#for another competitor/friend/someone trying to flirt with me not fully sure about that one

[allisonreader]

I find it so annoying at this point when I dream about my old childhood crush at this point. Like I don’t even want to go into details about the dream because it made me uncomfortable with what I had dreamt. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since we graduated. I don’t have him on any social media, but he still occasionally slips into my dreams. And it seems particularly after I’ve talked with my boyfriend that it happens.

[softomi]

now accepting boyfriend applications.

based on my fic idea: you’ve just become newly single, in a drunken fit, you posted a status indicating you’re accepting applications for your next boyfriend. Oddly, three boys take you up on that; sending in their most professional resumes for the position. It seems there’s some fierce competitors. 

next up: literature

It hurt, why wouldn’t it hurt. Your boyfriend of almost two years dumped you over text message with no warning and his reason? He just wasn’t feeling it anymore, what the fuck. Well, twenty phone calls, a hundred text messages sent to him, and a pretty nasty voicemail. The moment you realized just how crazy you were being was when you began pounding on his door at almost ten at night. His neighbors poking their head out to stare, and it really smacked you in the face how stupid you were being.

So you threw caution into the wind. it’s a Wednesday night, your first class tomorrow didn’t start until noon and you’re literature teacher was more of a lecturer so she probably won’t notice if you’re hung over. If anything, you could always ask the guy next to you for the notes.

Thus, you decide to throw back shots to your heart’s desire, sitting in the middle of your tiny studio apartment, on your bed to scream and cry at the romance movie. Love is dead. You groan loudly when your neighbor knocks against the wall, trying to tell you to promptly shut the fuck up.

Halfway through the movie, your mind is already swaying. Your throat stings just momentarily and you sip your cheap wine in hope it’ll dull the shots you had taken previously. When the male protagonist kisses the beautiful female of his dreams, you promptly chug the rest of the wine in your glass. Upset at their love, you wrap your lips around the tip of the wine bottle, drinking straight from it.

“I can find someone better.” You’ve reached a different point in your post break up sadness, you were mixed with anger, sadness, and an overall feeling of I’ll find someone with a better dick.

It’s never a good decision to post on social media while drunk, but it’s a great decision right now. You were going to post a ‘newly single’ status. Just to be nice and not spam everyone, you think you’ll just post it to your private account for your five friends to see. You’ve clearly neglected that step when you press post and it uploads to your public twitter account.

The urge to hurl takes priority over the sudden notifications on your phone. Your hair disheveled as you’re trying to hold onto the toilet, hold onto your hair, and throw up at the same time. The romance film comes to an end once you’ve fully emptied your stomach. You shove all the things off your bed, food falling onto the floor, empty bottle of wine rolled under your bed, remote lost somewhere. You fall asleep despite your cell phone going off.

The alarm jolts you, it causes you to scream, your palm slapping the snooze button and you aggressively pull the wire so that it comes out of the socket. Your head is throbbing and your cell phone is ringing at the same time. Annoyed, your hand stretches along the bed trying to find your cell. When you come emptyhanded, you sit up. Your hand steading the pulsing of your brain and you spot your phone ringing and vibrating on the ground.

“What?” You spit out, not bothering to look at the contact as you try to block out the sun.

“What do you mean what?” The voice snaps at you, “You post about boyfriend applications all of a sudden, did you guys break up?”

Of course he would be the one calling you, the person who loves gossip more than you do, “Tooru, can you like shut up for a second.” Your brain is dying and he’s over here trying to get the latest dish on your love life, “He dumped me okay.”

“That asshole.” He gasps, “Do you want me to come over?”

You look at the time on your cell briefly, “No. I have class all day. If you’re free later?”

“Of course!”

The phone call ends and rather than getting ready for the class you have in an hour, you’re checking your notifications. You have about twenty missed calls from Oikawa, another thirty text messages from him, he even left a voicemail; god he must have been desperate. Facebook is bland, you spent most of your time on Instagram deleting the photos of your now ex, and rarely do you ever get Twitter notifications. Oddly, you have fifteen notifications; all coming from your public account.

haha, boyfriend applications are official open. only taking serious apps lol

“No.” You sit up.

It wasn’t your post that freaked you out, it wasn’t that somehow it ended up on your public account, no you could delete it and pretend as if no one saw it but people saw it.

Is she serious?

If she is, I’m down.

What does serious applications mean?

Three comments, five likes, and four retweets.

And three unread messages.

Your finger rushes to delete the tweet before it can be retweeted even more by random classmates. All was good now. Your finger presses onto the message icon, you’re confronted with the icons of three of your classmates.

The most recent is from Miya Atsumu, a terrible flirt in your biology class. He chose the seat next to you in lab when his friends ditched him and hoarded their own table. He spun around in his chair, shooting you a cheeky grin when you briefly looked at him.

His first sentence was, “Hey you’re cute.”

And yours was, “I have a boyfriend.”.

You skip over his message upon spotting his use of sweetheart in the preview.

The next icon is of the guy in your intro to business class, Kuroo Tetsuro. The first time you saw him was outside of the classroom, you two ended up accidentally reaching the doors at the same time. He lets you go in first and the both of you chose the seats farthest from the board, and closest to the door. Despite his bed hair that made him look like he was going to sleep the entire class, he was a rather studious guy; chill but smart, he was a business major after all.

“Did you understand anything he was saying?” You murmur to him as you grab your bag.

“Of course!” He states, “I don’t look at twitter on my laptop when he’s lecturing.” Ah, he caught you.

Your eyes briefly scan the preview, he’s saying something about a resume and you think he’s talking about the homework assignment. You’re about to click on his first when the last catches your eye.

It’s from Akaashi Keiji. On the first day of class, you were late due to waiting in line for coffee. You awkwardly opened the door to the classroom, everyone turning to stare, and you lower your head, choosing a random seat that now you’re stuck with for the rest of the semester because that’s just how college works. The professor goes over the syllabus and suddenly announces that the person sitting to your right will be your revision partner for the semester.

