” your response is mockingly dramatic, spoken to provoke. “I wouldn’t know.”

the shade of red he turns nearly makes you think he invented a new colour.

author’s notes: AHAHAHA (!!) i finally got all of it down…. if anyone’s curious why rayvis isn’t here it’s because i know too little of him to write him, and i fear writing the suitors ooc already… i’ve only done louis/alyn/leo’s routes so i have no idea what’s up with the rest and had to spoil myself

the title is just the alternative spelling to wysteria, which is both the name of the country and that really nice lavender plant. in the victorian language of flowers, its meaning derives from its tendency to cling to walls and grow, thus the flavor text.

pretend this is a celebratory piece for albert’s route coming out since i know i won’t be able to finish a piece for him before then

[kyoune]

reversal

out of all the letters he has sent, saeyoung only replies to one. 

summary: an au where saeyoung and saeran swap positions.

notes: mentions of drugging, abuse, and violence, contains spoilers... sorry for being dead for a while! this has been in my drafts forever and idk if anyone’s done this kind of stuff yet but.... the more the merrier?

also be aware this does not contain a happy ending.

there is a house tucked behind the city boundaries, ushered into an obscure corner where greenery froths up. in such a reclusive location, it’s almost as if it’s playing hide-and-seek, perhaps even hiding something. 

but it’s such a nice house. there’s no way that’s possible, with its neatly trimmed garden, the acutely organized interior, the spotless windows. it’s so quaint, so innocent. it’s too Disney-esque - no one would suspect anything of it. 

but someone should, because ironically, it is a hellhole.

behind the 4th bush, past the dangling branches of an oak tree, there is a small window. beyond it is a young boy, red haired and bound in rope. in the next room, another boy with a near identical appearance is discreetly tucked under the bed, reading some sort of complex book.

a woman is screaming.

if two children plead for help in an isolated house, and no one is around to hear it, did they really plead at all?

they don’t stay in the house forever, but it feels like they do. hours upon hours do they bear through mother’s shrill threats, her drunken rampages, periods of famine and isolation. they’re twin prisoners who can only stand to survive until sundays, where the blessings of church save them.

or at least, spare one of them.

clasping his trembling hands in prayer, the younger boy shuts his eyes tightly, attempting to envision a God. he’s never seen one, so he’s not quite sure he believes. but saeyoung is always praying and that’s more than enough to convince him to try. 

“your brother isn’t here today?” the man asks. he’s light blue and friendly, and somewhat reminds saeran of a cartoon character. 

“no. saeyoung has to stay home today... mommy won’t let both of us out at once.” 

“i see.”

the boy turns his head away - he’s the shyer twin, weaker. he’s never been as good as saeyoung at holding conversations anyways, but he does consider this nice man a friend. 

“saeran... do you want to be free?”

free. the word comes in gentle and inviting, but leaves him with a precarious anxiety. the best things in life are free, but the best things are usually also too good to be true. he fidgets with his hands and the offer, anticipating some catch or joke, but it never comes.

saeran is left alone with v’s encouraging stare and the weight of a choice.

“what about saeyoung?”

v’s face twists into something indescribable - it’s an expression saeran has never seen before, but it seems to lie on a line between unease and acceptance. he doesn’t know if he likes it.

“we’ll take him in too.”

it’s a relief, but saeran still hovers over hesitation. to be freed? from their mother? even father wouldn’t snatch them out of their mother’s vengeful hands, and he’s a famous politican with power and money. 

it’s all he’s got, so he takes it.

an unrelenting hesitation lodges itself into him permanently that day, and as saeran takes v’s hand, he can’t help but keep looking behind himself.

he tries to think of saeyoung, but all that comes to him is a corpse. 

saeran disappears that day, never comes home. his counterpart worries he’d gotten lost, that dad suddenly captured him, or even worse. 

he withstands a harsher than usual routine in the house, face blank as mother loses herself in her fury. his concern outweighs his suffering too much to care about what’s happening to him.

“i don’t know.” “i wasn’t with him.” “he didn’t tell me anything.”

for once, saeyoung does not lie to his mother; he desperately wants to know too. perhaps not where saeran is, but how he is. is he safe? is he alright? he frets over the questions a mother should be making about her lost child, while their mother frets over her possible loss of alcohol money.

how pathetic.

he waits until she screams herself tired, letting the bruises take their course on him. the next day, mother sends him out to grab groceries (and more alcohol to satiate her addiction, of course).

on his way back, a familiar couple from church catch his eye. they smile, and he smiles back, carrying a piece of happiness with him home.

a few days later, saeyoung leaves hell.

these books remind him of saeyoung.

formulas and algorithms litter the pages, nonsense scribbled down in the tiniest font imaginable. it’s complex and difficult and all rocket science, but saeran thinks he could do it.

it’s a nice reminder of the one thing he’s happy to have.

he envisions his brother pouring over another one of these manuals, and hums as he imagines the two of them studying together. if they’d been born in a normal family, perhaps that would be them now.

