#or when a pen blots ink on the page

[sincerely-sofie]

Some memes + art from a project I’ve been calling “Nim”:

Context isn’t totally necessary, but the cliff notes are that story is set in an urban fantasy world, Nim and Lune are adopted siblings / father and daughter. They are part of a rarely-seen species who live isolated from the rest of the world and have immense magical power, but left their home in search of a better life shortly before being captured by local mad scientist Sammy. Nim was taken in by Delilah and her shapeshifting dragon son Dante after she was rescued separately from Lune.

[s1llydr3amscape]

Being a finger artist on ur phone is so funny because I'd look at my 2nd and 3rd finger at random intervals and go

Why are you flat

[shiny-jr]

from POMEFIORE

- Warning: Yes, this is still a yandere thing. You have been warned. Gender-neutral reader. 

- Characters: Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Epel Felmier.

- Summary: (Continuation, after this “we just got a letter, wonder where it’s from”) You have barred them from entering the safety of Ramshackle Dorm, but they are determined to make their words reach you. Which is why the letters begin arriving at your doorstep.

- Note: Hoping its not too out of character.

Ignihyde   |   Pomefiore   |   Scarabia

Perfume. The carefully sealed envelope reeked of it, like the sweet smell of lavender with spice. The envelope containing the message looked like something you would find when getting an invitation to a ball or a wedding. The envelope was pristine, and the wax sealing it was done so perfectly without a single awkward edge.

It almost looked unnatural with how perfect it appeared. The thick beige parchment was cut evenly, and not a blot of ink strayed from the elegantly curved cursive words that looked like ribbons upon the page. Looks could be deceiving. It was beautiful, but as you might've already guessed, the interior didn't entirely match what was hidden beneath the surface.

To my darling player,

I am at fault and take full responsibility for my actions.

All I've ever wished for, was to admire you. You are the epitome of magnificence, divinity that I can only dream to one day achieve but knowing I will never truly reach. There's an otherworldly sort of allure to you, which drew me in far too close. Much like the man who enhanced himself with wings of wax, but flew too close to the sun so his wings melted and he met a terrible fate. You are the sun, and I was that reckless fool with fake wings.

I allowed myself to get too close, tainting your light with my imperfect presence. Your grace was the warm sunlight on my skin, when everything around me was a horrible darkness. To think, I attempted to put out that light. It was nearly diminished. For that, I should be burned. I'm sorry, so so sorry.

I've thought long and hard on what I could possibly say to you, what sort of response could be adequate enough considering what you mean to me and the delicate situation. It didn't take long for me to arrive to the answer: no response is fitting. It doesn't matter if I pen a letter long enough to rival the river of tears I shed, coat the envelope in gold and ink of silver, with a message that would have moved the seven themselves to weep. It does not change the betrayal that occurred. I betrayed the trust you gave me, and shattered it into millions of pieces. However, know that I'll be on my hands and knees piecing it back together again, even if the shards cause me to bleed, you are worth it.

The stabbing sensation on my skin would be nothing compared to the one in my heart that I feel when I consider the fact that you might despise me. There's nothing more I would want than to see your face, hold your hands and feel the warmth of your skin that's so unlike the coldness of your vessel. Requesting a meeting would be imperious, as I have no right to ask you of this. But if I could, I would love to see you and discuss what comes next, perhaps over lunch. This is just a thought, a wish of mine, but one you are not required to fulfill.

I'd love to believe that I know you and your vessel better than anyone else could even dream of understanding, but I know that is far from the truth. Even as I pampered and polished your precious doll, your secrets continue to escape me. Did you ever hear me, when I brushed and washed Yuu's hair? When I took their freezing cold hands and painted their nails? When kneeled down in front of them to polish their shoes? When I adorned the best luxuries of brand accessories on their body?

I would kneel down to no one else.

There was always this wish, a dream of mine, that one day I might perhaps one day get to pamper you. Not Yuu. But you. Is that a scandalous desire?

Your hands would be warm, and I would hold them as I file your nails. Your arm wouldn't be so rigid and mechanical, you could actually extend it as I slather a creamy scented lotion along your skin. And if you do desired, I could lift your head and apply lipstick to your lips... This is just the process I commonly used while your vessel was under my care.

Although, I would gladly take up the responsibility of nursing you back to health, or any other role you would give me. There are countless things I can accomplish for you. I commonly deal in potent poisons, but I can just as well deal in healing and comforting. I'm skilled in self-defense and various forms of magic, so I can be your companion to protect you from everything that would wish you harm. You know of my business in acting and singing, so even if you wanted nothing else I could be there to entertain or serenade you. I only wish to be with you again, even though I know I'm underserving. I'm selfish.

If you want nothing more, then I have to be satisfied knowing I was in your thoughts for a brief moment. A twisted part of me wants your mind to be plagued by thoughts of me, just as my mind and heart is full of you.

I have to remind myself, that by getting too close I risk being burnt. But, at this point, I do not care for my own safety. I only care for yours, and I do this to keep my sanity. I truly admire you so much, that I cannot adore you from afar behind a rope like sculpture in a museum. I have to stand nearby, inspect your beauty, polish you to a shine, and value you like the priceless treasure that you are. Should someone threaten to chip off even the slightest speck on you, forcing you through more suffering...

I will shatter them into a million pieces, to preserve your peace.

Yours,

Vil Schoenheit

The wonderful aromatic smell that filled your nose brought back some not so pleasant memories. The smell of the earth beneath your feet, the scent of dew collected on every still surface, but above all were fragrant tangs that immediately alerted you to any nearby presence of a student belonging to Pomefiore.

They had chased you through those deep dark woods, like a pack of rabid hounds tracking and hunting a poor wounded rabbit. Besides their shouts and footfall, their perfume gave them away. There was one in particular which you only caught a whiff of only when you had too closely encountered the dormleader. The scent of lavender and spice hit your nose, the same fragrance on the letter.

"That reeks! Burn it!" A certain feline hissed, covering his little black nose with his paws. You swore the fragrance was beginning to form a migraine at the front of your skull. If the smell was strong for you, it must've been much worse for Grim since he had a superior sense of smell.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if the smell wasn't that strong and it wasn't the particular scent. Like vanilla or freshly baked bread. If that were the case, Grim might've insisted on keeping it or even be tempted to take a bite out of the sheet.

But it was lavender and spice. So the letter was tossed into a corner several feet away, left to an unknown fate that you would ultimately decide later. When you glanced back to Grim, you saw him holding and sniffing another letter.

For a long moment his sniffed the rolled up paper, his black nose twitching as he was likely just searching for another gift to claim as a snack. After a few seconds, he discarded it, sliding it over to you before he opted to dig through the pile like a raccoon digging into a heap of trash. "Meh, this one smells boring."

"Boring, huh?"

Boring wouldn't exactly be your choice of adjectives to describe this letter. It wasn't an envelope, it was a scroll tied by ribbon, attached to an arrow. An arrow, of all things, was likely the messenger for this message. Thankfully, this one didn't smell of anything. Even without a fragrance to match to a profile, the arrow was a dead giveaway.

Opening it up and using your hands to smooth out the curled edges, you blatantly ignored the wax seal over the ribbon. Once it was fully unsealed, a few single flower petals drifted down from the paper. Just another mess you would sweep up later and decide whether to dispose of it or not, like the first letter from the dormleader. For this one you were a pinch anxious. The sender was not like the others who came before.

Trickster,

It relieves me to see that you are finally safe.

To see you rest and heal in tranquility, nothing steadies my anxiously beating heart more than knowing you are sheltered. Well guarded by a trio of ghosts and the courageous feline Grim, I have no need to stress over your wellbeing with them acting as your valiant knights in shining armor! Although, I would also wish to join their ranks, blessed by your grace and fit to serve as your shield. However...

I am conscious enough to know that I am nowhere near fitting, no matter how much I may wish to reach out and shield you from every evil. In that most vital moment, I had failed to recognize you. I may have spared you from the sharpness of my blade, but I couldn't have guarded you from the suffering that was to come afterwards.

I'm so deeply and truly sorry. Many sleepless nights have followed, since and even before our first fateful encounter in those woods of the Pomefiore estate. Before our encounter, I was conflicted. I wanted to detest you, but I could not, I thought there must be a reason this was all occurring. I couldn't slumber peacefully, so long as I knew there was turbulence surrounding your beloved vessel. After our encounter, I couldn't get the vision of you fragile, frightened, and wounded, out of my mind. Raising a blade against you, who were a stranger shrouded in infamy, made my very heart stop.

Now I know why I was so unexplainably drawn to you. It was not due to the wild frenzy that overtook the entire campus, or a burning hatred to destroy, or even my own desire to discover answers I desperately wanted, although that last one may have played a role. The reason as to I was so enticed by you, a cunning 'imposter,' was because my heart recognized you. It must have been my very soul that pulled me towards you, and perhaps my own nature as well. My body recognized you, my heart and my soul led me to you, but I was blinded by my sorrows.

Throughout the few years I've had on this wonderful earth, I've seen countless peoples, and you are unlike any of which I've seen. In the places I've been, I have witnessed poetry be written by masters of literacy, melodies sung by the most angelic voices ever heard on a stage, and devoted worshippers in holy places kneel in solemn prayer. Somehow you as a single being, or entity, encompass all those elements into one. My aim is to admire beauty, and I see beauty in its finest form when I look at you.

I truly understand what you mean to me, and to others.

But at the same time, you remain a mystery. And I believe I'm speaking for all those who admire you when I say this. We could only dream of truly understanding you, when we only had Yuu.

So, I try to make sense of it all in what I do understand, in the beautiful things I adore that I associate with you who I cherish. In literature, music, photography, I see you in everything all at once. When I read poetic lines, I think I could share it with you. When I hear beautiful music, I imagine you might enjoy listening to the tune too. When I discover stunning sceneries, I plan to bring you there someday to share a moment with you.

Now, I can make sense of it. I understand how the poets of old felt as they penned the love and awe they felt towards the Fairest Queen. It's a rare sentiment that cannot easily be put into words, a feeling as if it held my delicate heart and squeezed when I so much as thought of you. When a song and its composer can bring an audience to tears, I understand that now too. Hearing your voice for the first time, formed a knot in my throat that prevented me from saying much. Catching that first glimpse of you, was like gazing at a perfect painted portrait hanging in a museum.

My dearest player, I am a Hunt. I am naturally inquisitive by nature, and my fondness for you comes just as naturally. You may consider it wrong, but I will continue to offer my loyalty even if you may not accept it.

My aim is to one day unlock your secrets, solve your mysteries, and understand you fully, learn what makes you tick and what drives you forward. Perhaps when the day comes when you've forgiven me for my crimes, I can proudly stand in your presence and recite the poems I have written in your name. I could admire you everyday from then on, and remind you everyday of your worth. Then, I will protect you, from all harm, and I will not allow myself to fail you once again. This is a promise.

Should you need me, I will be there.

Yours,

Rook Hunt

There was something that felt... off. Compared to some of the previous letters, these were rather tame. Of course, there was the desperation and fascination evident in their words captured by the ink, but it was nowhere near as extreme as other cases.

Although, it was still chilling, to read the thoughts they penned.

In your hand you held the arrow the letter had been connected to, feeling its thin shape and the sharpened head at its tip that nearly pricked your finger. The vice dormleader had excellent aim, and had he not been so kind, arrows like this one in your hand could've easily been driven through your flesh and caught you against a tree where you would've been helpless in their grasps.

And yet, despite the opportunities he had, he didn't let a single weapon touch you. All it would take was one arrow, one moment and he could've ended you where you stood. But he spared you. However, there's the lingering doubt that maybe the primary reason he did it was he hoped you had answers to the malfunctioning vessel. You couldn't be sure exactly why he spared you, when everyone had wanted to torment and imprison you or worse.

Beside you, there's a large crunch and a content purr. When you look over, there's Grim, happily munching away on an apple he held with his little paws. He sank his fangs into the fruit, content that he finally found an offering that appeased him. In front of him was a small basket, filled with more juicy red apples.