“Hey.” You stop him and for a brief minute you feel your heart skip a beat because he was absolutely pretty, “Sorry, I’m Y/n. Since we’re going to be partners, do you want to exchange info?”.

“Uh. Sure. I’m Akaashi Keiji.”

“I’m going to be late for my business class. Do you have twitter?” You were never a fan of giving your phone number out. Before he can answer, you’re scribbling your username onto a piece of paper, placing it on his desk before running out to catch your next class.

His message is brief: Did you get my email?

You click his message first; it must have been urgent if he messaged and emailed you. There’s nothing else to his message, his previous one dates almost a week before his current one, telling you that he finished reading the book you recommended and that he enjoyed it.

The screen is pulled up with your finger, alternating apps to your personal email. The subject of his email simply reads Application.

Curiously, you click the attachment he’s sent with no body text. Your jaw dropped, hand placed over your open mouth and a small scream emitting.

“Is he fucking serious?”

His name is displayed at the top, along with his birthday, star sign, zodiac sign, age, even the pronouns he uses. There’s a short sentence under it. I am submitting an application for the position of Boyfriend. You’re internally screaming, blinking fast hoping that this was a joke but his ‘application’ reads like a resume. It lists his education from middle school to his current, his previous jobs, his skills, and his own personal goals for the future.

Your blushing profusely, you want to pull your hair, scream, even throw your phone but you shove down the feelings that want to have you die of embarrassment. You don’t have the energy to sadly explain to him that you were drunk and weren’t serious; ugh and you’re going to have to continue seeing him for the rest of the semester.

You revert back to twitter; your heart suddenly drops when you think about Kuroo’s message. Quickly, you pull up the messages, clicking his and suddenly you want dig yourself a grave because he’s sent a link to a pdf and it’s simply titled Resume. He probably used a resume template and never changed the title.

And sure enough, it’s a fucking professional resume declaring the certain skills he has to be your boyfriend. In fact, like the professional business major he is, he includes a letter of intent; indicating his reasons of interest for the position. It details the little quirks he finds cute about you. You want to break your phone in half with how red in the face you feel.

As you exit his message, you’re slowly praying that Atsumu’s message is just a random flirty comment that he occasionally likes to throw you once in a while or perhaps you’re hoping that he fell in a ditch and you won’t have to work with him for the rest of the semester since he almost blew up the lab station last time.

Nope, it’s a link to a google document. Oddly, you click it. Your heart has sunk to the pit of the earth because when you open the document, you see his fucking name in the upper right corner indicating he’s still on the stupid document.

Fuck fuck fuck. You’re running away from the document, aggressively leaving the page but it doesn’t help that when you end up back at your twitter messages, you can see the three dots, telling you he’s typing.

Morning sweetheart hope you enjoy the app

He sends it with a flirty wink and you stare at it for five full minutes. Curiosity gets the best of you and you click back onto his link, he’s no longer on the same document and you sigh safely. For someone who’s barely passing biology, his document was rather professionally detailed. Damn, he’s on the school’s volleyball team? Weirdly the page cuts off halfway, you continue to scroll until the next title page boldly states: Bedroom skills.

It didn’t help that you were scrolling a little too fast and caught sight of an image showing off his toned upper body. There goes his professionalism.

Your phone suddenly blares low battery, your screen turns black and now your anxiety is through the roof. You jump on your bed, trying to plug in your phone and you’ve just now realized that it is thirty minutes until your first class starts and it is literature. You’re scrambling to find your laptop, you trip on the bag of chips from last night, awkwardly trying to stand as you reach for your school bag.

“Shit!” You scream. You suddenly remember letting your stupid ex-boyfriend borrow your laptop.

You fall to the floor, fingers pulling your hair as you suddenly think about the deep shit your in. First, your boyfriend dumped you, now you randomly have three guys who sent you applications to be your next boyfriend and you’re still going to have to see them for the rest of the semester if you reject them. Lastly, you’re going to have to go to your ex’s place to get your laptop after having made a scene yesterday, and your phone is dead so you can’t cry to Oikawa about the deep shit you’re in.

[derelictwritings]

Verdisola Noir- Commission for Matt Austin

At the precipice of the great city of Verdisola, an opulent party takes place. Lanterns burn bright and gold against the silver light of the moon which dances upon the sea. The canals of the great city are packed tightly with gondolas carrying eager party goers. Already they are wiping elven wine and exotic drinks from their chins as they prepare for the festivities before them. These wealthy and carefree individuals of varying walks of life adorn themselves with brightly colored silks and linens in the latest fashions. They make coy remarks to competitors from behind extravagant masks they hold up to their faces, and flirt with would be lovers. They marvel at the sights and sounds of this party as they enter the crowded courtyard of the lavish estate hosting them. Entertainers of various talents, some flashy and loud while others sensuous and distracting, stand atop platforms amidst the crowds of onlookers. They dance, spit fire from their mouths, and make bright and colorful displays of magical splendor. Gamblers laugh drunkenly as their admirers hang over them. Musicians try frantically to keep up with all of the noise by producing jaunty melodies to which those sober enough to dance sway happily. Debauchery and revelry abound fills the air on this most auspicious of nights.

A darkly clad man stands above the scene in a balcony. Salvino Gemina is his name. He fiddles with expertly crafted rings outfitted with star bright jewels upon his fingers. Well groomed and adorned with jewelry befitting his station, he watches his little kingdom within the city very intently. Most specifically, he eyes the subject of this jovial gathering with serious intensity. His son, Argenio Gemina, has come of age. This is the son’s great and grandiose jubilee to mark his ascension within his family. The man hopes fervently that his son will not make too much of a fool of himself. He knows the boy’s weaknesses better than anyone else. Though he agreed to this marvelous celebration, he did not do so without reservations. This is a dignified gathering wherein his son could very well allow his arrogance to overtake his conscience. The wine would not help. Still, the man believed this to be an excellent opportunity to breed comfort within the hearts and minds of his veritable cadre of business associates. The family had made it this far on business bothe illicit and otherwise which allowed them to afford such gatherings at menial cost to their wealth. Maintaining ties with the city’s elite through social gatherings was essential, but bears far more risks than most would suspect. It’s not hard for drunken associates to find ways to insult and demean each other at an event like this. It is a delicate balance to maintain.