“i’ll come back for you, so please wait for me.” 

the savior is beautiful; her hair’s golden, skin smooth - she bears rehearsed and perfect smiles, all just like the princesses in the fairytales he’s read. but saeyoung knows better, knows that there’s always a darker side to the most innocent things. 

he thinks it’s in her eyes.

in his little story books, blonde maidens were often paired up to blue eyes, with rosy cheeks - the picture of youth. however, this “savior” gazes upon him with a corrupted green, her face pallid. every little graceful action, every kind word she speaks is cold and practiced, and sometimes saeyoung is convinced that she is a robot.

so saeyoung refuses it all. 

the savior speaks, it goes in one ear and out the other; the disciples force foreign substances onto him, and he throws them up in secret; when they hurt him, he thinks ‘at least it isn’t mother.'

there is punishment for this, of course, but saeyoung doesn’t mind. he just clings onto his trust of his twin, hugging it tightly to his heart, as if it were a stuffed animal.

you’re not as weak as you think you are, saeran. i believe in you.

six years pass, and saeran realizes he may be wrong.

the job is nothing but stress and difficulty, and the higher ups always yell at him, older agents taunting him for his slowness and inability to work efficiently. if saeyoung had taken this position, it would have been the opposite, he thinks. he’s faster and more capable and the stronger one of them two - considering this, saeran wonders if V made a mistake. identicial twins are always confused for one another, so it’s an easy mistake to make.

but regardless of the hardships, he pushes on, knowing well that saeyoung would have done the same. 

saeran adjusts a photo rika had slipped him - a photo of saeyoung - and continues typing. 

it stings.

the wounds hiss at him when he moves, his body disobedient to his commands. sprawled on the floor, saeyoung struggles to breathe.

he’s ever only known two things: saeran, and pain. they’re all he thinks about now, because one gives him hope and a will to live while the other is one he’s never allowed to forget. yesterday, it was fire. today, they kick at him.

it’s brutal, it’s undoubtedly abuse, and maybe it’s even worse than their mother’s outrages. no one should ever go through this, saeyoung muses, and he wonders what sins he committed in his past life to deserve such an ordeal.

he’s not sure how long is has been - more than a couple of years, surely, but the exact number escapes him. rika has never allowed him out of the same cell anyways.

saeran never came for him, but he feels no bitterness. if he’s happy.... if he’s living and breathing somewhere other than their damned hell of a home, then saeyoung thinks it is fine. at least, that is what he thinks he should feel - deep down, maybe he is angry. maybe it really is unfair. maybe saeran really did leave him for dead, and never gave a second thought about it.

saeyoung closes his eyes and imagines how saeran must look like now. a red haired boy comes to him, all smiles and ice cream, and he smiles back.

the next day, a body is found in the trash.

the paper before him has been blank for who knows how many hours - no matter how hard he thinks, his pen just won’t move.

saeran is worried.

there must have been millions of letters by now, he thinks. did he have the wrong location? is saeyoung even alive? the gruesome thought forces him to furrow his brows and exhale heavily, and saeran bitterly attempts to brush it away.

he has to be optimistic. if he just believes, perhaps saeyoung reply. perhaps saeyoung just hasn’t found a way to. perhaps he’s still alive and waiting for him.

saeran crumples up the paper into a ball, and allows it to join all the others in the bin. 

he hasn’t heard back from his brother in years.

[kyoune]

I just read your V fic (and the others too) and it made my whole week, I love V and I'd love to read more if you ever feel up to write another! Really, thanks, it was beautiful!

oh, i’m really happy to hear that! it was something i randomly wrote (and procrastinated on hw for orz) in an hour so i didn’t feel like it was as good as what i usually write, so this makes me feel a lot better ; ___ ; 

thank you so much haha and yes i actually do have another v fic in my drafts! i’m not exactly sure how well it’ll turn out, but it’ll be out soon maybe… thank you again for the message !! ; v ;)/ 

[kyoune]

wrong number

alternatively, it’s the right number - just not for him. 

fandom: mystic messenger characters: saeran, mc summary: an imagining of a sweeter, nicer bad end. sort of a semi-route for unknown. 

notes: saeran/mc, contains spoilers, uses MC’s default appearance

it’s perfect.

the plan is complete. sliding a finger down the monitor, saeran sits back, a relaxed grin hanging off the corners of his lips. before him are tabs and tabs of social media profiles, and all of them belong to one person. 

the perfect accomplice. a matching set of brown eyes and brown hair, a face kind and sympathetic. call him a stalker, but he’s watched everything, seen every picture posted, analyzed every little tidbit she’d put up. she’s the type of person to take in homeless pets, someone who’d walk the elderly across the street, a girl who’d give her entire heart just to save someone. she’s lovely.

ha! so lovely even he could fall in love with her. 

but he won’t, of course. he handpicked her with saeyoung’s tastes in mind, and revenge aside, assumes she’d be smart enough not to associate with him, the villain, the hacker, the unknown.

haven’t you heard of stranger danger? 

the thin line of his mouth quirks up with a smirk, and he swipes at a button.

the phone buzzes, cracks with a stiff static, and green code invades her screen menacingly.