"These are great! And, even though I was the one who found them, I'll let you have some!" Grim picked up another apple from the basket, sticking his claws into the red peel and offering it with his little grin. Nevermind the fact that these were probably meant as a gift for you and not for him, but you didn't mind. They would have likely ended up in the trash anyways, at least someone could enjoy them.

"You should really have one. You haven't eaten all day."

"I'm not hungry, but thanks. You can have them." Ever since everything happened, you weren't too keen on accepting gifts, especially if they were consumable. For now, the only places you'd accept food from, was the cafeteria you'd venture too at the dead of night when no one was there, or Sam's shop.

In the spot of the basket where Grim had removed the apple, there was a white layer at the bottom of the basket. Perplexed, you reached in and found an envelope hidden by the piled apples.

Unsurprisingly, the envelope smelled of sweet things, apples, cinnamon, and freshly baked pies. The envelope itself was nothing special, it had no intricate wax seal or marking. It was loosely sealed shut by a brown piece of string, and covered in some white and pink apples blossoms.

The inside was less impressive, more authentic, which was refreshing in a way. Smooth cursive flowed into slightly choppy print scrawled out in uneven lines, before eventually returning back to cursive at the end of some sentences. It appears parts were rushed judging by the blotted ink stains at multiple periods. The apples were a clue as to who the sender may be, but why would the letter be hidden in a gift?

Dear Player,

If you're reading this, that means my letter got through.

Where do I even start? It seems right that I first say sorry. I'm sorry. It sounds like a load of bull, but I am sorry. Apologizing in all these other ways, won't make this any better, so, I thought this might help. I'm gonna be completely honest with you, no lies, no tricks, just the blunt truth. I'm not going to be showing you these pretty sides I polished to impress and to mask all the ugly. I'll tell you everything that's been going on. That's something only I have the guts to do.

The reason I hid this letter was because Vil and Rook have been checking anything I want to write to you. They want to keep up this positive front, they wanna at least pretend to be perfect enough to be near you. At least, that's what I think. Although I know we won't ever come close to that.

Instead of trying to write a real and honest letter for you, it feels like I was writing some essay for Professor Trein to grade. I'd have to write and write, and even if the grammar was right, the message wasn't. They want to make you think everything's okay, when it's not. I can only imagine what elegant crap they were spewing in their own fancy letters, while we're actually all a mess. We've been like this since Yuu broke down. I try to understand them, and in a way I do, but sometimes they freak me out. Yeah, I got my own problems trying to comprehend all this chaos, but they're different.

Is everyone else in the other dorms this extreme? This miserable and on the verge of breaking? Maybe you won't believe me, or maybe you'll realize that there's some truth to what I'm saying. Here, in Pomefiore, I can only tell you what I've seen. These days, Rook's smile seems strained, like he's about to snap, his eyes are sharp and watchful. The only time his smile is normal is when he's looking at some photo, but he won't ever let me see what it is. Vil, well, the only sign he's still alive and kicking are the packages that come in for him, new makeup and all that stuff, things he's using to craft that perfect mask. I did see him one night out in the hall, I swear there was mascara down his face but I was too put off to approach when he was like that.

Don't ever tell them I told you all this. Vil would probably skin me alive and wear me as a robe, and Rook... I don't want to think about what he would do... I'm kidding by the way, but seriously, don't ever tell them. I told you I would be honest to you, so here's my reason. I thought that maybe telling you all this would score me points with you, get you to trust me again. Even if this is a rotten way to go about it, I don't care.

I am rotten, and I won't hide it like them.

If I can't even be honest with you, then do I really deserve a second chance at all?

Scratch that. I don't deserve a second chance at all after everything that happened. What I did was downright terrible, but I'm trying my damnedest to be deserving again. And I won't stop trying, even if part of me thinks it's useless. I never cared for Yuu, the only reason I acted for them was because it was you behind them. My goal is to eventually be beside you, the real you.

Although, a basket of apples is a crummy way to go about things, but think of it like a peace offering. Just cause I can't get word to you, don't mean I give up. I'm not giving up. Ever. Everyone's going about their own roundabout ways of mending things. If you want to hear more, I'll gladly tell you. I don't think anyone else would tell you the truth of what's happening, because in a sense everyone wants to appeal to you with the best image of themselves they can possible portray. Don't believe all the hogwash they send you. If whoever sends something and seems to be stable, they're not. Not completely.

I'm awfully ashamed to admit it, but I'm not okay. Not since everything started, and not since everything went to hell when shit hit the fan. I'm not okay without you, and I got myself to blame for that.

This letter is helping. The thought of communicating with you again, even if I can't see your face or hear your voice and its reduced to words on paper, it's more than I could ask for. So, if you want me to spill the beans, just ask. If not, if there's no response, well, I'll get a bit of comfort thinking you might've read this. Besides, I have hope with each attempt I'll make. I'm not just rottenly selfish, I'm stubborn to a fault. And if I have to knock down someone else's chances to get closer, then that's fine by me.

All you gotta do is talk to me.

Until then, hoping to speak to you soon,

Epel Felmier

[imaprettygirl]

A drop of ink, a blot spread across time

(Vintage au)

Plot summary: It was 1950s when pen pals were popular and almost everyone had one! You used to have a handful of them but the camaraderie between you and them faded as you got older. One day, you found a newspaper on your late great-grandpa's shelves in his bedroom. Excitedly, you flipped the papers to get to a specific page and bingo! There was a section for the addresses of people who are looking for a pen-friend much like yourself. After randomly choosing, you sent out your first letter and he replied back! However, you noticed something weird in the photo he sent...

Crds to @drinkthesky for the divider!

Men I deem fit: Alhaitham, Albedo, Imbibitor Lunae/Dan Heng, Dr Ratio, Diluc, Zhongli, Venti, Neuvillette, Scaramouche, Sunday.

(Fck alphabetical order, I can't do that sh*t)

The amber glow of the afternoon sun bathed the room as the open windows situated at the opposite of the door allowed sunlight streams to enter the room as its panes quivered in hushed symphony due to the beckoning of the hot air. If you moved closer to the windows, you could see dust particles illuminated by the natural light. Even after the passing of your great-grandfather, the bookish scent of his cologne still lingers in his bedroom along with his possessions which were either coated with a thin layer of dust or covered with a big white cloth.

The wooden floor creaked beneath you as you walked towards his bookshelves in hopes of finding pieces of classical literature and maybe learn a thing or two from it. You delicately traced your index finger through the long vertical rows of books, leaving a trail of dust on the pads of your digit. As you peruse through countless novels only to be unsatisfied until you saw a newspaper at the edge of the shelf, untouched by the dust that plagues the rest.

'How strange...' you thought to yourself as you rubbed your thumb and index finger against the surface of the paper to determine its texture: it was sandy and rough, definitely ancient but the format was similar to the ones your dad reads in the morning so it must be a freshly produced newspaper, albeit printed in a different quality of paper.

Or so you thought...

The newspapers in your hands gave you a glimmer of hope; it was an opportunity to find a pen friend! You used to have a few ones but stopped writing to them either because they used too much colloquial words or they had at least twenty spelling mistakes in each sentence which gave you a migraine whilst trying to make out if your correspondent was writing in a foreign language or not. But this time, maybe you could hit the jackpot and find an actually nice pen-pal. Excitedly, you flipped through the papers and stopped at the specific page which had a list of names along with their addresses under the bold heading:

'Pen-friends! Make new friends around the world!'

Your eyes scanned across the list of names, allowing your intuition to guess the personality of that stranger based on their names alone. But then, a specific name caught your eye- it was uncommon which was the main reason it stood out from the rest of the names which probably were taken from 'Top 10 best names for children of this year'. You took a closer look of the address below that person's name and turned out, both of you lived in the same area! A surge of enthusiasm rippled throughout your body and immediately tucked the newspaper into the inside pocket of your coat.

~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~

The curtains of your living room slowly opened as you peeked your head out and pressed your face against the glass. A day had passed after you had sent your very first letter and heck, you even went a mile far by sending a photograph of your two cats to make a memorable first impression. Then- just like you had anticipated- the postman on his bike suddenly came into view and halted his vehicle by your mail-box and placed a letter inside. You clutched the folds of the curtains unable to contain the happiness blossoming inside you. As soon as the postman disappeared out of your eyesight, you rushed outside to take the letter out of the mailbox. The first thing that greeted your eyes was the immaculate handwriting and the scent emitted from the paper.

'How sweet of him...' you thought as you continued reading the letter in your mind. The paragraphs were neatly organized and made of outdated vocabulary that you wouldn't understand had you not taken an interest in classic literature. You could tell this man practiced utmost eloquence just by his letter alone. Overall, he wrote a few things about himself and asked you about your hobbies, what you like and blablabla.

But then, something struck within you concerning with the photograph he sent and notes written behind it:

"The construction of the mall is making my ears bleed. I cannot stand the constant sounds of the drills and other sounds coming from it. I daresay, you must be experiencing the same disturbance as we are only one street apart from each other. Perhaps we should plan to meet up after the mall opens. What do you think of it?"

The more you stared at the photograph and the note, the more confused you became. The picture showed the mall with the same as the one down the street but it was still in construction according to the photo. 'Huh?' A frown stretched across your face. That specific mall had been going on more nearly a century now to the point that the community had been urging the government to shut it down in order to build a more innovative one. Didn't it finish construction like a hundred years ago? But his photo told a whole new different story.

Suspicions rose inside of you as a spiral of questions revolved around your head- you found it difficult to process it. Not missing a beat, you hurried to your room to find that newspaper you took from your late great-grandfather's shelf. You mumbled in frustration when you couldn't find it; you swore you left it either on the desk or on the bed. Finally, you found it under the bed and oh my...

The letter was published a century back in time which meant that...

"T-The man I just sent a letter...was from the past...." The newspaper dropped from your hands. Your letter had ripped its way out of the fabric of time and went into the mailbox of a man who lived in the same area as you but different time period. He was in the past, you were in the future.

Still, a part of you felt curious about the interaction between two people of different dimensions. So you decided to reply back to his letter. What could go wrong...right?

To people who are more knowledgeable in time travel or parallel universes, pls don't attack me, I know what I wrote may or may not make sense for some of you but pls don't mind me 😭😭😭

And also, not proofread because I wrote this around midnight and I'm literally on the verge of dozing off- (Ik I have such healthy sleep cycles and I have to wake up at 6 am yayyy!! Sleep-deprived-students-core😘🙆🤗)

[shadowdaddies]

Really really specific prompt, I know. But I have some major arthritis in my hands and need help with basic tasks sometimes, like handwriting. If you have time, I'd love one where Azriel helps the reader write a letter to her family telling them she's okay after Az rescues her from Hybern.

thank you for the request, lovely. I think this turned out so soft and sweet💜

Relief

Azriel x Reader fluff

Dropping the pen, a shaky sigh left your lips, tears welling with frustration. You’d been at this for nearly an hour, trying to write your family to let them know you were safe in the Night Court to no avail. 

Leaning back in your chair, you closed your eyes and took a break to massage the stiff joints of your hand when a familiar smell invaded your senses. The subtle scent of chilled mist and cedar brought a smile to your lips, eyes opening to meet Azriel’s.

Shadows danced around him, peering over his wings to greet you. Hazel eyes flicked from the ink-blotted paper on the desk to your hands folded in your lap, understanding washing over Az’s features. 

“Writing to your family?” he asked softly, coming up to lean against the desk. A scarred hand reached to brush through your hair, comforting despite the tumultuous emotions flooding you.

Leaning into his warm touch, you sighed, looking down at the barren page. “I’ve been trying to. I just want them to know that I am okay, that I’m safe from Hybern-“

The words broke off with a frustrated cry, tears welling in your eyes. “It’s harder than usual today, especially with the cold,” you mumbled, staring down at your aching hands.