At the edge of the courtyard, an unforeseen problem was brewing for the lord of the household. A young, prolific merchant timidly stands amongst a group of attendees. He adjusts the spectacles on his face and brushes his dark hair from his face nervously. One of the guests stumbles and spills wine upon his silken robe, which he feebly brushes at with exasperation. They make patronizing remarks at him as his attire, though regal and appropriate to his station, as he is a foreigner. Despite his powerful position and wealth, his apparent lack of conforming fashion sense makes him a target for the egregiously self assured. The merchant has had his fill of this charade and he steps away from the gaggle of gibbering pedants to find a more refreshing spot within the grounds of the estate. He circumvents the dense crowd of dancing and hollering folk. He finds himself within the bosom of a small corner off to the side of the courtyard where the noisy clamour of the party is but a muffle against the trickling of a finely crafted fountain. Where he is, there is little light save for the candlelight emanating from the windows of the estate around him and the beams of silver light showering down from the full moon high in the night sky.

The foreign merchant dips his fingers into the cool waters of the fountain to rinse away the sticky residue of the wine that had been spilled on him. His ears perked up at the faint sound of crunching gravel behind him that interrupted the near silence of the small garden. He glanced around nervously for a moment before sighing with relief and grasping the stone of the fountain to make himself comfortable. Just as he sits down, another crunch alerting him to the presence of another individual echoes softly through the little garden. He looks up again, this time he is sure someone is there and he timidly regards the silence.

“H-hello?”  he says, stammering as he half starts to stand from his seat. “Is someone there?” Silence. The moments drag on as he tries to adjust his eyes to the dim light of the unpopulated place within the estate. The merchant jumps and lets out a feeble shriek as he hears a tiny, but shrill noise next to him. His eyes dart to the spot on the ground next to his seat on the fountain where a purring cat cocks its head. He notices the small bell affixed to the cat’s collar and grimaces at his apparent cowardice. He reaches down to pet the small creature and it accepts his tribute of attention gleefully.

“You scared me little friend.” He says quietly. The cat enjoys the affection for a few moments before scrunching into itself in distress and darting off into a far corner. The merchant, confused at the sudden change in the creature’s demeanor stands and watches after it. He frowns at the lack of company and begins to notice the chill that starts to fill the air. He feels his skin contract against the cold and his hairs begin to rise in response. His breath condenses and he watches it puff out of his mouth in small plumes. His brow furrows as he thinks to himself how odd this is considering that it was a warm spring night only a few moments ago. He hears another noise from the walkway which he had entered the garden from. This time it is the the sound of cracking glass creeping along the walls. He squints in the dim light to see a shadow rising against the wall from around the corner.

“Who’s there?!” He shouts aloud. He sees a shadowy figure come into view and stumbles backward, almost falling into the fountain before catching his balance briefly. Before he can fully react to the figure approaching, he is flung back into the heart of the fountain. A torrent of frostbitten air surges forward and strikes him. He is unable to move, though his body makes every effort to struggle. He wants to scream, but his cries are muffled by shivering muscles unable to act upon the instincts thrashing about within his mind. Icicles painfully begin to jut out from his flash as the water freezes around him, entombing him in place within the center of the fountain. His eyes grow dark as he watches the figure slowly walk forward. Tendrils of icy wind extend out from the figure’s hands as they inspect their work. One last gasp of cold, dry air heaved out of the merchant as he desperately stretches forth his hand to plead for mercy from his assailant. His arm freezes in place, his sight goes black, and he is silent. An icicle spackled statue laying as proof of a ghastly job well done.

The party resumes throughout the night. Not a soul traverses through the small garden wherein one of its guests has just left from this mortal coil. They laugh, they sing, they dance, and they make merry in celebration of the young man for whom they came here for. All the while, they do not suspect a thing has gone amiss. For who would possibly notice the absence of a foreign merchant during such a grand affair?

The sun rises over the canals or Verdiscola. Party goers who long overstayed their welcome at the lord’s estate trudge out into the streets in search of their homes in the hopes that those whom they have left, be it lovers, spouses, or children did not miss them too terribly. The groundskeeper of the estate looks out at the wasteland of refuse left behind from the gathering with a grimace upon his aged face. He is not pleased by the workload set before him, but he will do his work diligently and without complaint, at least not to his lord’s face. He grabs his tools and begins scraping up the debris from the large courtyard of the estate. His feet crunch down on broken bottles and glasses. He hurls buckets of water out upon the stone floor of the courtyard to wash away the wine and the vomit. He scrubs away at the statues that have been marred by the party goers. The groundskeeper’s limbs and joints ache as he performs the work that he has been performing for decades.

After some few hours pass, the courtyard is spotless. A true credit to the old man’s efficiency and reputation within the household as a great cleaner of many things. His pride in his work is what allows him to arise early in the morning and make ready the most filthy places for a shining new day. However, he is a thorough man in all things, and he knows his work is not yet done until he has combed every inch of the estate in search of rubbish in need of disposing. Much to the ancient and wizened caretaker’s chagrin, he finds himself within a small garden tucked away from the main courtyard. The space was far too small for the party guests to make proper use of it in their quest for debauchery. However, this allows for it to be the perfect spot for a murder to be committed.