“hello? is anyone there?” 

simple encouragement.

that’s all it was supposed to be. a little hand holding, a little push, a little of whatever was required to fuel his plan into action. fires don’t start by themselves; it’s common sense - you need some sort of kindle, a bit of friction, a spark. 

.... but maybe this is the wrong kind of spark.

it’s an accident, he swears. but just one text, one little "enjoy your time with everyone. i’ll go get you soon.” is all it takes for it to start.

she replies, and saeran intends to ignore it, to return to the sanctuary, to hide behind the “unknown”. anonymity has always been his natural habitat, and he isn’t ready to give it up at all. besides, he's never had an interest in women, or romance, or any of that sappy stuff - that’s saeyoung’s weakness, and that’s why his plan will succeed, right?

 saeran admits, though, that he is curious. about her. 

and so he texts back. 

it’s quite pleasant, actually. 

the two of them share jokes and talk about a variety of things, though it mostly centers around her. her favorite foods, drinks, places, shapes - he’s never been out much, too fixated on revenge, so everything she shares is always in his interest. 

okay, so imagine this!

the text that follows is a description of a park she’d visited the other day, one with a tiny duck pond and an endless grassy field. she tells him about the lush wildlife that inhabits it, occasionally inserting an onomatopoeia (much to his amusement), and the view of the skies. it was ethereal, she types with passion, and he thinks he can almost imagine her excitement.

saeran thumbs over her words, a finger brushing against his lip as he tries to envision the same scene she saw. he closes his eyes, imagining peace, aaaand there is her park. except... there’s one discrepancy. he also sees the two of them, holding hands... smiling. 

oh.

it all makes sense.

he flashes back to the daydreams of her during the savior’s meetings, the way he traced her name with his fingers on the frostbitten windows; that one time when ugly emotions began to bubble up within him and his thoughts automatically redirected to her -

he is in love. 

can i call you?

she launches the idea out into the blue one day, on the off-chance that he happened to be online. it throws him off guard, makes him blink twice, extracts a ‘she wants to talk to me?’ out of him. in the end, however, curiosity kills the cat, and saeran shrugs, wondering what could go wrong, lazily returning a “sure.”

the moment he answers the call, everything goes wrong.

hesitance teeters between the two of them, filling up the line with nothing but awkwardness. the nonchalance he bore just a few seconds ago disappears entirely, and anxiety fills up the absence. 

well, he’s never been good at talking to people, especially if it’s not about his revenge. so saeran parts his lips, a half-apology, half-disclaimer readied at the back of his throat, and that is when she speaks.

“hello... ! um...” 

it’s an unsure mumble, though energetic. cute. it thrills him, and he automatically replies out of impatience.

“saeran.” it’s a risky two syllables, a word that could single-handedly ruin the whole plan, but interestingly, he doesn’t care, because all he cares about right now is her. 

“saeran.” she repeats it, testing it. it rolls off smoothly, like a song, and by the way she follows up with a hum, he suspects she likes the sound of it. 

it’s incredible.

for the first time in his life, he loves hearing his name. it’s the voice, he thinks. normally, he would have hated it, knowing how it has only been spoken by liars and traitors, granted to him by a woman who never even intended for him (or his twin, for that matter) to exist.

the voice is so lovely, so pure. it radiates a warmth that surpasses that of the sun, and he thinks it may be because it has more sympathy and kindness than that goddamned star that shined in ignorance of his past struggles.

saeran pushes the phone a little closer to his ear, yearning for her voice.

it takes him three days after the call to realize he should have said no.

this couldn’t be happening.

he’s calculated everything, he swears - see, there’s the wreckage of notebooks, the math, everything, everything! 

so what happened? why did he fall for her?

this is not in the numbers. this is not what the savior predicted. this is not what was supposed to happen.

“tch...”

saeran swallows the lump in his throat, gulping away anger and pride. it does not taste good, it tastes like a candy gone sour, and he does not like it. 

“i don’t...! this isn’t...! arghh!” 

he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know at all. what was right and what was wrong? he’s the savior’s right hand man, not a foolish little boy in love; he’s seeking revenge and his traitor of a twin, not comfort and attention from a stranger who happens to make his heart beat faster than his hands can type.

oh god... did he just admit that?

there’s a slam, a shatter of glass - ah, are those his hands? random little gadgets bounce off onto the floor, some breaking, some not. saeran throws a tantrum, smashes his frustrations onto inanimate objects, and claws at his hair.

just like a little boy.

