magicforeibha
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foolish heart, common tongue by magicforeibha
Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! (Video Game)
23 Apr 2024
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He’s awake with a jolt—his head colliding with his textbook—and you’re not there. There’s no sun either.
He had fallen asleep in class again. It’s been months of this recurring nightmare. As he rubs his eyes, he smears fallen tears across his cheekbones. The pages he has fallen asleep on are wet and warped.
He doesn’t miss the sun. He doesn’t love the sun. It’s always been you. He loves you, but he’s ruined everything.
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You must be real. He can see the steam coming off the cup you’re carrying drifting with your movement as you get closer. He feels your greeting touch on his shoulder, the aftershock whirring down his spine as you lean to place the mug on the side table next to him. You must be real because his heart has never longed like this.
"Hi," you say, and he swears he’s never heard such a sweet sound. “I brought you some tea.”
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It’s been millennia since he returned here, yet the wind carries petal songs the same way they had when he was young. But now he gets to watch them twirl around you—the song snagging on your hair—and he doesn’t ever remember the petals being this beautiful.
Though, once they came close.
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He’s not even sure how he ended up outside your—no, the spare room’s door. His entire body is trembling, the scales of his tail scratching the floor tiles. It still doesn’t really feel like a part of him, a foreign limb that feels numb. He can feel the scraping, but so faintly he barely registers it. What he can feel is the anxiety building an uncomfortable lump in his throat. The sweat beading on his palms that makes the doorknob slippery. The racing of his demonic heart.
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Your door is cracked open. It shouldn’t be.
This wouldn’t be the first time Solomon entered your room without permission, but you storm in intent on ensuring it’s the last. What you don’t expect to see is a very different shock of white hair, bat-like wings flexing in surprise at your abrupt entry. You stand frozen at the threshold.
“Oh, uh,” Mammon starts, tucking his head down. “Sorry. Uhm.”