The old man grumbles to himself as he approaches the fountain at the center of the garden, noticing only that there was a mess to be cleaned up and not that there is a corpse frozen in the center of it. The mass of jagged ice clustered together drips slightly as the warm spring air slowly but surely eats away at it. The old man believes this to be an elaborate prank casted by some recklessly drunk studier of mysticism. He props up a small stepping ladder and reaches for a chisel to begin chipping away at the chunks of ice attached to the fountain’s cherub statue. As he begins hacking at the ice, he gasps and nearly falls off of his perch. He spies the face of a man contorted with fear barely protruding from the ice. Pale, frosted over, and crystalline, the image of the face and his outstretched hand is now clearly visible to the old caretaker. He screams aloud, startling the birds perched all around him.

The old caretaker bolts out of the garden in search of the estate’s master. He calls for him frantically and finds him in the tea room of the main hall of the estate. Lord Gemina is clearly not amused by the sudden outburst of noise this early in the morning. He rises with a stern expression upon his face to scold the caretaker for his impertinence.

“What is the meaning of this clamor!” He barks.

“My lord! There is a corpse frozen to the fountain in the garden!”

The old caretaker hurries with his master over to the garden where he found the corpse of the merchant. The lord snaps his fingers and two armed and armored guards follow him without hesitancy. They round the corner and find the garden. Salvino approaches the scene slowly with guards in tow. As the lord of the household more closely inspects the remains, his eyes go wide. He instantly recognizes the face of the foreigner whom he had personally invited to his son’s party. Salvino looks to one of his guards to give command.

“Fetch me the Malleus Maleficarum at once! I want to speak with Ardito Tovoli immediately!”

Simon Allegro, a cleric of humble appearance, kneels before a statue within a tiny chapel in one of the poorer districts of Verdisola. The chapel might be confused by some for a tomb. It is dimly lit and clearly in some kind of underground structure. More reminiscent of a cellar or a mausoleum than a shrine to a god. Simon’s clothing is plain with dull colors and the brightest object he has on his person is the medallion of a star and hammer hanging off of his belt. The statue is of a gaunt, robed woman with her hands stretched out on either side of her sits before him. It is set alight by a halo of red candles hanging above her. The woman is Pharasma, the goddess of death, birth, and the judgement of souls. She is the goddess to whom Simon has dedicated himself. He clutches his holy symbol to his head as he meditates upon his past actions. The holy symbol he grasps within his hand is a whippoorwill. It’s cast from iron and has ruby red eyes. A grey ribbon hangs from a branch clutched between the bird’s talons. As he sits there, muttering prayer to himself in an ancient tongue deemed holy by his patron goddess.

He stands and moves over to a table in the chapel wherein sacred texts have been neatly stacked and rowed. He pulls out one of the texts and begins pouring through them. Soaking in the words as he contemplates to himself what they mean and how he can best use their wisdom. He asks himself what he can do to better serve his goddess. He asks himself how he can prevent himself from committing more sins or making more mistakes. He asks himself if he can be forgiven for this most recent sin, or if it is forever burned into his soul. A mark of shame which he will carry with him from this life to the next.

As he turns the pages, his mind wanders to his last case, the very subject of his remorse. He thinks of the perpetrator whom he and his partner had chased across rooftops to apprehend. He remembers the poor halfling bastard sprinting away and panting. He was guilty of the crime, there was no doubt in Simon or his partner’s mind. Still, there was an animal desperation to the killer they chased which made him that much more pitiful. Simon and his partner knew his motive for doing it. A last ditch effort to prevent a blackmailer from ruining his sister’s life for good. A man taking the law into his own hands, is a man who is breaking that same law. As such, he had to be caught, and the magical nature of his crime dictated that it was the Malleus Maleficarum who would be the ones to do it. However, Simon did not doubt the justness of their pursuit. What disconcerted Simon, was the results of their investigation. The halfling led them on a chase across the rooftops of Verdisola. They ran for what seemed like hours before catching up to him at a dead end. When confronted finally, the criminal decided to take his chances and fight back.He was tricky, no match for Simon and his partner, but tricky. He managed to evade Simon’s partner and injure Simon, but Simon caught on quickly and delivered a punishing slash with one of his daggers. Unfortunately, Simon miscalculated the attack and killed the perpetrator instantly.

To the precinct, it was an act of self defense. There was nothing simon could have done, and they did not reprimand him. To Simon, he had just ended a life. Perhaps it was not the most noble or honorable life, but it was a life nonetheless. Normally, he was efficient in wounding to subdue a criminal without killing outright. Even if the wound was serious, he always gave himself enough time to stabilize his targets. Not this time. This time he had ended the life of someone who likely did not deserve it. The law will not recognize that as a crime, but he will and it will take him a great deal of penance before he would forgive himself for what he had done.

The priest of the temple approaches Simon. He is an elf of some maturity and carries himself with dignity to match his experience and station. His long, grey and red robes bare the same humble stitching that Simon’s does, though he is not a grave cleric. Simon turns to meet him and gives a nod with a slight bow as a show of respect.

“Father Arturo,” he says with reverence.

“Simon, this is the eighth time this week that you have visited. Surely, by now, you must be tired of conversing with Lady Pharasma instead of fulfilling her will out in the world,” the priest says.

“My penance cannot come over night, Father.” Simon closes the book from which he is reading and directs his full attention to Father Arturo.

“No penance is easily found, my child, but true penance lies in service, not prayer. The Lady Pharasma has much that she requires of her servants. The least of which is sitting in a chapel begging for her good graces. Her approval is earned, not asked for.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, I cannot see myself as a worthy servant. A man’s blood is on my hands. He was not an innocent man, but he was not evil, either. He deserved a fair trial and to serve out a sentence.”

“Ah, so it is forgiveness of the self that you require, not The Lady’s forgiveness.” The priest gives a knowing nod to the Cleric.

“Your assessment is more accurate than I could have hoped for, father,” Simon says with a grimace upon his face.