“Hey,” Azriel whispered, his hand on your cheek guiding you to look up at him. “Do you mind if I help you? You could read aloud and I’ll write for you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face at the offer. No one had been there for you, had understood you quite like Azriel. In the short time you’d known him, you’d found a deep connection and comfort with the shadowsinger, the thought setting a spark of warmth in your chest.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” you replied shyly.

Azriel laughed softly, already gathering the pen and paper in his hand. “It would be my honor. Here, come with me.”

Reaching out a hand, Azriel took yours to guide you towards the crackling hearth on the other side of the office. Turning around a chair to face the flames, he took a seat, setting the paper on the side table.

“Come sit,” he offered, tucking in his wings to make room as he patted the space next to him on the seat. “You can warm your hands by the fire while you orate for me.”

Blushing, you took your spot next to the handsome Illyrian, the small space forcing you to lean into his toned chest. The warmth radiating from him and the fire helped soothe your muscles, and you relaxed against him while he prepared to write for you.

Azriel remained patient, a soft, quiet presence as you recalled recent events for your family. He wrote everything down, reading the letter back to you before promising with a kiss to your temple that he would personally see the note delivered. 

“Feeling any better?” he murmured in your ear, settling back into the chair with you. Wrapping a strong arm around your waist, Azriel let you lean your head against his chest as he took your hands in his own.

Gentling massaging the joints, Az’s gaze remained focused on you, your own finding how low the sun had fallen in the sky outside the window. Your stomach growled, earning a chuckle from the spymaster before he rose from his seat. 

His embrace was missed for only a moment before it found you again, helping you to stand. “Let me make you dinner?” Azriel asked, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

You nodded, grinning as you followed him out the door. “One day, I’ll cook for you, Shadowsinger,” you jested, surprised by the slight stumble in his steps at your words.

“I hope so,” he murmured, eyes averting your curious gaze before leading you to the kitchen.

[babykittenteach]

Welp. Some art rambling below.

So, any time I've ever posted ink drawings here, they did not involve a pencil sketch. The reason for this being I've found time and time again that the pens I most like will smudge and smear when I go to erase the pencil underneath, so I freehand a lot. Or I do an initial drawing in a lighter ink and come back in a darker one. Yes, fineliners don't do that but they're not the kind of pens I like working with; I tend towards gel or, for a while now, fountain pens. Today for the first time in a long time, I gave a pencil sketch another go because I haven't tried it on this kind of paper, and lo and behold! I could erase the pencil with very little smudging of the ink.

But instead I wound up tearing the paper whilst erasing. *hands* Since it was ruined at this point I went ahead after taking this pic and did some experiments with alcohol ink markers --a medium I'm largely out of-- and got some odd results. The paper is Iroful, which fountain pen nerds have probably seen talk about in recent times, and strangely the alcohol ink did bleed through but not at all like you'd expect for paper this thin and not enough to touch the blotting page underneath. So that was interesting. It did make the colors much fainter though, and it utterly donked up the one non "anime girl white" skintone brown I had on hand, so that's never seeing the light of day.

I might try doing the sketch in alcohol, coloring blocks and then doing FP as liner next time, but we'll see. I would actually like to have an idea of what kind of process I wanna use for inktober this year if I'll indeed be sticking to ink instead of throwing up my hands and saying artober and doing digital.

[thornnii]

⏤ ✦ ink spots

genre: fluff wordcount: 0.6K pairing: Carlos DeVile x gn!reader pronouns: they/them other: Y/N's parents aren't mentioned so can be from any family, no specific timeline but set during school years, implied AK!reader, no actual dialogue, established relationship warnings: one swear summary: for an art project Y/N has to incorporate ink into their piece, but it's not just the art that gets covered in ink thorn's notes: originally posted 01/Oct/2022; edited, this has a really shit and rushed ending

⏤ return to old posts masterlist

The stark white canvas stared back at them tauntingly, a small yellow post-it note was stuck loosely to the table beside them. Y/N had jotted down the prompt given earlier in class on it: 'use ink in project'. Short and simple and to the point, not that that served to provide any inspiration now.

It was at that moment that their boyfriend, Carlos DeVile, entered the art room. In all honesty he had been looking for Mal, needing to pass on a message that Ben had given him. He didn't mind not finding her, in fact he was pleased to have found Y/N instead. Y/N too was pleased at his arrival, happily welcoming the company. Carlos's arrival had provided Y/N with some much needed inspiration, more specifically: his multi-coloured hair, the splattering of black in amongst soft white locks. Ink blots on a page or spots in a dalmatian's fur.

That was it! That was they would paint; a patch of snowy white fur using deep black ink to create spots and patches. It would take time and would probably beat them round the ass when it came to shading, but it was something and they would make it work.

It had been a day and a bit since Y/N's inspiration had dawned on them and they'd been making good progress. Carlos had stayed and watched for a bit before remembering why he was there in the first place and the message for Mal.

Now, though, the couple sat together deliberately. Finally it had come to the point when the painting part was finished and dried and all that was left was to add the ink. An inkwell full of deep black ink sat on the table in front of Carlos, who held onto it with a firm grip to make sure that there would be no risk of spillages, whether over the table or yourselves.

Y/N was using a calligraphy brush to draw with the ink; it kept the line neat and smooth as they used it carefully. Just as Y/N was moving the brush back to canvas after going for a re-dip a small drop fell from the tip and landed on the sleeve of Carlos's red, woollen sweater. As soon as they noticed the ink dropping, Y/N flipped the brush in their hand and began to apologise profusely to Carlos. Carlos didn't mind, sure it was annoying but clothes could be washed and he was used to way dirtier clothes back on the Isle anyway.

But as the two focused on his sweater sleeve, neither noticed ink began running down the brush Y/N's hand, slowly making its way down to their fingers. Not until Y/N felt it dripping down their skin. Now looking to their fingers they gave a short laugh, quickly putting the pen down in the inkwell, they quickly grabbed for some paper towels that they'd left to their side incase of this exact situation. But, of course, the ink didn't wipe away cleanly, leaving a large streak across their hand.

Finally the project was completed, left to sit on a windowsill to dry. Y/N absentmindedly drew shapes onto the table with their finger as they talked about this, that and the other to Carlos. As they were talking, Carlos picked up the fine brush from the ink pot and began drawing patterns on the back of his partner's hands. Y/N quickly noticed what he was doing, feeling the brustles drag across their skin, but they made no effort to stop his actions, continuing on as if nothing was happening.

At some point the roles reversed and it became Y/N that was drawing on their lovers hand: softly painting out the bones of his left hand.

It didn't take long until both of them had each of their hands covered in an array of doodles and were laughing away like idiots. Idiots in love.

[lazulisong]

Every single Pen I Own is Bad but a New Pen will Fix Me, announces my brain, calmly ignoring all the pens I already own plus the fact that none of the pens I've bought before have Fixed Me.

This is actually the point where we use a Cheap Ballpoint, because I know and my brain knows that what we want is not New Pen, but the sensory experience of Pick New Pen, where you carefully go through all the testers and colors and your brain allows you another tiny drop of dopamine. Cheap Ballpoint does not, actually, dispense the dopamine but it's also what I grew up writing with so it also doesn't have a lot of Feelsbad Texture.

Anyway.

Part of the problem is that in anticipation of getting the notebook cover I got a muji notebook, which has great paper but doesn't really deal with felt tip or thicker gel markers very well. It's fine but you have to wait for it to dry because the ink stays on top of the page and blots the other page facing when you close it and that is, my brain says, Feelsbad. Also they're 5$, and the cheaper a notebook the easier it is to just fill up with the amount of bullshit required to come up with one funny line.

I still want to Pick New Pen. Dammit.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Ladies Whistledown - chapter two

Pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington Rating: T Chapter: 2 / ? Word Count: 2068

read on tumblr: one

On the morning after the ball, Penelope awoke before the rest of the household. She did not know this until, creeping from room to room in her nightgown and robe, she found the Featherington residence silent and still. She supposed she had left the party early. Another evening as a wallflower (even with her own family as hosts), the horrendous quarrel with Eloise, and Colin’s callously dismissive words had compounded to leave Penelope weeping and exhausted. The only positive was that this had resulted in quite a deep rest. How nice it was, she felt, to be woken naturally by the sun rather than the voice of her mother commanding her out of bed, or the dissatisfaction of her sisters—whining so loudly about their own poor sleep that they spoiled Penelope’s.

She returned to her bedchamber before too long. It was the habitual homing instinct of a bird seeking her nest.

Penelope attempted to examine her surroundings with, if not fresh, then at least descaled eyes. Had these four walls ever made up a sanctuary? Did a real haven come complete with such a sense of loneliness, of exile? Until the previous evening, this room had been the one place her two selves existed together—two halves to keep one another company. There had been no one else. For judiciousness. For safety. How fitting such a nest could feel, she thought, until another bird flew in and tore loose a twig or two, revealing the precarious construction. In the fragile, early light, it all felt so hollow.

And there were the pages on the desk. Penelope rounded the furniture but did not sit. With her fingertips, she shifted the papers apart, examining the careful scratches she had made with her quill. She recalled her meticulous blotting of the nib to ensure the page would not be spoiled; she had not thought she would be able to bear writing it all out twice.

For it was a thing of heartache, Whistledown’s latest. It was flailing and it was fiery. Her sharp letters rose like flames from each line. Penelope had issued challenges right and left, allowing Whistledown—allowing herself—to grow into a force she had never previously imagined she could be. Measured for pure emotion, Penelope believed it was flawless. She simply was not sure it would ever go to the printer.

The writing of this latest sheet had been most satisfying. That had been the greatest thing Penelope had felt since embarking upon this clandestine business: profound satisfaction. While no one had known she was the author of these biting missives, the satisfaction alone had nourished her with no ill effects. She had been content, mostly, to cling to the walls that once repelled her, quietly glowing like the candles as she listened to people talk—gabbling about the last edition of the gossip sheet, providing sensational tidbits for use by Penelope in the next. Some nights, she was certain, she had positively sparkled, and it had not mattered when no one had noticed, because they all would the next day, copies of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers so fresh in their hands that some gloves would be stained with ink.

If she were to print what was now in front of her, she knew one important person would not read it. Penelope was not thinking of Queen Charlotte—though how thrilling, how preposterous still to know Her Majesty was a faithful (if frequently, dangerously irked) reader—but of Eloise. Certainly, there were significantly more serious worries to concern herself with at present (chief among them: would Eloise tell anyone that Penelope was Lady Whistledown?). Though the undertaking had never been for Eloise, Pen had always delighted in knowing her best friend was amongst her readers. When they would speak of Whistledown’s latest, Penelope had always been dazzled by Eloise’s swiftly-formulated opinions on what had been printed. Whether she had praised or criticized the words had hardly mattered; Pen had simply been so pleased to be seen.

And with this edition, she would not be. Eloise would not pick it up, she would not absorb the gossip she had deemed insipid, she would not formulate new opinions. She had already made up her mind. Crucially, she would not discuss it all with Penelope. It was during those tête-à-têtes that Pen had truly felt seen.

Enough, she decided. Enough.

She shuffled the papers together and stowed them in her desk. It was late enough now; she rang for a maid and some toast, eating while she was dressed, which her mama never allowed. She spread the toast with jam, lovely and glossy and thick, and licked her fingers while the maid arranged her hair.

“When Lady Featherington rises,” Penelope instructed in a tone more confident than usual, “you may tell her I have gone across to visit with Eloise.”

“Very good, Miss Penelope,” was the response, and Penelope hope it would be very good.

She pretended to fuss with her sleeve until she was alone, then went back to her desk and retrieved the Whistledown draft. She rarely wrote more than a single draft. There was never time. Penelope had to note the gossip while it was both fresh in her mind and relevant to her readers. She had to present it with writerly flair without ever exactly striving for perfection. The beauty of her business was in the flurry of it, and so, in that same spirit, Penelope folded the pages and tucked them between the top of her chemise and stays, where they would be held securely. Before she could become mired in more self-pitying thoughts, she went out of the house.