“someone....” please. “someone tell me... what do i do?”

saeran choi was destined to be alone.

that’s what he writes, over and over again, scribbling the sentence with vigor. it’s on his notebooks, across the walls, typed onto his computer - just anywhere. he has to etch it in, he has to, because saeran will not tolerate false hopes and unrealistic dreams. 

it’s like a prophecy, and it’s the only one to have ever come true in his life. 

why else would saeyoung leave him? why else would v betray him?  being abandoned, being abused, being alone.... that was entirely his fate. so why, he pleads, why does this girl even bother with him? 

he’s desperate to hate her. perhaps in another story, the villain and the hero’s love interest may elope, but not this one. oh no, in this one, she are the little pawn of his chessboard, the unknowing puppet. if saeran even dared to take one step, the tiniest act of desire towards her, it would be game over. 

but then again, he is just a small little boy with scars, and she is a healer. perhaps he should take it, this hand that reaches for him, this person who offers bandages instead of knives. saeran contemplates it, churns it around in his scattered mess of a brain. 

it could be God’s mercy. hell, maybe she, of all people, is the real savior. 

saeran thinks about it once, lets the bandages slip through his fingers, and scoffs.

three missed calls.

the phone screen glints mockingly, bouncing off the light of his monitors with some kind of arrogant pride. are you gonna call back or not? it seems to sneer, and all saeran does is sit lifelessly, slouched upon the chair with an aimless glare that replies who’s side are you even on?

it’s only been a week, so it’s embarrassing to admit, but he really does miss her. the impact was a little more intense that he’d thought it would be, and it scares him.

what scares him? the fact that she is fucking everywhere. 

the code on his screen reminds him of her texts, and he has to stop typing. a disciple laughs a pitch too high, and automatically does her voice come to mind. the savior’s silhouette passes by in the hall, and his mind reminds himself of her profile, with her flowing long hair and gentle smile.  

and her name... her name just... echoes? 

he just can’t get rid of it, and it haunts him. like the ghost that refuse to pass on, it sticks to him, and saeran honestly doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating or lovesick. 

the phone rings again. 

discomfort and fear greet him, and saeran is aware he cannot ignore it this time. he’s always hated confrontation, hated having to face the music, but he knows the more he avoids it, the worse it will get. 

his fingers are trembling as mildly as his phone, and it takes two hands for him to grip it properly. 

“hello...? saeran...?” 

it’s not angry, or upset, or anything he’d expected. there’s a cautiousness that lines her voice, a soothing concern, but it flows with a tone that does not intend to harm him in any way. it’s delicate, considerate of his feelings, and makes his heart ache when he catches his breath and realizes he has to shatter it.

“sorry, you have the wrong number.”

he plays it cool, indifferent. he does not want to. it’s aggravating, this temptation. 

“saeran, it’s you, isn’t it?”

saeran laughs, coldly. what is this, some kind of joke? it’s painful. the chuckle burns his will away and sinks his heart, and saeran wonders when his plan ended up including a part where he hurts himself. 

“i don’t know what you’re talking about. you have the wrong number.” 

she doesn’t say it, and maybe she was intending to, but saeran can feel another encore of his name coming soon. he’s a statue, aloof and uncaring - it’s so unlike him, the saeran in the texts, the unknown, and he supposes it leaves her speechless.

he decides to take advantage of that.

“goodbye.”

he hangs up with something on the tip of his tongue, a ghost of a ‘i’m sorry’, a ‘please leave me alone’. perhaps even ‘i think i might love you and i really shouldn’t be.’ 

he played matchmaker, puppetmaster, for the sake of creating a weakness in saeyoung that he could exploit. he’s supposed to be ruin incarnate, not in ruin himself.

“the plan failed.”

and it was not perfect.

[kyoune]

I just realized I sent it off - anon lolol I shouldn't write at 1 am when I'm totally exhausted too please do me a favor and keep my identity as The Official Saeran Anon a secret whoops,,,, (I literally screamed when I Realized)

haha, no worries! ` v`)b the Official Saeran Anon™ shall stay secret! *throws an invisibility cloak over you*

i say this every time but aa thank you so much!! i’m really flattered… and also now motivated to write again! i’m so glad there’s you to give saeran the love he’s missing too! (poor baby…) you’re in luck, though! because he’s also my fav and i have like maybe 8 drafts all about him whoops

[kyoune]

OMG your newest fic was really nice! It had such a... calm feeling? I'm not sure how to describe it, but it was very relaxing to read, without being boring or anything at all. Good job!!

ooh i’m glad to hear that ; ___ ; i’d rushed it a little bit, and i was super tired working on it but it was the only thing i could actually write for…. i wasn’t sure about how it turned out, but i’m glad it was relaxing? thank you so much anon! 