“I have been in this business for some time, Simon. Give an old elf some credit,” the priest says. Simon is tempted to show a chuckle or at least a slight smile in response, but still feels himself undeserving of the comfort. He nods once more to the priest.

“Thank you, Father.” Simon gathers himself and walks to the entrance of the small chapel.

“Simon, my child!” The priest grabs Simon’s attention once more before he exits. “Do not let guilt stop you from doing what good you can in this world. The city needs what good it can get.” To that, Simon nods again and pushes through the heavy wooden door of the chapel.

Sunlight hits the cleric’s eyes as he begins ascending steps out of the small temple dug into the center of one of Verdisola’s few graveyards. He briefly greets the gravekeeper and the two of them exchange tobacco to set ablaze in their respective pipes before Simon moves on. Walking through Verdisola to his small abode, Simon watches faces pass him by. The elderly, the poor, the nefarious, the innocent. He sees them all walking along the dingier canals of the city. He averts his gaze from most of them, but they notice him full well. He carries himself like a man of the law, though he believes in his mind that they see the guilt staining him like the blood of the man he had sought to bring to justice. His mind screamed at him that he was no more a protector to these people than the very darkest elements of the city which he swore an oath to dismantle.

Simon finally reaches the small flat within the city which he calls his own. It is a simple home befitting a man of the cloth. A few plants line the windows looking out onto the bustling docks. The floorboards and walls are clean but plain save for a few holy symbols. Simon sets the kettle on and begins stewing up his lunch while he watches life pass by outside. He attempts to take his mind off of the myriad of unpleasant thoughts by reading through one of his few more luxurious possessions, a collection of classical works by a favorite poet of his. After a time he sits down to tea and a simple lunch. He basks in the quiet for some time before a knock at his door interrupts it.

Simon approaches his door and opens to find no one there until he looks down to find a small, blue feathered finch clutching a rolled message within its beak. He crouches and stretches out a finger for the bird to hop on to. The creature happily perches itself upon his finger and he relieves it of the message. With one hand, he unfurls the little note.

Simon Allegro, Cleric of the Malleus Maleficarum,

Your leave of absence is now ended and you are to report to Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters immediately.

With regards,

Ardito Tovoli

Simon sighs and places the note in his pocket. He turns his attention to the bird resting upon his finger and the creature cocks its head to the side curiously.

“Is that all?” Simon says to the Finch messenger. The bird cocks its head to the opposite side. It appears to be waiting for something. “Right,” Simon says to himself. He walks over to the cooking space within his flat and reaches into a small vase. He pulls from it a handful of feed for the bird which it happily nips at until satisfaction is reached and flies away. Simon then begins gathering his things and makes his way to the Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters.

“And then he says to me ‘Oi! Yer not a detective are ye?’ To which I reply ‘Depends on whether or not those are your smuggled drake’s eggs, my friend!’” A tall elf stands upon the center table of a tavern as he addresses a small gaggle of admirers who heartily laugh at the punchline to one of his many stories he has been telling all morning. The elf holds a goblet of wine in his left hand while tipping his cornered hat to the crowd with his other. He is dressed in yellow finery of the latest fashions lined with cream colored fur and has the patrons of the tavern enthralled with his performance of simple anecdotes that most would struggle to make remotely intriguing.

His name is Sylverain Furivel and he commands attention with ease. They are so thoroughly entertained by his ability to weave a tale, they forget the small silver medallion strapped to his hip. A medallion baring the shape of a hammer afixed over a star. His talents as a bard extend far beyond that of a simple storyteller as he knows many of the intricacies of spellcasting and is well versed in how magic might be used in more creative and criminally lucrative ways. He spends much of his time outside of his work with the Malleus Maleficarum attending to bar patrons and regaling them with the many adventures he has been on. He finds some level of comfort in the more harrowing experiences of his line of work by spinning them into fantastic tales. They don’t thrill him, but they thrill the people. It’s all he needs to sleep well at night. That and a number of stiff drinks.

After Sylverain steps lively off of the longtable in the tavern, he makes his way to the bar and slams down a few coins for the barkeep. The barkeep, having known him long enough to accurately guess what the elf would be craving in that particular moment, immediately grabs a bottle to begin filling his goblet. A couple regulars of the tavern step to either side of Sylverain at the bar. They’re shady, but not the murderous kind of shady that would make one quiver in their boots and sweat profusely. No, these are the kind of shady that will sell you a useful word or two for a fair price because they have their noses stuck in nearly bit of business that Verdisola has to offer. One man is a tall and lanky human with pale skin and frizzy, short, and dark hair who appears to be quite keen on picking his teeth. The other is a slightly taller than average dwarf whose head has been thoroughly shaven and tattooed. His beard is one long braid jutting out from his chin.

“So! It’s a bit early for you to be taking the drink, eh, Sylverain?” The human says.

“It’s afternoon, and I’ve got very little else better to do at the moment, my friends. The city’s quiet for once in a damned blue moon,” Sylverain responds as he takes a swig of wine.

“Not for long, as I hear it,” The human smirks at his dwarf compatriot. Sylverain gives the two a quizzical look and produces a coin from his pouch, shining it on the man who replies with a satisfied expression. “Well, word is that a prominent figure in the merchant community was killed last night at a birthday party for old man Gemina’s son. It was a foreigner.”

“What does that have to do with the Malleus Maleficarum?” Sylverain sipped his wine with an unamused look.

“Groundskeeper found ‘em frozen in a chunk o’ ice on the estate grounds,” the dwarf speaks up before gulping down some hardy mead.

“Ah! Now that’s the pertinent part, isn’t it?” Sylverain says.

“We’ve got some details on your partner, too. That is if you’ve got the coin.” The human says.

“What does he have to do with the case, gents?” Sylverain says stepping away from the bar while fiddling with a pair of coins.

“Well, they say he’s been taken off leave for this case by special request,” The human says. His dwarf compatriot swats him on the arm with an angry look for his indiscretion.