Hoping to meet Eloise where they had met so many times before, Penelope spurned the Bridgertons’ front door and headed back to the garden. All the time, she pictured her friend there. She saw her sitting on the swing. She saw her encouraging smile. Visions of Eloise berating her intruded, threatening to cut the smiling Eloise of times past to ribbons. Eloise declaring she never wanted to see her again was quite fresh in Penelope’s mind. It could all go horribly wrong, she knew. But she continued walking. The ground was soft, the dew that clung to it dampening the hem of her dress.

And there she was, sitting on the swing, just as Penelope had imagined her, chestnut hair brushing the shoulders of a pale blue dress. She was laughing, and this made Penelope smile reflexively. All was not so bad if Eloise could still laugh.

With another step, Penelope realized her friend was not alone: Colin sat at Eloise’s feet. He noticed Penelope approaching and rose, though it appeared to cause him some effort. He did not look well. She did not feel the rush of sympathy for him which she typically would have; his unkind words of the previous evening yet rung in her ears. Are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington…

At her brother’s movement, Eloise twisted ’round and spied Penelope. Pen lifted a hand in tentative greeting. Internally, she congratulated herself on her bravery.

“Ah, Penelope!” Eloise called, perhaps because she could hardly avoid it with Pen marching determinedly across the lawn. “Join us. Do not mind Colin’s queasy demeanor; not five minutes ago, I found him being sick behind a bush.”

In spite of herself, Penelope stifled a laugh as Colin hissed, “Must you share such a thing?”

 “Oh yes, brother,” Eloise replied blithely. “There are no secrets between Penelope and I.”

This brought Penelope up short, but she had already reached the pair. She could not tell whether Eloise’s private rebuke had caused her cheeks to flush or drained them of what colour they had gathered during her walk. Her face felt strangely numb. She tried to smile.

“Quite so,” she said.

It was so odd to find herself in the presence of both brother and sister after all the events of the night before. From Colin’s polite (if hampered by his weak stomach) expression, Penelope took it that Eloise had not just been informing him of her alias as Lady Whistledown. Perhaps it was a mercy. Perhaps Penelope flattered herself to think herself so important.

“An enjoyable evening, Colin?” she could not stop herself from inquiring lightly.

Colin grimaced.

“I may have one or two regrets.”

For a moment, Penelope permitted herself to search his eyes to see whether his disdainful words about her might be included amongst those regrets. But no. There was no special look for her there, no silent communication to promise he would have prostrated himself before her and begged her forgiveness had Eloise not been present. It could be that Colin did not even recall his comments. What a privilege. Meanwhile, Penelope’s marriage prospects had possibly been irreparably destroyed while she slept. Better than anyone, she knew how powerful a few choice words delivered by the right person could be. A Bridgerton could be a wonderful friend, and a blundering, careless ass.

“If you’ll excuse me, Pen, sister,” Colin said with a nod. “I think I might prevail upon our cook for whatever remedy Anthony and Benedict are provided on mornings such as these.”

“Please do,” Eloise said, not masking her disgust. “You look a fright and you smell like death itself.”

“Most generous.”

“And you are most welcome.”

Colin left, and with him, some of Penelope’s confused feelings. Not all, not half, but some. Although she knew Colin’s words would likely have disastrous consequences for her future, it was the present which was Penelope’s most pressing concern. If Colin had broken her heart, she was not yet sensible of the ache; the loss of Eloise was a far sharper pain. Penelope not only wanted Eloise by her side, she needed her. How to communicate this when they had both made such stabbing remarks? How to say, I love you more than I have shown, and will love you even if you hate me, but please, please, do not hate me, for I love you more than I have shown?

“You are here,” Eloise said when they were alone. She slouched on her swing, head resting against the rope. In the past, Penelope would have taken the other swing, but today she did not, as she had not been invited to, and this did not seem to be an accidental oversight. Eloise’s gaze was shrewd.

“I am,” Pen replied.

They stared at one another until Penelope sensed Eloise’s curiosity about the brazenness of Penelope’s visit was yielding to the closed-hearted bitterness she had displayed the previous evening.

“And?” Eloise demanded.

Tears welled in Penelope’s eyes because she so seldom heard her friend like this—not brusque, just this tone of voice, this early-morning texture because the day had barely begun and, besides Colin, she had not yet spoken to a soul.

“Do you have something to say?” Eloise prompted impatiently.

In a moment, she would send Pen away with more harsh words, and Pen would go, and it would all feel ever so much more insurmountable, this mountain of distrust between them.

Penelope saw that she surprised Eloise when she said, simply, “No,” and extracted the pages she had written. She extended them towards Eloise, still warm from their proximity to her skin.

Eloise looked at the folded papers but did not reach out for them immediately. Pen continued to offer them regardless, refusing to draw back her arm unless she were irrefutably rebuffed.

“What is it?” Eloise asked, less hostile than Penelope’s worst fears had warned her she might be.

“It is what you think,” Penelope told her.

Eloise took the pages and lifted her gaze to Penelope’s face.

“Why?”

“Lady Whistledown…” Penelope began. She began again. “Lady Whistledown is part of me. As you are.”

With that, unsure whether she had said too little or too much, Penelope turned away and started for home. It was not until she had slipped past Prudence and their mama and sequestered herself in her bedchamber that she cried with abandon. She cried because she was afraid, because she was uncertain, because Eloise had looked so lovely in the morning light, even with the reddened eyes that showed how she too had wept between their meetings of last night and this morning. Penelope cried because she was out of secrets, and tears had flooded in to fill the space.

[merakiui]

[vii.] ᵏⁱˢᵐᵉᵗ ᵏⁱˢˢ

serial killer!jade leech x female!reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief mentions of death/murder chapter vi│chapter vii (you are here)│chapter viii

Today’s Schedule: Breakfast at 8. Supply shopping from 9 until 10. Read the next two chapters in Criminal Law and Logistics from 11 until 12. Take notes. Lunch at half past 12. (At some point, organize materials for school within the next hour. Arrange a story regarding the internship before calling Mother. Free time between the hours of 1 to 5 (possible outing with (Name)?). Begin dinner at a quarter past 6. Bathe by 7 and prepare for bed by 9 (10 at the latest). 

Riddle peers at the white notebook in his lap with a disappointed frown. It’s a simple life planner with vermillion carnations stenciled on the front like floral bloodstains. Inside, the pristine, cream-colored pages are blotted with black ink. He’s crossed out and corrected a few lines, adding notes when necessary—keep empty parcels for Rosa’s maze or forward that new recipe to Trey—and for all of the unsuspecting fastballs life hurls at him he has never once strayed too far from his carefully crafted schedules. Never once…until today, that is. 

“Two hours,” he mumbles, his blank stare fixed on the police station sitting beyond the confines of his car.

With the sun positioned so high in the pastel sky, nearly at its peak with midday summer heat, he concludes that he has already wasted his morning away, foregoing shopping and studying in favor of talking to the authorities.

And for good reason, he reminds himself, a balm intended to soothe the irritating sting brought on by the disturbance. This is important. It’s worth the interruption.

He could fret over it, huff and puff like a dragon readying to spew wicked flames, but doing so will get him nowhere. It will not return the hours he’s lost, nor will it bring him any closer to a fraction of the truth regarding your sudden, untimely disappearance. He resolves, while chewing restlessly on his pen cap, that it’s best to remain composed in situations like the one he’s found himself in. 

Calm and objective, he thinks, scribbling over the time slots he had marked at the beginning of the week, so certain nothing would interfere with his schedule. There are far greater things at stake than missing a day’s worth of plans. 

He leans back in his seat, humming thoughtfully. The past two hours must have gone by in a blur, for he feels weightlessly detached, as if surfing upon a smooth wave, led along by some other force that is not his own internal compass. It’s been a while since he’s felt this way. Often, when his mother would lecture him about the many high expectations she had for him, he would retreat into the corners of his mind, safely content with tuning out her howls of hatred. This response came naturally with each passing year, a necessary safety net that caught him before he could fall. Using this method, everything else that came with her also became easier to stomach. Like the bland, too-healthy meals he’d learned to choke down as if they were not-so-fine wines matured with delusion. An acquired taste, some might say, but even with that optimistic outlook Riddle would never wish flavorless foods on his worst enemy. 

The officer who interviewed him was the same officer who met him at the beach the night he stumbled upon the body with you. In fact, he recognized Riddle as soon as he stepped into the room, a notebook in hand and a water bottle in the other. He’d set it on the desk, offered his hand to him (he’d taken it hastily, and for some reason he wondered if his nerves would make him look guilty), and then the officer pulled his chair towards Riddle, situated away from the desk that separated them like a cavernous pit. Riddle knew it was goodwill—to put his fears to rest and build rapport like it was a glass house, perfectly transparent so that it would display every crystalline truth. 

“Back again,” he said after introducing himself as Officer Rayne. Briefly, Riddle pondered how one might spell that surname—R-A-I-N or R-A-Y-N-E? Perhaps even R-E-I-G-N or R-E-I-N? “Any more visits and you might become one of us.” 

He didn’t understand the joke—was it intended to be humorous, or was it meant to lessen the tension that blanketed the atmosphere?—so he didn’t laugh. But he did produce an awkward smile, shrugging dumbly. Sitting before an officer in uniform, not restrained or reprimanded in any way, felt eerily forbidden. Every infraction Riddle had ever committed weighed heavy in his chest like a pile of stones, each one gradually sinking into the trenches of his stomach, and he was nearly on the verge of admitting every misdeed in a messy tangle of a rant. He swallowed thoughts of his most recent and longest crime to date and, still feeling like a timid boy who knew nothing of the real world, looked at Officer Rayne. 

He was going to say something—have you found any information regarding (Name)’s whereabouts?—but the question felt foolish. They wouldn’t know when they haven’t even begun looking. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut with a sigh, soothed with the knowledge that they would begin a proper investigation soon.

Luckily, Officer Rayne filled the awkward silence. “I hope it was okay for me to catch ya while you were making your report. Been meaning to ask a little more about the body, but I suspect that’s not why you came here today.” 

‘Catch ya’ and ‘suspect.’ Using those words while I’m completely innocent… Now that was a little funny, morbidly so, and he almost smiled at the irony. 

Riddle nodded and, his apprehensions at a low simmer, asked, “Did you…learn more about the body?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” 

He’s doing that thing, he thought, unimpressed. Being intentionally vague. Does he think I’m untrustworthy? 

“Well, you’re correct. I wasn’t here for the body and I’ve already told you everything I know, so I can’t answer any more questions regarding that matter.” He allowed the previous topic to roll off his back like water, feigning nonchalance—but asking that question made it seem otherwise—and felt himself slip over the edge of consciousness, words coming far too easy this time. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I’ve heard from my friend. Today marks the fourth day of no contact. I’m worried something’s happened.”

Officer Rayne clicked his pen, put it to paper, and said, “I take it you’re willing to fill me in on the details, then?”

“More than willing.” 

As if the thread of sentience had reached its fraying point, it snapped and with it Riddle fell into that empty void he’d cherished so much in his youth, his body entirely there, but his mind and soul elsewhere. Vacant and distant. Packaged in a neat box and ready to be unwrapped at the slightest shove into an environment that was far more comfortable and colorful than the dull, dismal interview room.

When he’d passed the lady at the desk—the one he’d given such a hard time before and the one who’d sat through the filing process—she nodded her farewell. Only then, when Riddle stepped into the blinding bright of the outdoors, did he return to his body.

He stares at the list he’s created in his agenda, surfacing from the momentary rumination, his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Important Information to Consider

(Name) and her temperament leading up to the disappearance.

(Name)’s history with disappearances. (Did she run away again? Spontaneous vacation?)

Our connection as friends.

Why I moved to the city. 

How long I’ve been in the city. 

What I was doing the day of (Name)’s disappearance.

What (Name) was doing the day of the disappearance.