[kyoune]

serenity

he’s just as sweet as the things he likes.

fandom: mystic messenger characters: saeran, mc summary: short and sweet fluffy times, with maybe a hug, or a kiss, or... 

notes: saeran/mc, mainly fluff, contains spoliers | also this is super self-indulgent because i am a piece of shit

you really don’t know how it happened.

it was supposed to be a simple visit to saeyoung’s place, a meeting for RFA affairs. at least, that’s what you had thought, before saeyoung cheerfully rushed out the door with a “gottagoseeelly! take care of saeran!”, and left you all alone.

you are still stewing over it five minutes later, hands 3 inches deep into kneading a ball of dough. you’re not really sure what saeyoung even eats nowadays (surely it’s not just chips and soda again.... right?), but your hopes are low. it gives you a nice excuse to do some baking though, and perhaps something better for saeran to eat than the piece of gum he’d been chewing since you got there.

speaking of which...

“apples..... ?” 

saeran leans over the kitchen counter, peering intently on the slices you had just cut. he picks one up, bewildered, and you are about to ask him if he’s washed his hands when he gently sniffs it.

“i’m making another apple pie.” you explain, giggling. cute. 

“oh...” his expression is neutral. “i’ve never had it.” 

“i think you’d like it. it’s more filling and healthy than that gum, you know.” 

he scrunches his nose at your comment, and shakes his head. “i like candy.”

“i know you do.” you want to sigh at his stubborn chewing; somehow you’d fallen into the role of a nutritionist, and it’s not really a job that suits you.

“c’mon saeran ~ !” 

you extend a finger, a precarious little finger, and pop the pink bubble with a quick jab. it slams back down onto saeran’s lips, a pink little blob sealing his entire mouth.

“.....!?”

he looks at you with an expression you see only in horror movies.

“how.... how could you?” 

if it were saeyoung, the question would be a half-joke - you can see it now: faux surprise, a hand over his chest, mouth widened slightly bigger than normal, all for dramatic effect. and then he’d reblow the bubble right in your face. maybe.

saeran, however, bears the face of a child. licking the residue gum off, he looks down glumly, pouting. it’s sibling ying and yang, you suppose. genuine hurt fills his voice, and he mumbles a complaint, barely audible.

“i worked hard for that...” 

“haha, i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” you really are.

but he averts your apologetic gaze, defiant, as if this were an argument he had to win. mouth downturned in the softest curve of a frown, saeran’s expression grows even more sullen, perhaps purposely, perhaps not. 

“i’m really soooorry! i’ll do anything to make it up to you ~ !” you singsong yet another apology, prepared to pull out the puppy dog eyes. if he’s allowed to use them, then why can’t you? 

it comes out of the blue. 

“... can i kiss you?” 

it’s a cautious question, and it surprises you. you were expecting more moping, perhaps an angry reply, even a threat, but then again - saeran had always been a little gentler around you. shyer, and always hesitant, as if he’d been holding back a secret for the longest time.  

you don’t know if there’s romantic feelings behind it, or if it’s just a passing curiosity. because of that, you are speechless, but hey, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“sure.” you shrug, attempting to act as if it was nothing, as if it was normal. your voice betrays you, however, and you shrink bashfully.

the answer takes saeran a while to process. at first, he blinks, electric eyes wide with disbelief. they mellow slowly into a slight hesitance, but he takes a step towards you, and you can’t help but notice how eager his steps are.  

you feel him rest his hands on your shoulders, lightly grasping them with unease, unsure where or how to hold you. he’s much closer now, and his face is just right there in front of you; you can’t not take a good look at him, and you notice things: the sharpness of his jaw, how smooth his skin is, the slight curve of his brows (due to nervousness, you bet), and damn, he’s just handsome. 

you can practically feel blood rushing to your cheeks, because wow did you seriously just think that? now you’re unsure, feeling a bit awkward and flustered, and like saeran’s hands, you don’t know where your eyes should go. 

it’s a gentle peck at first, and you barely feel anything except hesitant breaths. saeran’s head moves away, and you are wondering if he’s changed his mind when something soft and warm pushes against your lips quickly, forcefully. 

“mmphf - !?”

a shrill shriek escapes, but saeran doesn’t stop. one of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers running through your hair as he pushes you against him. 

the force of it all is too much for you. overrun with a stew of emotions, your knees grow weak, and you feel your back hit against the wall. he whispers your name once, panting and entranced, and you wonder how such a reserved man could turn so passionate in mere seconds. 

there’s maybe a few more kisses in between - you’re not sure; your mind has gone dizzy, your ears suffocated by your own heartbeat, and all you feel are his urgent lips. 

they grow deeper, more passionate, more frequent. your entire body warms up and wraps around him, and he presses back just as desperately as you do. soon, the need for air overwhelms you; the room grows uncomfortably hot, and it tingles all over. 

you are absolutely sure that this kind of heat was impossible. it’s warm, it’s warm, it’s way too warm and you cannot breathe at all, only gasp as saeran moves to kissing your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks. 