“Ha! That’s alright, some secrets you can’t keep your mouth shut on, can you?” Sylverain says. “Here. Have two on me for that.” The elf flips the two coins at the two of them and expertly lands them with a sharp plop into their tankards. Sylverain strides confidently out of the bar as the two informants look within their tankards and then at each other. He rounds the corner and finds himself before two darkly dressed individuals. Two elves, one man and one woman clad in the dark uniforms of the Malleus Maleficarum.

“Furivel, Tovoli commands your presence at headquarters,” the woman speaks up.

“Let me guess! A certain murder case requires my attention!” Sylverain replies. The two agents of the Malleus Maleficarum give each other annoyed looks. This would be suspicious to them if Sylverain were not already infamous throughout the Malleus Maleficarum for acquiring what would normally be secret information not released to the general public. Thankfully, he has only used his ability to acquire such information for the good of the public. Additionally, there were those who fully admitted that it allowed them to keep up with the more corrupt and insidious elements which worked against the law from within.

A doe eyed young woman of rich dark hair curling down to her back sits at her desk within the upper echelons of the Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters. She is no older than twenty five, and yet she holds a great and prestigious honor within the city of Verdisola. As the secretary to Ardito Tovoli, she greets many peculiar characters on a daily basis. Not the least of which is the long list of agents who work for the organization and use their magical talents to enforce the law. As she sits in her gatekeeper’s position standing between her employer and those who would have an audience with him, she contemplates the many facets of her life. Her mind slips deeper and deeper into a daydreaming haze, so much so that she does not notice Simon Allegro approaching her. He clears his throat loudly as she seems intently inspecting the end of a feathered quill, mostly out of curiosity as to what the particles that make up the little device really looked like up close. Simon clears his throat once more to grab the secretary’s attention. She jumps to attention within her seat and looks wide eyed at the Grave Cleric.

“Mr. Allegro! My Apologies! Commander Tovoli is awaiting you inside of his office,” She stands hastily and opens the glass paned double doors for Simon who gives her a curt nod as he walks in. She breathes easy after closing the door behind Simon. He has never made her feel comfortable. He walks and talks as though he always has something weighing him down. His presence is not so much disturbing as it is exceedingly solemn to her. She sits back down at her seat and begins flipping through an old leather bound romance novel she hid away in her desk. The painted cover on the front depicts a pale elven couple scantily clad, though tastefully so. They embrace each other amidst a plethora of vibrant spring colors. Once again, she is too distracted to notice that Sylverain Furivel is sitting on the edge of her desk looking at her with an amused look.

“Hello Ariana,” he says smoothly.

“Oh! Mr. Furivel!” She attempts to mimic an elven accent as she enunciates his surname. She’s clearly enamored with him. She leans in closer to him and tries to hide the elven romance novel beneath her arms. Sylverain tries desperately not to roll his eyes, but he is sure that his microexpressions betray every ounce of annoyance he experiences.

“Is the boss in?” He asks trying to divert attention from her awkward fawning over him.

“Yes! Mr. Allegro just went in to see him,” she says excitedly.

“Oh good,” he says. “What’s that you’re reading there?”

“Oh it’s nothing! Just an old book I’ve been keeping myself occupied with. They say it’s a classic. I’m really enjoying the prose!” Sylverain shoots her a look as he gently slides the book out from under her grasp and reads the title. He stifles a laugh very visibly and Ariana’s smile fades to a look of heartbreak.

“To Take From Her a Crown of Pink Petals? This is a trashy erotica novel, Ariana,” he says with a tone of condescension.

“But the shopkeep said that it was a real elven classic!” She’s shaking with embarrassment.

“Ariana, darling, please. Do you have any idea what the title means?” he pokes at the cover with his finger as he looks at her like an adult trying to admonish a child.

“I just thought it was a romantic gesture.” Sylverain smiles and leans in to whisper the vulgar truth of the novel’s title. After leaving Ariana to sit an blush on her ignorance, Sylverain is striding confidently into Tovoli’s office wiping a few tears of laughter from his face.

Ardito Tovoli stands watching the window of his office within the Malleus Maleficarum. He clasps his hands behind his back as he awaits two of his brightest to enter and receive their next assignment. The marble floors and pillars, the statue decorated walls, and the brightly burning braziers speak to the grandeur of his station. However, Ardito is a man of purpose and of the law. He cares little for the decorations of his workplace. What matters to him is that he holds his position with the utmost incorruptibility. Behind him sits Simon Allegro and Sylverain Furivel takes a seat at the front of the large mahogany desk next to his partner.

“You’re a bit late, Furivel, but I supposed that just gave me time to catch up with Allegro,” Tovoli says as he turns to face the two of them. He wears a tailored blue uniform with the hammer and star pinned to the collar of his jacket.

“Apologies, sir. I had to take a moment to re-educate your secretary on elven culture.”

“Of course you did,” Ardito sighs before changing the subject as he sits down. “You may recognize that Allegro here is back from his leave of absence and I hope that you two will get acquainted quickly as we have a very important case to work.”

“The merchant?” Sylverain says. Simon glances over at him with a look of incredulity but says nothing.

“Yes, the merchant. I have a gondola prepared for us to leave for the estate where the crime scene is and I need the two of you at your best.” He turns to Simon. “Simon, I need you to be at your very best for this you are a brilliant detective, especially when paired with is one here. I recognize what you are going through, but you’ve had enough of a leave of absence to step up to the task at hand.”

“Yes, Commander Tovoli. I will put my best foot forward.” Simon said coldly.

“And you I expect to be on your best behavior,” Ardito turns back to Sylverain.

“I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble, sir,” Sylverain said putting his hands up defensively.