The last time I talked to her. (phone call on Tuesday morning)

The body under the boardwalk.

The Devil’s Delight. 

Other connections (Cater, neighbor, glasses-wearing fellow/potential partner, other coworkers from previous and current jobs, friends from university?)

What the above were doing the day of the disappearance.

????

I should’ve paid closer attention, he thinks woefully. I shouldn’t have shut off like that. 

The tip of his pen waltzes circles around the question marks. “Focus,” he whispers, glaring at the page as if doing so will cause a helpful clue to materialize.

I remember telling him her phone is still on because every time I’ve called it rings and rings before going to voicemail. It’s possible they can trace it…or something tech-related like that.

Riddle sets the pen down to run a hand through crimson locks, heaving an exhausted groan. This is, by far, the worst puzzle he has ever had the displeasure of piecing together. It would be tolerable if the image he’s trying to assemble wasn’t so uncertain and frightening, shrouded in a gloom that may spiral to depths he hasn’t even considered. This puzzle doesn’t even come with a box, so he can’t possibly follow along with the portrait either. He’s working from scratch.

It’s not a complex landscape puzzle. Don’t treat it like one, he thinks, shaking his head, strands of hair falling between his fingers. Although if it was, I’d know exactly where everything goes and in what order it should be arranged. But this has all sorts of weird pieces. A mutilated corpse missing vital organs. A murder investigation. Whatever information Cater’s withholding. The incident reports. A missing person. What am I not seeing?

He skims his list once more until he reaches the sixth bullet point. At the time, he had only called to find solace in your voice, as you were the only one who could sympathize with the horrors that had swiftly descended the night prior. It did a world of good to talk as if nothing had ever dissolved your friendship—as if all that had transpired in the Rose Kingdom long ago never drove that troublesome wedge between the both of you.

But he’s matured a considerable amount since then, and so have you. Adults can be civil (most of the time). He can be civil (usually). And if it weren’t for that tell-tale edge in his voice he would have seemed flawlessly unruffled and he could have conversed naturally—or as naturally as one possibly could after being kept awake with spine-chilling dreams of a dead man. Saturday was supposed to be the day in which you would show him around the city, get him acquainted with your favorite haunts, and bake a strawberry tart in the comforts of your apartment together.

Together. As old friends. 

Today is that day, but you aren’t sitting beside him in the passenger seat, rattling off locations and directions while he agonizes over which way to go: “Is it left or right, (Name)? Stop laughing and be clear!” he’d gripe, his hands curled on the steering wheel, and everything would be normal. Instead, he sits alone in an empty vehicle, his planner in his lap, pen at his lips, and is left to sift through what were once mundane, unimportant recollections. Everything, even the slightest shift in mannerism, matters now that the circumstances have changed. 

I should’ve just agreed to come over that day. Then none of this would have ever happened. If I wasn’t so stubborn… If I wasn’t so scared… He shakes his head. No, that’s not it. Regardless of what I could’ve done then, it might not have had a significant impact. (Name) was already busy, so we would’ve had to part ways eventually. She had something to do when I called… A run. Right, she invited me to go on a run because she exercises.

He’s halfway through writing this fact when his hand halts, pen poised on the page.

“The run,” he whispers, as if it’s some terrible revelation. “Great Seven… The run!”

It occurs to him in a flash. You suggested he accompany you and he had declined as politely as he could, and then you offered he could walk as an alternative because, in your exact words, “Azul does that sometimes.”

Riddle hastily adds something else to the list in his agenda, perfect cursive unraveling with the frantic, jerky motions of his hand. 

I wasn’t the last one to talk to her and neither was Cater. He even said she had gone on a dinner date the night prior to her disappearance, and he was gratingly evasive when I pried for more details. Following that logic, if she didn’t voluntarily disappear, the one she met for dinner would be my top suspect. Either them, or her running friend. This Azul fellow…

There’s only one Azul he knows.

Riddle fumbles with his phone, hands trembling as theories swell like a rising tide.

He wouldn’t, he thinks, but then he hesitates. Would he?

It’s been ages since he’s communicated with most of his peers from Night Raven College. In fact, he’s really only kept in touch with Trey and Cater over the years. Deuce often sends him a message every month or so to check in or to discuss and exchange career advice, but other than that everyone else has gone their separate ways, linked only by the sticky, near-invisible strands of social media. Riddle doesn’t use his. Ever. It still has the posts he made to mend Cater’s abysmal studying regimen, and if it was capable of accumulating physical age it would certainly have its fair share of dust and cobwebs by now. As he scrolls through the accounts of those he’s following, grey eyes roving usernames and profile pictures, he considers the best and the worst of this situation. 

On one hand, he’s entirely wrong and the Azul you mentioned is not the Azul he knows. On the other hand, he’s entirely right and the Azul he knows is connected to you in some strange, unsettling way. He’s really hoping it’s a third possibility: He’s merely overthinking the matter and everything he’s considered up until this point is a jumble of false complications. 

His search yields nothing fruitful. Unfortunately, Azul’s account is not amongst the few he’s following. Riddle may not know Azul as well as he knows his closest friends, but he’s certain Azul wouldn’t abandon social media when it has so much potential for plentiful business connections. Either that, or he just never followed him when they were classmates. The latter seems more likely. Riddle has never been able to wrap his head around the intricacies of social media etiquette and he certainly has no need for it.

Cater had once instructed him in the art of many trending things—the art of the selfie, the art of the filter, the art of the block button—and so Riddle knows a few things about the online world. Very basic things, and most are rules and social protocol regarding a phenomenon he’ll never be able to grasp. Apparently, if you’re stalking someone’s page, you never like a post that’s dated by years. Apparently, you’re intended to file the facts you glean from invasive observation for later use. The mere concept sends a shiver of repulsion up his spine. He’s not a stalker or a cyber-stalker or a Magicam fanatic like Cater, but he is a novice sleuth (as of now) and that sits much better on the tongue than any of the previous titles. 

Riddle finds Cater’s profile, clicks on his list of followers, and types Azul Ashengrotto into the search bar. And, miraculously, Azul is there, but his account is private and Riddle finds himself at a digital roadblock. 

“Private,” he mutters; it comes out hateful, a nasty word. “Of course you are.”

Despite that, he still makes note of the username in his agenda. He writes, Possible personal account? Multiple accounts? in perfect, slanted cursive. And then, just to be thorough, he writes the number of posts made and the follower and following counts beside the theories. 

“How in the world would you know her?” he questions Azul’s profile picture—a generic photo of an ocean sunset. “And, more importantly, why?”

Perhaps he’s the one who took you on that dinner date, that cursed voice in the back of his skull pipes up. Riddle musses his hair and heaves another sigh, but as much as that supposition stabs him through with a horrible ache he has to take it into consideration. A date… If Azul truly does play some role in this and was potentially the last person to meet with (Name) before her disappearance, that would make him a prime suspect.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

He’s in the process of writing the Leech twins’ names when his hand stills. They aren’t always glued to Azul, and they aren’t being forced to stick around like loyal sentinels. The last he heard of them, they resolved to return to the Coral Sea after graduation on account of familial obligations. Riddle had always heard the shudder-worthy rumors that they came from a ruthless crime family, but in spite of all of that the twins had always acted more like clever nuisances or intimidating bullies rather than callous criminals. Of course it was a different story if you found yourself at their feet when you broke contract terms, but even then they kept within socially acceptable boundaries. Most of the time. As loath as Riddle is to admit it, it’s admirable that they’re able to break things silently. After all, if your jaw is too shattered, you’re sworn to secrecy until it’s repaired. 

With great certainty, the pen strikes through the words.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

Floyd Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

Jade Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

“Ah. Well, maybe it’s too early to rule anyone out…” His pen is at his mouth, tapping out a steady rhythm. “But, really, what business would those three have with (Name)?”

Unable to pluck a reasonable answer from thin air, he slouches in his seat and then, realizing his horrid posture, straightens at once. Riddle drags a hand over his face, exhales slowly, and lowers his hand after a minute of quiet reflection. The police station looms ahead and he glances between the familiar brick-walled building and the notes in his agenda. Logically, he should walk right back inside and share what he’s written to aid in the investigation.

“It’s important you keep a clear head during all of this,” Officer Rayne had told him as the interview had reached its conclusion. “We appreciate any and all info you’ve got, so don’t be shy to give us a ring.”

Riddle thinks he might have protested then. Something about how it felt wrong to sit around and do nothing. Something about feeling like he owed you. Something about wanting to disprove those reports. Something about building a better profile for you. Something about…something. 

“You’re doing plenty.” Officer Rayne smiled and indicated the notepad, which detailed all of the information from the hours-long conversation. “This situation’s out of your hands, and we wouldn’t recommend you do our work for us. Best let us handle the rest.”

Again, he opened his mouth. A grievance must have come tumbling out. 

“By filing a report and talking to me today, you’ve done a great deal of service. Don’t blame yourself for being unable to do more. What else could you have done? These things are unpredictable.”

Things, Riddle thought with a frown. What a casual way to refer to a disappearance.

He stood from his seat and Riddle followed his lead. At the doorway, he extended his hand and Riddle took it, shaking it firmly. “If your friend contacts you, let us know right away.”

Riddle nodded and stepped out of the room.

“And don’t let it get you down. We’ll find your friend.”

One way or another, he expected to hear, but he was already walking away. 

In the few minutes he spends ruminating, he manages to assemble a new list. Riddle peers at it, unsure of when he started writing and when he stopped thinking. 

Priorities

Get in touch with Azul.

Question Cater more thoroughly. 

Return to (Name)’s apartment and ask neighbors for any information. 

Continue transcribing any and all findings. 

Look for clues that might point in the direction of where (Name) went.

Create a timeline up until the disappearance and keep track of the number of days missing. 

Transfer the above and all new information into a notebook.

Again, his eyes fall upon the police station. He wonders if there’s a rule that forbids normal citizens from doing investigations of their own. It can’t hurt to want to gather some proof for himself, right? He won’t cross any laws so long as everything’s within legal bounds, and if more than one person is working on the case it might even speed up the process. After all, aren’t two brains better than one? 

And if there is a rule, he thinks as he reverses out of his parking spot, I certainly didn’t hear about it.

Turning onto the busy road, Riddle drives further from the station towards a far-off horizon spotted with wispy strands of cloud.

His first objective: Find Azul. 

Microphone in hand, Cater stands in the center of a soundproofed room and announces in an energetic tone, “My dearest, most loyal besties, a big TY for coming! As a newly formed band, our first order of business is to celebrate with cute snacks, cute drinks, and even cuter company!” He punctuates that last part with a playful whistle and a wink. 

In response, the two men sitting in the neon pink booth raise their glasses high. Both are filled with a sparkling substance, one so vermillion it’s nearly blood itself and the other a vivid orange. Lilia has ordered a Crimson Whisper—a delightful strawberry and raspberry margarita accompanied with a lime wedge and a skewer of sliced fruits. Kosher salt lines the rim, and under the dimmed lights it twinkles like pinpricks of diamond. Kalim’s beverage is known as the Tropical Tryst Twist, and it’s a fizzy tangerine and lemon cocktail decorated with a blue paper umbrella. A few ruby-red cherries are nestled amidst the ice. 

Cater makes it a mission to familiarize himself with his favorite karaoke bar’s menu, but despite every food and drink combination he’s come across (some photographed and strung up on his social media and others admired from afar) he cannot stomach the sweetness. So for tonight—like most nights—he chooses something that is, as his sisters would often say, “so not cute.” Beer is his go-to, even if his carefully curated Magicam feed is adorned with photos of pastries and sugary drinks galore. Peel back the pretty wallpaper and you'll find the dollhouse is not what it seems. But festering in rot is so not cute, and so for this reason he plasters the bitter with beauty.

Fortunately, tonight is not a bitter night, and unlike the boring drink in his hand he still raises it to toast with the others. Their glasses join with a resounding clink. 