“ah.. ahaha... saeran, s-stop!” you laugh because it tickles, words slurring in the daze. 

and he does stop. as worn out as you are, saeran moves his arms a bit higher, curling up against you in a tight snuggle. hiding his face in the crook on your neck, he chuckles, half breathlessly and half sheepishly. 

you feel him smile against your skin before you fall asleep. 

a sweet and rich aroma suffocates you when you wake.

is that.. fruit? a pastry? racking your semi-conscious brain for the right descriptors, you barely manage to lift yourself a few inches off the floor before a strong arm wraps around your waist.

you rub at your sleepy eyes - it’s saeran, smiling fondly down at you. the memories of a few hours ago flash by quickly, like a slideshow, and as embarrassment seeps into you, he uses his other hand to stroke your hair. 

“the apple pie is ready.” saeran whispers.

you jerk up. “oh! .... oh.... that’s right! do you want some?”

“hm.... only if you feed it to me?” 

a smile lines his lips; it looks innocent, but you know he’s practically spelling out mischief.

“well, now i see how you’re like your brother...” 

[kyoune]

mask

he holds up two names, and wonders which one fits him.

fandom: mystic messenger characters: 707, MC, summary: a retelling of seven’s route.

notes: spoilers for seven’s route, 707/mc, fluff.......ish..... i am so sorry i don’t know what happened to this

707 believes in everything. gods, ghosts, aliens, whatever else was out there.

but out of everything, he does not believe in love or happiness or hope. those are things in fairytales, fragments of dreams containing perfect princes and pretty princesses. happy endings exist for them, but never for the dragons, the witches, the villains - all of whom fought fairly for their own wishes and died heartbroken.

and 707 is an alien, so happiness does not exist for him.

he think he’s right - after all, a glance at jumin tells him enough: a man of beauty and wealth, but no passion, no emotion. what’s the point of living, then?

707 considers hearing jumin’s answer, but a flashback of a young red-haired boy smiling at a butterfly cuts his train of thought.

perhaps just living is fine.

it’s a regular day in the RFA chatroom; yoosung’s LOLOL complaints, zen’s selfies, jumin’s snide remarks, and jaehee’s scoldings. add in his own trolling comments, and you’ve got your full ragtag bunch of misfits.

the group chat is lively, casual. perhaps much too casual for something that is supposed to be a top-secret meeting place of a private organization. amazing, he smirks, watching the text bubbles glide down the screen like a waterfall.

he’s busy with work, his hands tied to the keyboard, so naturally, he cannot join in. but the ever watchful vanderwood is just a liiiittle off in the next room, blissfully ignorant, so just a peek, a tiny peek won’t hurt?

his fingers are halfway through a joke when his eyes catch a glimpse of a foreign username.

.... what?

immediately, 707 is on the case. that’s why they call him “lightning fingers” and “god seven”, you know? because he knows everything, and solves everything in a blink of an eye.

just kidding.

his own joke makes him chuckle, that was a good one, luciel, and he’s about to cast another one....... when he chokes.

a girl’s picture fills his sight, and nothing exists anymore - time slows, his eyes widen, and his mouth hangs open, just a little bit. a red color touches his cheeks, and 707 forgets to readjust his fallen glasses.

love at first sight doesn’t exist. it can’t.

... can it?

it is so unfair.

she’s not just cute - at least, appearance wise. she plays along with his jokes, throws encouragements at him as if he wasn’t some dangerous hacker, and every damn text she sends makes him smile.

he pranks yoosung. she plays along. he tells one of his ridiculous stories. she listens and replies intensely. he yearns for elly. she supports it.

707 swears they’re just some kind of comedy duo, some kind of comfortable friendship. even if he’s secretly, absolutely sure they are soulmates.

so 707 jokes about the two of them dating, just as a small test, maybe a hint, and what do you know, she agrees.

“i’m going to die.”

“no, you’re not.”

“thanks, vanderwood! i didn’t know you actually liked having me alive!”

his “maid” snorts at his not so thinly-veiled sarcasm, and leaves the room, sick of his jesting. he’s glad, really, because having him - ahem, her - around is a pain in the ass, like a landfill in the middle of a meadow. a chip, soda, and computer filled meadow, that is.

his annoyance is short-lived, killed when his phone vibrates. her icon pops up on the screen, bright and cheerful, and out comes a “seven, are you okay?”

he doesn’t reply. not yet.

“she’s so cute.” he mutters, “how does she do that?”

faintly, just faintly, the girl behind the screen makes him feel like “saeyoung” again.

it is an odd feeling, but it is not unpleasant.

it’s the second time he’s rebelled against someone’s rule.

the first was during his childhood, a struggle against his mother. he doesn’t want to remember it, because that was “saeyoung” and not “707″ (but again does his brain recall the picture of the red-haired boy and the butterfly. he has to remember it).

now it is against the agency. never had he ever dreamed of such a scenario happening, but oh well. life is full of surprises, isn’t it?