The three of them make their way down to the docks below the Malleus Maleficarum headquarters and board a gondola headed for the Gemina estate. As they make it to the estate, they come upon a heavily guarded scene with a mixture of Verdisola’s city guard and Malleus Maleficarum officials securing the perimeter. At the front gate, Lord Gemina stands at the ready as a city guardsman takes notes from him. Ardito, along with Sylverain and Simon approaches with an outstretched hand.

“Lord Gemina, these are two of my best detectives. Simon Allegro and Sylverain Furivel,” Ardito says.

“Charmed. I should hope that the two of you are capable of getting to the bottom of this murder. I have a vested interest in the victim’s business and associates, and this occurred on my property.” He speaks bluntly with command in his tone.

“We will see to it that justice is served as thoroughly as possible,” Simon says.

“With as much efficiency as we can manage, of course,” Sylverain adds.

To that, Gemina merely responds with a grunt. He clearly has no time for pleasantries. Sylverain and Simon excuse themselves from the meeting between Ardito and Gemina and begin passing through the perimeter of the crime scene and into the estate.

“So, how are you holding up, Allegro?” Sylverain says with an awkward albeit genuine tinge of concern. The two of them squeeze past several passing officers and officials as they make their way into the scene.

“Well enough,” Simon replies.

“Your leave of absence help you clear your conscience?”

“Not exactly.”

“That’s a shame. You’re always so much more pleasant when you’re not racked with guilt.” Simon turns to shoot Sylverain a glare.

“See! There’s a response!” Sylverain points at Simon with a smile. Simon turns to continue walking. Simon’s smile disappears to exasperation.

“You won’t get through this case if you keep this up. What’s done is done, Simon. Keep focussed on the now.”

“I am focussed on the now.” “Ah ah ah! No you’re not! I can see it on your face! It’s just slightly more of a frown than it usually is.” Simon sighs at that as they round the corner to the small garden off of the main courtyard. “Look, if you need to talk about it with someone who is standing right next to you instead of an effigy, I’m here. It’s what I’m for.” Simon turns and stops looking Sylverain dead in the eyes with piercing anger.

“You will not speak of my faith as though it is just another subject for your stories. I will not entertain such blasphemies. Not now. Not ever.” His voice is low, but biting.

“You seemed a lot more tolerant of my crass sense of humor before you went on leave, Allegro,” Sylverain says sounding almost offended.

“You were a lot less annoying before I left,” Simon retorts. Sylverain cocks an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth twitches. He wants to smile, but he also wants to be offended and he tilts his head slightly. Simon bites the insides of his cheeks. He wants to remain angry, but can’t help the desire to laugh.

The two of them walk over to the victim. Investigators chip away chunks of the enchanted ice which entombs the corpse. Arcanists use their power to scan the area for further evidence of magical foul play.

“What do we have here?” Simon approaches one of the Arcanists.

“A concentrated blast of ice. Likely a ray of frost produced by a particularly powerful mage. The ice has barely melted at all, even in today’s warm weather.” The arcanist replies.

“Who was he?” Sylverain asks.

“By all accounts, the victim’s name was Havnir Yorricson. Foreign merchant from the north. You may have to ask around the merchant’s quarter and with Lord Gemina to see what his business is.” Simon and Sylverain moved closer to the victim’s tomb of ice.

“You wanted to laugh, I could see it on your face,” Sylverain says. Simon turns  from the frozen corpse for a moment.

“I will laugh when Hell freezes over, Furivel,” Simon says bitterly.

“Well, for him it already did,” Sylverain says as he gestures to the dead merchant.

[bastardnev]

The King and the Prince

*honks la cucuracha horn* HEY GUESS WHO WROTE A FIC FOR A SHIP THAT ISN’T WADE/NEV

for @champnatalya!!

(like to ao3)

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World Wrestling Entertainment, Professional Wrestling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mustafa Ali/Pac | Adrian Neville Characters: Mustafa Ali, Pac | Adrian Neville Additional Tags: Denial of Feelings, nev's a Big Angry Gay Mess, mustafa's a Big Cutie, And a bit of a flirt Summary: A few lighthearted comments from Mustafa causes Neville to rethink how he'd been feeling the past few months.

If someone could kindly remind Neville as to why he agreed to spend the rest of his evening with a group of peasants, then that would be lovely.

He had originally planned on going back to his hotel room after 205 Live went off the air that week, getting some rest before heading off to the next location in the morning, but the rest of the division had other plans. Seeing as everyone was in a good mood, Cedric proposed going out for drinks once the taping was over, and they wanted the King to go with them.

The answer seemed obvious -- of course Neville was going to reject their offer. Why would he want to spend any more time with these guys than he had to? Between Raw and 205 Live, he spent two whole days of his week with them -- two days that he would have rather spent doing literally anything else. Did they really think that they could ask him to tag along with them on their late night adventures and that he would be eager and willing to go?

Then Gallagher went and made an offhand comment about being able to outdrink Neville in a way that 'only a gentleman could'. Nothing made Neville tick quite like snide remarks from the arguably inferior Englishman. Vowing to prove him wrong, Neville finally accepted their invitation, knowing damn well that he would be standing tall in the end just like the last time he and Jack had faced off.

Later, Neville was making his way back to the locker room following his main event match (and successful title defense) against TJP. He was actually in good spirits, having once again proven to the WWE Universe that there was simply no one else on the 'Neville Level' and as such there was no one who was good enough to take him down. And despite his prior hesitation, he was even looking forward to going out, the anticipation of getting yet another victory over Jack causing a devilish smirk to form on his face. He had already won one fight that evening, and nothing was stopping him from winning a second.

Neville pushed the locker room door open and immediately spotted Mustafa sitting at the far end of the room, playing around on his phone. Neville's smirk melted away, and his cocky expression was replaced with the usual annoyed one that he always wore.