Kalim pulls his drink away first, bringing it to his lips for a long sip. “This is exciting!” He sets it down on a coaster and beams, radiating raw joy. “I’ve never been in a real band before! Oh, we should publicize it, right? I can get my dad to help with that. He’ll be our first fan!”

Cater chuckles awkwardly. “Loving the enthusiasm, Kalim. Super-duper cute! But we need songs before we can start putting ourselves out there.”

Lilia hums his agreement. “I suppose what we’ve produced thus far wouldn’t exactly qualify as a true song.”

“At least it’s something… Oh! What if we took one of our short clips and extended it? Maybe add a few other instruments and beats so it feels like music you’d want to stop everything you’re doing and dance your troubles away to! Something summery and sweet!”

“Ooh, brilliant idea, Kalim. I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. You never know until you try.” 

“Right? Right?! Everyone likes to dance, and you need fun music to create fun energy! We could definitely do it.”

Their eyes flit to him now. Cater twirls the microphone in his hand, humming as he considers it. It’s a lot of work to produce music, and they often fooled around during club hours when they were in school. But they’ve done it before. Granted, thirty-second previews of sound can’t quite make it to trending if they aren’t captivating enough. Things like that aren’t anything to write home about, or so he often thinks when he browses the list of unnamed tracks cluttering his laptop’s home screen. 

Cater’s grip on the microphone tightens. He smiles, slackens his shoulders, and flashes a cheerful thumbs-up. “Cay Cay’s got a plan!”

“Oh my.” Lilia’s eyes sharpen with curiosity. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you’ve gathered us here for the sake of this very plan.”

“Discerning as ever, Lils! That’s right. I was actually hit with some crazy inspiration recently. And because of that…” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “A drum roll, if you would be so kind.”

Kalim laughs and slaps his hands upon the table. Lilia follows suit until they’re both pounding on it, the force rattling the macaron pyramid they ordered earlier. Cater, invigorated by their support, swipes his phone from off the table, flicks it on, and scrolls through his song drafts. He turns his screen towards Lilia and Kalim with a dramatic flourish.

“Behold—my soon-to-be magnum opus!”

They peer at it, and then a duet of awestruck oohs fills the room. 

“This is shaping up to be very exciting.”

“Wow!” Kalim whistles, impressed. “I can’t believe I’m looking at lyrics for a potential song! Aha, you’re so cool, Cater!”

“Aren’t I?” he boasts, lowering into the booth across from them, a picture-perfect portrait of nonchalance. “I call it ‘Kismet Kiss,’ and it’s a song about fun feelings! It sounds kinda pop idol, but hear me out! We can find some way to work punk-rock into it, or we could hit everyone with an idol song and then ease into rock.”

“Like a sound buffet!” Kalim plucks a macaron from the tower and pops it in his mouth. “I think that’s a great idea. I’m down if you are, Lilia.”

“I wonder if we’d be able to handle so many genres at once.” He takes a slow, contemplative sip from his drink, a smile spreading on his lips. “I certainly look forward to experimenting. Is that not what youth is all about?”

“Well, don’t keep us in the dark! Let us hear your lyrics!”

“It’ll sound really yikes if I sing without any music, so give ‘em a read and lemme know what ya think! The Cater Inbox is open for criticisms! Constructive only, please and thank you.”

Cater passes his phone to Kalim, who takes it in his hands and sidles closer to Lilia so both can read simultaneously. While they peruse the lyrics, Cater taps out an anxious rhythm against his half-empty pint glass.

Kismet Kiss! - Cicada City Lyrics

I could never tell you 

Of the feelings locked in my heart

For they’re twisted and thorny, but a special work of art! 

It must be fate or destiny

Maybe even cosmic chemistry

Look only at me, me, me, me, me! 

And soon you’ll begin to see… 

Why is it that you gaze at me with such sincerity?

It’s kinda weird

Because suddenly everything’s so sparkly 

Brightness blinds me eternally 

You take my hand in yours and lead me astray

Hey~ 

Won’t you turn my way and promise you’ll stay?

Woohoo!

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss 

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss 

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss! 

It's as if the tarot has foretold,

That I’ll follow you wherever you go 

No matter what, it’s a clingy kismet kiss

And now the skies have darkened with mist 

The fortune says it’ll rain

I wonder if it’s a reflection of all this pain

Since everything has become so very

Otherworldly and strange

What are the secrets you keep,

When you think I am asleep? 

Leaning in to lo-lo-lo-love you! 

Forevermore, it’s brand new! 

All these moods

You match my fake attitudes

Astral planes,

They rise and fall

You’re a jellyfish witch who knows how to enthrall

A sculpture of elegance in a crumbling hall

Oh dear, you’ve gone and collared me

And I can no longer say I feel free 

Hey… 

Whatever happened to the sugar strains in your veins?

Woohoo! 

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss 

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss 

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss! 

Our very own kismet kiss

Painted in hazy constellations you’ll miss

If you can’t open up your eyes

And confront your star-spotted demise!

There’s an uncomfortable silence that thickens in the air, and Cater counts the seconds it takes before it’s disturbed by Kalim’s gasp. Eleven seconds.

“You wrote this?”

Cater curls his fingers into a tight, self-assuring fist, nails pricking his palms. “Sure did. Penned by yours truly and everything! It’s still not finished, though. I’m always going back to edit, but so far that’s the most coherent draft I have. So whatcha think? It’s totally cute, yeah?”

“It’s very telling,” Lilia praises with a cryptic grin. Cater doesn’t like the wisdom discreetly woven into his next words. “You can learn a lot from the speaker in the song. Some truths are best expressed in writing, after all. When we put pen to paper, left alone with but our wrist and brain, we’re usually very honest with the page.”

As always, you’re a mystery, Cater thinks with a thin smile. Maybe I shouldn’t have shared it so confidently.

“It’s a masterpiece! Seriously, this is poetry and art and everything else! I love it! Oh! Did you write it with anyone in mind? You said you had some inspiration, right? I’m always getting inspired when I see the sun or clouds shaped like animals or even when I’m eating sweets! But what about your inspiration?”

Cater uncurls his fist to take his phone from Lilia’s outstretched hand. “Riddle said a really cool line a few days ago and it kinda stuck with me.”

It’s not a total lie. 

“Ah, that’s right. You’ve mentioned before that he took up a position at your workplace,” Lilia muses, flicking his wrist to swipe three macarons from the tower with magic. They float over lazily and he opens his mouth to receive each one with a delighted hum. “How is he faring?”

“He became Mr. Manager in under two weeks.”

Kalim laughs. “It was also like that at NRC, wasn’t it? Sounds just like Riddle to go for the top spot!”

Cater waves his hand through the air dismissively, suddenly disinterested in the subject of this conversation. “DD’s become Heartslabyul: The Sequel ever since he joined.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not not a bad thing?” He slumps in the booth. “I mean, it’s cool to work with an old friend, but Riddle’s so…Riddle. He just never eases up, you know?”

“I think it’s fun! Maybe I should work there, too! Ooh, wouldn’t that be cool? We could all work with Cater. It’ll be like club meetings all over again!”

“That sounds super-duper sweet, but I don’t think we’d get any work done if that were the case.”

Kalim deflates with a nervous chuckle. “Ah, yeah… You make a fair point.”

“I surmise Riddle wouldn’t be very keen to work with all three of us. That boy has always been too diligent.”

Cater gazes at him from over the rim of his glass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Lilia quirks a sly smile, amused to have his own words pointed right back at his throat. “It’s unhealthy to have too much of anything. After all, excessive diligence leads to perfectionism taken to extremes.”

“Isn’t that just the cutest description for our ridiculous Riddle?”

“I dunno,” Kalim says, shrugging. “It’s kinda admirable, don’tcha think?”

“Perhaps.” Lilia commands another macaron with ease. He bites half of it this time, the other half suspended in the air. “Even the most debilitating obsessions stem from some unique form of admiration.”

“Oh? Is that experience talking, Lils?”

Cater’s eyes are sharper than a sword when they pierce through the faerie sitting across from him. A fanged smile is the only response he receives just as Lilia closes his mouth around the remaining macaron half. Crumbs flutter to the floor. And just before he can pry a little further—dig into him with a verbal knife and fork—his mobile phone chirps out a happy ringtone, thus disturbing the tension stretching taut between them. Cater holds Lilia’s gaze a moment longer before surrendering and peering at his phone. He doesn’t have the forethought to stifle his annoyed groan. 

“You totes jinxed it!” He flips his phone towards them to show Riddle’s icon on the caller ID.

Kalim lets out a hearty chortle. “We really did! Hey, why don’t we invite Riddle since he’s calling? We have enough macarons for him, and if we run out I’ll just order more. Does he drink, Cater? We can order something before he gets here!” 

“Oh, you’re way too nice! Although Riddle’s a pretty busy guy… I don’t think he’d wanna intrude. Maybe next time?” 

“But he’s always welcome! The more the merrier.”

“I could ask, but I’d hate to bother him if he’s already busy. That’s never cute.”

Drop it, Kalim. I don’t want Riddle here.

“Oh?” Lilia cocks his head to the side just as Cater’s phone rings a second time. He watches him hurry to switch it off. “If it’s important, don’t let us get in your way.”

“It’s fine.” It comes out harsher than he intended, so he laughs and plucks a macaron from the tray. The sweet remains in his palm. “I mean, come on! I see enough of Riddle already. He can just tell me what he wants the next time we’re on shift, or he can text me. Calling is so old school nowadays.”

“But if he’s calling you more than once…” Kalim’s lips curl into a concerned pout. “If it’s a secret, I’ll cover my ears.”

“No, no. Really, it’s A-okay! He’s just been a little cray ever since (Name) disappeared.”

The oxygen in the room seems to slither away and suddenly he can’t breathe. Or, more realistically, he’s forgotten to take a breath when Kalim and Lilia fix him with stern looks. 

“Oh my.”

“(Name) disappeared? That’s not good!”

“It’s not a big deal. She’s always getting lost and found, so she’ll come around eventually.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” Lilia notes, brows furrowed. 

“Should I be?” Realizing how frigid that sounds, he chuckles airily. “I mean, it’s normal for her to go ghost for a few days. She’s been like this for years now. It’s nothing new.”

“Still, isn’t that scary? Aren’t you afraid she might’ve gotten into trouble or worse?” Kalim insists, nodding in agreement with Lilia’s earlier observation. 

Cater blinks, allowing their words to seep into the very pores on his skin. “Um, well, I guess it’d be concerning to people who don’t know anything… But trust me on this. I know (Name). She’s probs living it up with her pseudo-boyfriend.”

“Well, if you say so.” Lilia shrugs, but those carmine hues remain centered on his phone as if awaiting another call. 

“Shouldn’t you file a missing report? What if she isn’t with her boyfriend? Or, uh, her not-boyfriend?”

“Guys, I promise she’s finer than wine!” To prove it, he pulls up your Magicam profile, scrolls through the feed, and clicks on an older post. The photograph in question is a view of the expansive ocean from a cruise ship’s deck, glossy wood railing displaying two half-empty drinks: a mojito and a daiquiri. “She cut all contact with me for, like, a few days, and I went to file a report because I thought something had happened. But then she posts this just as I’m leaving the station, and so I had to go back in there and let ‘em know it was a false alarm. It totally harshed my vibes! I looked like I was crying wolf and that is so not the mood!”

Kalim peers at the photo. “Looks fun, but why didn’t she tell you where she was going?”

“She never does.” Cater shrugs and pockets the device just as another call comes in. Thankfully, it goes right to his voicemail. “That’s just how she is.”

“Does that upset you?”

Cater raises a brow. “I’m not her babysitter, Lils. Besides, besties don’t have to tell each other everything. It’s not part of some bestie code or anything. We’re not sworn to each other in some blood pact either. She lives her life and I live mine. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“Aw. But sharing secrets makes a friendship so much stronger,” Kalim says, slouching in the booth. “Jamil knows some of my secrets! Like that time I accidentally swapped the salt and sugar. He’s the only one I’ve ever told. Ah, wait! I’ve just told you and Lilia… Pretend you didn’t hear that, okay?”