707 takes a final look around his room, and tries to sort out the mess of emotions plaguing his concentration. his phone lights up: it’s her.

a light, dreamy sort of excitement fizzles within his stomach. or perhaps, was it in his heart? he’s not so sure anymore, because the bubbly sensation overwhelms him all over and renders him dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

“don’t forget your position. you can’t have attachments. you are no one.”

vanderwood’s lecture echoes, but all 707 hears is static noise.

the idea of kissing her, holding her, being with her floods his mind, and when he dreams, he dreams of their life together. he knows vanderwood is right, and he hates it, but he already has one foot out the door, equipment in his babe (aka his car).

he knows 707 is no prince charming. those are roles reserved for people like zen, like jumin, hell, maybe even jaehee and yoosung.

707 is an alien, but there is no rule in fairytales saying that they can’t save the princess either.

“i love you.”

the whisper is lost in the darkness of the bunker. vanderwood doesn’t hear it.

their first meeting doesn’t go the way he envisioned it.

“what about my feelings?”

707 hears hurt, an innocent cocktail of confusion and fear; it should not exist, especially not out of the mouth of a girl who has the heart to love him even when he’s disguised himself in cold shoulders and disinterested scowls. how stupid is she?

face distorting into a grimace, the force of his hands against the keyboard increases. it now sounds like thunder and raw anger, his typing furiously fast as 707 tries to direct his attention elsewhere.

and it fails, because he just has to take a damned side glance at her, and he sees her cry, makeup smeared behind a curtain of hair. the most irritating impulse to reach out and brush it all away rushes in the vein of his hands, like a scratch you just cannot reach, and he almost reconsiders his behavior, a painful cold front.

but he knows he can’t. 707 doesn’t believe in love. “saeyoung” does, and he is no longer “saeyoung”.

instead of intertwining his hands in hers like he wants to, he forces her away even more.

“don’t bother me. i’m going to work, so just stay quiet, ok?”

his voice is uncharacteristically cold. her face is delicate, brows furrowed with a pain he wishes he could treat.

it hurts.

he’s not sure if he’s “707″ or saeyoung anymore.

he’s never been good at acting.

707’s winter breaks into two, melting into spring - the true self, saeyoung, ends his hibernation. he figures that if he’s going to hell for doing what he wants, then he might as well go all out.

he holds tightly onto the girl who entered the RFA chatroom a week ago, and becomes saeyoung.

he ends up not throwing away “707″, nor “luciel”.

it’s because of her.

she merges them, all three of his personas, wields them all together into one being, like an experienced mechanic.

saeyoung wonders if it’s magic. he’s built robots, identities, programs and promises, you name it - but he has never been able to build himself. it had been a necessary disability, because how else would he have been able to save saeran, to make a living, to repay v and rika’s so-called “generosity”?

he wonder if his efforts and sacrifices have been for a nonexistent god, for nothing, and clenches his fist.

“it’ll be okay.”

a voice he loves soothes him. she wraps her fingers around his shaking fist, and squeezes it, as if transferring her belief and support into him.

“it’ll be okay.”

he repeats it back to her, punctuated with a smile.

the man that is 707, luciel, and saeyoung all at once sets out on one foot, holding onto love, and happiness, and hope -

and a yet-to-be happy ending.

[kyoune]

I LOVED IN THE SUN FIC IT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL I ALMOST CRIED BC I HAVE A VERY WEAK HEART AND YOU ARE ALSO BEAUTIFUL AND YOUR WRITING IS GREAT I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY. (also if you have time/if you want to pls write more V/mc fic bc V DESERVED BETTER THAN CANON ENDING -sobs-)

i’m super happy you enjoyed it!! thank you so so much for the sweet words! AAA please don’t cry though…! i’m sure v would want you to be happy (and he’s probably very appreciative of you too!) if only there was a happier end where v is safe and happy …. ; __ ;

if an idea/prompt comes to me, then rest assured i will definitely write another v/mc fic!  and hopefully i won’t get writer’s block…

[kyoune]

to the sun

the sun was a little less lonely that day.

fandom: mystic messenger characters: v, mc summary: v deserved better also please have mercy on me notes: v/mc aka you, the reader (potentially one-sided), minor spoilers, fluff/slight angst, intended to take place after any route’s party (excluding seven’s route)

the venue breathes, alive - people of all kinds swarm its grand halls and saturate it with noise, personality, style. from the balcony, you watch the magic unravel.

reporters flutter to and fro, masses upon masses of clean cut uniforms pressing against the red ropes, like flies trapped in a net. the others wander freely, clothed in fabrics of great vibrancy - those are the butterflies, the stars.

then there are the dots of color scattered across the hall, those who move with certainty and resolve. they are blue, yellow, red, white, brown. they are the RFA. they are your family. 

and then there is v. the leader, the ringmaster, the caretaker.

he’s before sleek, thin frames and his own photography, staring at the exhibit as if he couldn’t recognize it. sandwiched between the crowd of potential buyers and jumin (who is calmly, somewhat robotically calling out prices), v looks uncomfortable and displaced.

 you feel bad for him, so your feet propel towards him. you are RFA’s party planner, and like the rest of the organization, your heart to help is limitless.