Mustafa Ali had made quite a name for himself ever since arriving in WWE, earning a reputation among fans and colleagues as being one of the best high flyers in the company, and his sights were set firmly on the purple strap that could always be seen resting on Neville's shoulder. He had made his title ambitions quite clear, going as far as to tweet him about how it would take a 'Prince' like himself to dethrone the King. There would even be some times during their matches where Neville would knock him down only for him to defiantly stand back up, the fire in his eyes burning even fiercer, the challenging expression on his face unwavering. He had so much passion, ambition.

Neville hated that.

Their issues found their way outside of the ring as well. All it took was one passing glance from Mustafa for Neville's attitude to do complete one-eighty. An unusual feeling would well up inside him, almost as if there were butterflies in his stomach. Sometimes they would accidentally bump into each other in a crowded hallway and it would take a whole ten minutes for Neville to stop shaking. He felt... uneasy in his presence and would much rather be as far away from his as possible.

At the same time, if Mustafa weren't around, then Neville would be wondering where he was, why he wasn't hanging out with the other losers in the division. It was a unique hatred that not even Neville himself fully understood. He wasn't sure if he wanted to.

As Neville washed up in the showers, he toyed with the idea of simply ignoring him, but there was something nagging at him. Was Mustafa going with the rest of the roster to the bar? Would he be watching him obliterate Jack in their drinking contest? Hell, had he even been asked to go in the first place? Neville knew that whenever Mustafa had a match -- even if it was against a local competitor, as was the case that night -- he spent a good amount of time alone as he mentally prepared himself. It was possible that no one had gotten around to inviting him.

The way Neville saw it, he had two options. He could go through with his original plan of ignoring him, believing that if the other cruiserweights were really Mustafa's friends then they would have already told him about the evening's festivities. That, or he could simply ask him about whether or not he'd been invited. If not, then he could make fun of him for having fake friends who didn't truly care about him. The latter seemed more fun.

Neville shut the water off and quickly dried himself before heading over to his bag, digging around for more casual clothes to slip on. It was as he was sliding a t-shirt over his head that he look a look over his shoulder at Mustafa, who was still doing God knows what on his phone. "What, are you too busy screwing around on Twitter to even acknowledge your King?" Neville asked.

Mustafa finally looked up from the device, letting out a sigh through his nose before replying with, "The last time I greeted you when you came in the room, King, you told me to shut up."

"Maybe so." Neville took a seat on one of the benches, clasping his hands together on his lap and hunching forward. "But this time is different. I actually want to speak with you."

"Do you?" He looked a little surprised.

"I want to know what you're doing tonight." Neville smirked. "If you have plans to go anywhere."

"Uh... no, I don't," he admitted. "Why do you want to know?"

Huh. Neville thought. So they didn't ask him. What good friends he has! "How about you accompany your King to the local bar tonight? I'm in the mood for celebratory drinks. Or does someone such as yourself prefer to hole up in his hotel room? Is that more your definition of 'fun'?"

Mustafa's eyebrows raised at Neville's offer, what appeared to be a faint blush growing on his cheeks. Neville couldn't even begin to imagine what he was so bashful about. Then again, he had no way of knowing how the mind of a peasant worked. "Well?" He asked. "Answer me."

"King..." Mustafa let out a little embarrassed chuckle, the sound of his laughter as well as the smile on his face making Neville go a little red himself. What the hell was he laughing at? Was he mocking him?!

"I don't think there's anything particularly funny about this, Ali." Neville scolded him with a cold glare. "You should know better than to disrespect your King. Haven't you learned anything from the last time you did that?" Neville had no problem locking Mustafa in the Rings of Saturn once again if it meant getting him to behave.

"I'm not trying to be disrespectful at all." Mustafa raised his hands self-defensively, his grin having grown wider. "I just think it's funny, that's all. You? Asking me on a date? It's not what I expected."

Neville felt his mouth drop open, the slight shade of pink on his cheeks now having grown full-on crimson. What?! A date?! Mustafa thought that Neville was actually asking him out?! "Don't think so highly of yourself, Ali!" Neville shot up from the bench. "You're not worthy enough to be anything even close to my lover." His fists clenched. "I'm asking you because all of the others are going out tonight."

"So it's not just you? Damn. Here I was thinking I was getting some alone time with the King." Mustafa clicked his tongue, though he offered Neville a wink, which caused him to swallow.

"You had better cut that out--" Neville took a few steps towards Mustafa and abruptly stopped when the locker room door opened, and they both looked to find TJ now standing in the doorway. He looked between the two of them with a puzzled expression, like he wasn't sure what in the world he'd just walked in on. Neville backed away from Mustafa and snatched his bag up, huffing and storming towards the exit.

"I'll see you later, King!" Mustafa called after him. Neville ignored him and rammed into the door with his shoulder, stepping out into the hallway. It was as the door was closing that he overheard TJ mentioning the plans to Mustafa. Just my damn luck. Had I waited a few more minutes, that bullshit could have been completely avoided.

Where the hell did Mustafa get off saying those kinds of things, anyway? Did he really think that he was that important in Neville's life to the point where Neville would actually ask him out on a date? To the point where Neville would actually be interested in being in a relationship with him?

Christ, imagine if the two of them were actually dating? Neville's mind was suddenly flooded with images of the two of them hanging out before the show started, talking about their respective matches, actually being nice to each other. He thought of greeting him with a hug, giving him a good luck kiss, waking up next to him in a hotel bed... The same butterfly feeling that Neville usually got when thinking about Mustafa returned with a vengeance, and when paired with this context, it almost seemed... nice.

NO. Neville's eyes shot open wide, his grip on the handle of his bag growing almost impossibly tight. There was no way in hell that that was what was truly going on. Neville would be damned before he-- before he actually developed feelings for someone like Mustafa. Neville was the King, dammit. He didn't have time for crushes or things of that nature. Someone who was a constant thorn in his side couldn't possibly have worked his way into his heart...

...could he?

[savanahdppadillaim10insuran-blog]

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Is there anyone that has Mercury Car Insurance? I am wondering if they are any good? Please help!?

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SOURCES:

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