Cater pantomimes locking his lips and tossing an invisible key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Not that it’s anything criminal.

“It follows me to the grave! Swapping the salt and sugar is an offense punishable by death, after all.” Lilia chuckles, though Cater suspects his amusement stems from another place. He’s definitely guilty of that exact mishap. 

“If I’m being honest,” he starts, and that first part is already a lie, “I don’t think (Name) wants me to know about her life. Or, more specifically, her super-secret not-boyfriend.”

“Why? Are you curious?” Kalim cocks his head to the side.

“Obviously! Dude’s, like, megarich! Of course I’d be curious. Who wouldn’t?” Cater taps a painted fingernail against the macaron in his palm. “Every time we talk about him, she keeps it real vague. Sometimes I think this guy’s just fiction. TBH, if I had rich arm candy, I’d flaunt them all the time. No offense, Kalim.”

“Huh? Why?” He blinks in confusion. “Isn’t it good to feel proud of someone you like?”

“Well, this situation is slightly different, isn’t it?” Lilia asks, looking to Cater for confirmation.

“Based on the data I’ve acquired,” he says, raising a finger and putting on a professional voice that earns him laughter from Kalim and a grin from Lilia, “I can confidently theorize that there’s more to their little game of give and take. Because, really, how much loveless sex can you possibly have before the feels start seeping through?”

“But she never claimed to harbor feelings, or am I assuming incorrectly?”

“It was the opposite, actually. She told me she was breaking up with him because he couldn’t hit the right spots.” 

Lilia raises his hand to his mouth, shielding a razored smile. “Dear me. That’s no good.”

“Or maybe,” Kalim posits, “it has nothing to do with sex. Maybe he can’t hit the spots in her heart.”

Cater stares, realizes he’s staring approximately ten seconds later, and forces himself to laugh in disbelief. “(Name) in love? Please, Kalim! She’d never.”

“How do you know? If there’s a connection, but it isn’t reciprocated…” Kalim shrugs and stuffs a macaron in his mouth, continuing his next words with a muffle: “I’m just guessing. Actually, I just thought it felt right, you know? I don’t know your friend—but I’d like to one day—so I can’t say that’s why she did what she did, but not everyone has the same spots. Maybe she wanted more from him, but he couldn’t give it to her.”

“Kalim, you know I appreciate you and your pure heart, but good dick and love are two separate things. You can love good dick, but good dick can’t give you love if the relationship isn’t built on it to begin with.” Lilia cackles at the phrasing, but Cater adds in a clipped tone, “I know (Name). It had nothing to do with love. It’s just convenience.”

Kalim pouts. “Then, if she really didn’t love him, what if he loved her?”

“Oh? Is this a sudden twist in the suspicious soap opera? I’m on the edge of my seat.” Lilia interjects, eyes wide, hands spread like he’s a magician who’s just performed a magnificent trick worthy of applause. “The youths of today are so creative. Back in my day, you could pierce your lover with Cupid’s arrow if you sang a love song, wrote flowery poetry, or defeated a rival in a bloody battle for the heart!”

“Lils, that’s so medieval…”

“Far from it! Even today, love songs and poems are still quite popular. Sometimes the battle part applies. Or am I a century behind?”

“That’s funny! You’re so silly, Lilia!” 

I don’t think he’s joking, Kalim…

Lilia tilts his head, blinking owlishly, a smile spreading on his face. “I’m happy to entertain.”

“Listen, if he loved her, I wish him the best of luck. (Name) makes herself hard to love. I should know. I’m her bestie, after all. Maybe that’s why she’s ghosting us. Things got too lovey-dovey and she had to set sail. She’ll be back in a day or two once she’s returned from her boring little island of loneliness.”

“I suppose patterns are easier to predict once you’ve fallen into them…”

“Right? You get it, Lils. She’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine! (Name) just needs her space, Riddle needs a chill pill, and we need to get back on track. So! ‘Kismet Kiss,’ yeah? It’s a good debut song, right?”

“What if he didn’t give her a choice?” Kalim blurts, and both heads turn in his direction. He fidgets, his fingers curling into his jacket. “I guess… Well, it’s scary to admit, but what if she really did disappear and Riddle’s worries are totally valid?”

“You think she got kidnapped?”

“Um… I’m not saying that…”

“He’s saying it, but it’s at a frequency we just can’t understand. Like subliminal messaging.”

“Lilia!” Kalim squeezes his eyes shut with a groan. “You’re gonna jinx it!”

“That’s what Riddle thinks happened. I keep telling him it’s nothing like that, but you know how he gets. Once his mind is made up, it’s hard to change it.” 

“Riddle’s not wrong in thinking the worst.”

“Yeah! Riddle’s always been so sensible, so I trust his judgment. Your gut never lies, after all.”

“But he’s wrong this time, okay?”

“How can you know for sure?”

What is this, an interview? Give me a break.

“I just know.” Green eyes sparkle under neon lights, no longer pits of gloom set into his skull. “Her pattern’s easy to follow, Lils. And I used to burden myself with the worst of the worst, but that’s so not cute! I’d rather chalk it up to her usual behavior than think she’s lying in some dark ditch, hacked to pieces.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Cater…”

“I’ll admit it does paint a rather grisly image.”

“You think?” 

Kalim stares, his mouth foolishly agape. 

He shakes his head, tutting, and holds his finger up to his lips. With a wink, he says, “The worst becomes ten times cuter when it’s absurd! There’s no way she’s in a ditch. We’re in the city. Where is anyone gonna find the nearest ditch when everything’s all concrete and steel?”

Lilia hums, but Cater surmises he isn’t buying the cheery assurances. In fact, the more he tells himself these things, the less he believes them. “If you say so. I shan't push it further.” He lifts his glass with magic and brings it to his lips to finish what’s left. “The worst lies are often, as you usually phrase it, ‘addictively adorable,’ so perhaps you aren’t entirely wrong either.” Blood-red liquid tilts towards waiting lips. “Your friend may not be in a ditch, but she might be enshrouded in a gilded falsehood.”

Cater opens his mouth to reply and is promptly interrupted by the ringing of a timer.

Kalim gasps and scrambles to silence it. “Has it already been two hours? No way! We haven’t even had a chance to sing yet!”

“I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Aah, this really is like club meetings all over again…” He smiles fondly, his eyes glazing with reminiscence. “I guess it can’t be helped. We always have things to talk about when we meet up!”

Lilia grins and bumps shoulders with him. “You’ll never be short of conversation topics with me.”

“I believe it!”

They glance at Cater. He blinks back at them. 

“Then should we call it a night? Jamil’s probably wondering why I haven’t gotten back to him yet… Oh, right. I forgot to tell him we were hanging out tonight. Haha! Oops!”

How can you be so carefree? I’d like to know your secret. 

“As much of a night owl as I am, we’ve long overstayed our welcome. Perhaps we’ll meet again tomorrow? We can discuss your song and goals for the band then. Travel is not a challenge for me, though I assume you might be a little busy, Kalim?”

“It’s complicated, but I can definitely make time for you guys! You’re my friends and I wanna hang out! Next time, we definitely have to invite Riddle and I’ll bring Jamil, too!”

No, it’s not being carefree. You’re just careless.

Cater flashes them a smile that’s just as empty as his eyes, yet it seems to do the trick. Either that, or Lilia just doesn’t wish to verbalize his observations. “Totally! We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

“I look forward to it. I think Cicada City is shaping up to be quite the shining star with a promising future.”

“Ooh, shining stars! I love it! We gotta talk about outfits, too.” Kalim pops up from the booth. “Ah! But before that, you should talk to your friend, Cater. Make sure she’s okay. I hope she’s safe.”

“As do I. Better to be safe than sorry, as they often say.”

Cater nods. “Yep, yep! You can count on Detective Cay Cay! I’ll get to the bottom of this mystery in no time.”

The macaron in his hand is subjected to a brutal crushing.

This is so not sweet. I completely forgot to take pictures for Magicam.

[sovonight]

waiting (candle event, radri ver, 3k words) ↴

—✧✧✧—

As the light from the window recedes, casting her journal into shadow, Radri sets a candle upon the candle holder on the nightstand, then reaches over the side of the bed, rummaging around in her pack for flint and steel. As she fumbles around for it, Xan glances over from his place beside her, and extends a hand.

"Allow me," he says. With a small gesture and a whisper of a command, the wick catches flame.

"Oh," Radri says, looking up the lit candle, "Thank you."

She abandons her now unnecessary search, and opens her journal once more. Xan glances over again.

"I never found the chance to ask what you write about," he says.

"Mm?" Radri narrowly avoids leaving a blot of ink on the page, and gives her pen a dissatisfied frown, resolving to be more careful. "Normal things, I suppose. What happened today, what quests are in progress, what supplies we expended…."

"A summary of events, then, rather than a collection of personal reflections?" Xan says. "Did you keep such a journal in Candlekeep, as well?"

In Candlekeep? She had never considered it. Imagining it now, her entries would have blended together in their sameness; her days were a mixture of lessons and chores, with the only real variables being the subjects she was taught, and the people around her.

"I didn't keep a journal at all," Radri says. "I was always so tired of writing by the end of each day—the last thing I wanted to do was light a candle and write into the night." She gives her current setup a wry smile.

"But now that I'm gone… there's something comforting about the routine," Radri says. "The scent of paper, the ink… even the flame. Though Candlekeep isn't so full of candles as its name would suggest."

Then she blinks, and lifts her gaze from her journal, glancing over to him.

"I remember seeing that you have a journal, as well. Don't you keep track of similar things?"

"Of our every encounter, foe, and death?" Xan says. "If I dwell too long on what has happened to us, I soon grow astonished at the fact that we are even still alive—and against my will, the mind wanders. I prefer to keep my entries to more pleasant reflections."

"Pleasant reflections?" Radri echoes, curious, "Like what?"

"What else?" Xan says, gazing at her softly. "Thoughts of you, and our love."

—

Radri swirls the liquid wax around in the flat pan of the candle holder, drawing circles around the dying flame. Just as the wick is about to run out, she catches the flame on a fresh one, and sets the new candle beside her closed journal. Her journal entry for the day is complete; she is tired, and she is long due for reverie; and yet, something keeps her awake.

Xan. She sighs, staring into the dull, abandoned pool, watching the wax slowly begin to solidify again. She doesn't know why she's still waiting for him. He prefers to study his spells alone—and she has often fallen into reverie waiting for him to finish—but never so consistently or so often as in these past several days. A shadow has fallen across his dark, gray eyes, and though she lingers in bed, pretending to still be in reverie to ensure he gets all the hours he needs, he hardly looks rested.

When she asks, Xan says nothing. But—she hasn't really asked, has she? Are you alright, is no true substitute for, I'm worried about you. Is something wrong? Is it something I did? Are you avoiding m—

Radri gives her head a sharp shake. No—it does no use to jump to conclusions, and she's been through this dance before. All she has to do is wait for Xan to come tell her everything.

…No, that's not it. The last time she had waited, in just a tenday he had formed a conviction to leave her forever.

Radri stands, sending the candle's flame flickering in the residual breeze of her movement, worry suddenly taking hold in her chest. Her heart is set—she's going to go find him. Xan is probably still at that worn table on the floor below; at this hour, there are none but the stillness and darkness of night to keep him company. Her mind made up, Radri crosses the room in three quick strides, and opens the door—

—And comes face to face with Xan, who stumbles back a step in surprise.

"Radri," Xan gasps. With the glimpse he'd caught of her expression, he sends a cautious glance behind him, before facing her again. "You—you looked as if you were about to storm a dungeon. Are we leaving already?"

Then he looks past her, into the room, where the wax carnage by the candle holder she's been using to stave off the darkness serves as clear evidence of her sleeplessness.