“are you ok?” from the back of the stage, you pop out, gentle concerns falling from parted lips. v jumps a bit in shock, while jumin continues without so much even a hint of acknowledgement. the contrast makes you giggle.

“ah... no, not really.” he’s honest. genuine with his words, expression, actions, everything. relatively tame compared to his eccentric hair, you note, as he looks down on your upward gaze. “i’m not very good in places with many people.” 

“hm....” you purse your lips, thoughtful. 

“jumin, can i borrow v for a second?” 

jumin throws a quick glance at the two of you, once as an overall check, twice to confirm v’s approval. like a true business man, he dismisses you with a brisk nod, and his voice is booming numbers over the loudspeakers again.

“thank you.” v whispers, and you lead him out.

you get this impression that he is a man of his word, a man who believes wholeheartedly in others and cannot bring himself to inflict any sort of pain. v is too kind with a capital t, and you are absolutely puzzled how such a soft person hasn’t broken down in two yet. 

it has been about twenty minutes since you have escaped the party, and in the outside garden, you observe v take pictures. 

focus. lens length. noise reduction. lighting. image stabilization. 

eyes peering onto the monitor, ears halfheartedly absorbing v’s explanations, it is obvious that you are failing at this concept called “multitasking”. v laughs, airy and amused, but his hands are comforting and patient as they hover over yours, guiding you towards the right controls. no matter how many times you press the wrong button, or snap a terrible picture, or completely space out on his explanations, v never shows a hint of annoyance or irritation.

in fact, you think he’s actually having fun. perhaps no one else has ever asked about his job.

“you don’t get to do this often, huh?” an innocent question. 

he takes a pause of hesitance. “i don’t. i’m.... busier these days.” 

“oh... you must miss doing this. especially without rika.” 

silence.

concern washes over you quickly, and you stumble for an attempt to change the topic. however, you also happen to snap your head back to check on him, and what you see fills your concern with another, unidentifiable sensation.

it’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment, but your senses are sharp, and you catch it: torment. 

it confuses you.

v is back to all smiles, the cool v, the mysterious v, but all you see is the furrow of his eyebrows, the wince, the misery in a two second grimace that seems as if it’s been there forever. you see a sadness that has aged like a wine, and your heart drops because you realize you are right.

something has happened to him. v is not truly all that he seems, and you do not mean this in a suspicious way. 

however, you know there is very little you can do. v has always been secretive, locked up with plans to throw away the key. even jumin has not been able to crack his code, and you doubt that you have the power to do anything jumin could not. 

but perhaps there’s something else you can do. even if it’s temporary.

“v, let’s... take a picture together!”

you declare this with a spring in your step, propping yourself on your tippy toes and pressing your hands against your hips, adamant. 

v is yet again surprised; at this point, you wonder if you should start counting how many times he makes that face. 

“if you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck like that, you know.” 

your comment keeps the surprise on v for a little longer, but the moment he realizes it, he bursts into laughter. wild and unrestrained, it’s his turn to surprise you - never have you heard this before, and it is done in such an ungraceful, non-v like manner that you barely notice how he has teleported to your side, camera ready. 

“you sounded just like a mother.” he retorts, punctuating it with a silly grin. “because of that, instead of cheese, we’ll have to say ‘stop embarrassing me mom!’” 

the deadpan expression you reply with evokes another round of v’s chuckling, and you shake your head with a reluctant smile, somewhat agreeing to it.

or so he thinks. v starts the countdown.

“alright, alright..... then... 3.... 2... 1...”

“stop embr-”

“v is a two year old baby!” 

the camera does not flash in time for the v’s trademark face of astonishment, mercifully printing out a Polaroid where both of you wear flawless smiles. 

v stares at you in bewilderment for a good five... six minutes, while you have your arms crossed with an innocent pretense.

“... you... you are one sneaky girl. oh, do you want the picture?”

a knowing smile lifts your mouth.

“no... actually... i meant it as a gift for you.”

“ah.. but.... why?”  

you say nothing. just casually striding over, you tap a finger on his half of the photo, pointing out his smile. the one that is real, carefree. the v that is genuinely happy.

already on your heels, you plan on returning to the party, but foreign fingers slip into yours without warning.

the sun in the sky smiles, holding the earth’s hand.