"…Or have you not even rested yet, at all?" Xan looks worriedly down at her. Radri feels, for an instant, abashed to have raised his concern—but no, she has to collect herself. She is worried about him. And she must say it!

"I… I couldn't," Radri says. Yes, a good start—

"I…" she continues, and now, she should ask him now—

"I hadn't yet received your kiss goodnight." NO!

But her excuse has already left her in a nervous rush of words, too late to be swallowed now. Xan, understandably, stares at her—and mentally, she buries her face in her hands. How could her resolve have fled her so quickly?

"I… did not know it was that significant to you," Xan says, slightly puzzled, and it takes her a second to remember what she'd said that he's responding to, "Forgive me for the oversight."

Leaning carefully in, as though partly convinced that she might prove to be an illusion once he touches her, Xan leaves a simple, light kiss on her cheek. When he pulls back away, he seems silently astonished at having confirmed that she is, in fact, real. But Radri's mind holds no room to process this observation; her fingertips rise to touch the kiss he'd placed on her cheek, and her face reddens in embarrassment. He'd… he'd humored her… but perhaps this is the best approach. After all, it's not in her nature to tackle an encounter head-on.

"Are you going to come in and join me?" Radri asks. Though she tries for casual, her voice seems, to her ears, to betray her hours of waiting and doubt. But if Xan thinks the same, it does not show, and he does not refuse her.

Xan moves through his nightly ritual, putting his spellbook upon the nightstand and leaning his moonblade against it, so that he might always have it on hand. Meanwhile, Radri feels as nervous inside as she did the first time they'd shared a room, and finds herself standing still at the foot of the bed, uncertain what to do with her arms.

Xan lays down on the bed, then looks up at her. Perhaps it's just her, or the distance, or the flicker of the candle—but she thinks she sees amusement in his eyes.

"Come here," Xan says fondly, and in that moment, the spell of her nervousness is broken. She hastens over and falls into his arms; Xan's soft, breathy chuckle floats across the top of her head.

"If you were in such a hurry, you need not have waited for me."

She curls up closer, nestling her head against his chest, her ear pressed to his heart. He misunderstands; what she'd waited for is his closeness.

"Will you take my hand?" Radri asks; she misses his company in reverie. Xan sighs.

"I am in no state to show you my memories of Evereska tonight, if that is what you were hoping for."

"I don't want to see, so much as I just want to be with you."

"Well, then, I am already with you." Xan kisses her hair. Her heart clenches, and she tries again.

"Xan… has something been troubling you, lately?"

"I am surprised that you would ask me this," he says. "Many things trouble me, Estel'amin, and at many times." Though his answer is neutral, something beneath it is just slightly tense.

"Does it have to do with me?"

"You are on my mind too often for these troubling thoughts to never lead back to you." But he had hesitated… just barely.

Radri finds her breath caught in her throat. This is the moment; she cannot bear to blurt out any more excuses.

"Is it why you wait for me to fall into reverie, first, before you join me?" Her heart beats so loudly that it nearly drowns out the sound of her own voice in her ears. "I—Is it… why you've been been avoiding me?"

In the aftermath of releasing those words from her mind, she barely registers the fact that Xan's body has stilled, his breath frozen in his chest; her thoughts, many and jumbled, tumble forth, fighting for the chance to form on her tongue.

"I—I'm sorry," Radri finds herself stammering. "After all… it's an uneven arrangement, isn't it? You have such a beautiful city to show me, and I only have books and repetition—the same story, day in and day out. And then I finally left, only to start having these visions… these nightmares. Why would you want to live through them with me? I understand, really. I should never have—"

"Radri."

With one swift movement, she's no longer curled up against his chest, but laying on her back on the bed itself. Xan is leant over her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, his face cast into uneven shadow by the curtain of his hair. She can't help but notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, which are still apparent even in this dim light—but more than that, what strikes her is how pained he looks by her words.

"Is that what you think?"

Radri feels, suddenly, that she's gotten the answer very wrong. She's transported back to Candlekeep: one of her tutors stares at her from the board, tutting at her, as Imoen, sprawled casually at the desk next to hers, signals secretly to her what she should have said instead.

But the Imoen of her mind's eye has no choice but to fade away without helping her; there is nowhere in the world that contains knowledge of what Xan is thinking right now, except for Xan himself.

"What," she says, quietly, "Should I think instead?"

Xan, surprisingly, does not answer immediately. He seems, for the first time in a while, lost for words—though not for a lack of emotion for them to express. She watches his expression shift, from reflection, to frustration, to helplessness, to—

"I have been trying to shield you from my struggles," Xan manages at last, "But I see that I have failed."

Pulling away from her, he continues, "I… I keep having visions."

"I am alone with you on a beautiful glade—and we are ambushed by monsters. I join you in your reverie—and wake up next to your lifeless corpse. I let down my guard, and you are taken from me—" He pauses, taking in a shaky breath, eyes glazed over by the memory, "And there are many more. You cannot imagine the perils my eyes see."

"Fear has always plagued me, Radri. Fears of dying, of losing you, of hurting you, of dragging you into the void of my lonely, desolate existence… But now they are not simply that: they are live nightmares I cannot escape, and I dread my reverie every night. How can I share it with you, when I know what my mind will show you?" Xan says, and pulls his gaze away from her, bowing his head. "I am lost, Estel'amin. Lost in darkness… and even the candles of your room are not able to drive it away."

Radri begins to reach out to him, but pauses, his words still running through her head. She feels like she's forced this from him; she's sorry to have pushed him. Perhaps, if she'd just observed in silence longer, she could have guessed that this was what troubled him… but she can't help but think back to that first night, when their shared reverie went awry. Even with her tears, her confession, his words, and his comfort, what she remembers above all is relief, to no longer be holding all of her fears inside.

So she brings herself to him, and she holds him close.

"You can show me," Radri says. "I wish I knew what to say to drive this darkness away… I wish I could do for you what you do for me. But I will always be here to listen."

"I want to know everything about you, Tahlimil," she confesses; despite having spoken it in her mind many times, his name is still new on her tongue, and she feels his breath catch to hear it. "Not just your hopes, but your fears. Not just your shining moments of happiness, but your present sorrows. I want to be here with you, through all of it. There is not a moment in which I would wish that you had spared me… I don't think it's possible for us to spare each other, anymore."

Her heart is beating loud and fast in her chest; she wonders if he can feel it, if he can tell that she feels more nervous and vulnerable now than she does when she whispers to him that she loves him, before all the eyes of the world. Xan, held close, now pulls away to look her in the eyes.

"Estel'amin," Xan says, "I…"

He looks taken by disbelief and awe; he looks as if he wishes to kiss her. But then, another thought comes to him—and she can spy this exact moment, by the sudden look of resolve in his eyes.

"There is a question that has been on my mind for far too long," Xan says. "I have agonized over when to ask it, but I think it can only be now. I feel as you do. I would share everything with you: my memories, my emotions, my life… and I would know you, in turn, as dearly and intimately as I have only ever known myself."

He takes her hand; his fingers, and the rings upon them, are normally cool upon her skin, but tonight they exude pure warmth.

"I wish to forge the bond that will unite my world with yours," Xan says. "I wish to have you in my arms, Estel'amin… will you have me?"

The building elation that she'd felt throughout his first sentences falters, stuttering to a halt. Suddenly, their closeness comes to the forefront of her awareness. His touch, his gaze, and even the mundane way the fabric of their clothes has tangled together around their bodies; to notice these things now leaves a weight in her chest.

"Are you afraid?" Xan asks, softly.

She can't respond; he does not push her.

"I know," Xan says, and if Radri were less preoccupied by her thoughts, she would note that his tone betrays a hint of nervousness, "This commitment is far too great to fathom in a single moment. An elven bond is the closest intimacy I could have asked of you; I have had many days to reflect on it, and yet I have not granted you the same. I am not so fragile that I will turn away from you if you refuse me tonight."

Hearing that, her head jerks up, startling him slightly. He thinks that this is what she would refuse? How could he imagine that she would, when even in the earliest of their days together—after she, by a miracle, had managed to convince him to stay—she had thought secretly, wistfully back to the kind of bond she had only ever been able to read about in books?

No, the cause of this pressure in her chest is from the other half of his request, tied so smoothly to the first: I wish to have you in my arms. She imagines that if she were anyone else, she would have already flung herself into Xan's waiting embrace, but though she tries to picture this, to rehearse for the actions she will surely take in the next moment, she cannot do it.

"I... I have dreamed of our bond. For an embarrassingly long time," Radri confesses, and says a silent farewell to such dreams as she admits, "But I am not ready to give you the rest of what you have asked. I'm sorry."

Ducking her head, she closes her eyes tight, ready to hear him sigh and turn away... but the sound never comes.

“Then our bond is all I ask,” Xan says.

Shocked, she looks up at him. Xan no longer looks nervous; he does not even appear disappointed, as she’d feared. Instead, he looks as if he’d received the very answer he had hoped for.

"What do you mean?" Radri asks, "You… you're still willing, to...?"

"Radri," Xan says, a fond, relieved smile pulling at his lips, "Our bond is the one part of my question that I had always feared you would refuse. The rest can wait until the day you wish for it."

For a moment, she can do nothing but stare in disbelief. That feeling of elation returns, building little by little, replacing the heaviness in her chest.

"Can you ask me again?" Radri says, feeling somewhat breathless, "S—so… so that I might accept properly?"

"I have longed to forge the bond that will unite my world with yours," Xan begins again for her, and adds, with a look of unbearable tenderness, "I love you, Estel'amin. Will you have me?"

And at last she answers in a whispered, "Yes."

—

When Radri wakes, Xan is sitting up beside her, already awake himself. She stretches her arms out to hug him around the waist, and closes her eyes again.

"You've spent less time in reverie than I," she grumbles, "How is it that you're already awake?"

"Is it your wish that I return to bed, then?" Xan asks, brushing through her hair with an idle hand. "I will… But first, I noticed that you were running short of candles, so I brought you one."

Xan presents her with a lit candle. Radri, sitting up, beholds it with bewilderment.

"I… Thank you, but… if you're already burning it now, won't it go to waste?" Radri asks, looking at him. Still new to her heart, his presence and his feelings there are not yet easy to sort through, but she manages to single one out: anticipation.

"There is more to it, Estel'amin," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "Just trust me."

Holding the candle between them, he faces her seriously.

"I wish to give you a promise, together with this candle," Xan says. "I… I feel you, now, as clearly as I feel myself. I know your fears as sharply as I know mine. And I promise: while you are here, with me, in reverie or in the waking world, you will not run out of candles, and whenever you have need of me, you will not find me wanting. —If you do have need of me, that is."

He extinguishes the candle, and looks at her with a slight smile.

"I almost do not believe it, but I feel… hopeful," Xan says. "And there, the candle is out. Do you forgive me for squandering it, now?"

"Yes," Radri says, barely managing to voice the word with how touched she is, and clearly past the need for any apology of his. "I'm… I…"

Xan just gazes contentedly at her, looking more at peace this morning than he has in days, and rather than trying to put into words what she feels after hearing what he said, she just wants to hold him. So she does.

"I suppose you will want us to return to reverie now," Xan says, his voice slightly muffled by the arms she's thrown around his neck. "I appreciate your offer to serve as my blanket, but it will be difficult to kiss you goodnight in this position… and I know how you cannot bear to forgo it."

"What even are you talking about," Radri mumbles, having reached her limit for deciphering spoken words the moment Xan's candle went out. There's simply too much information: from her heart, her head, this bond, and even the sun, whose rays are now peeking irritatingly in from the gap in the curtains at the window.

"Nothing," Xan answers, feeling all of this from her, and deciding to postpone his teasing for later. They have time. This hour, this day... and yes, perhaps even tomorrow.

—

full xan/radri compilation

[distant-velleity]

Stay With Me

Summary: Santiago and Chrysos have a lot of feelings to work out. Spoiler alert: they still don't confess. Word count: 2.6k Warnings: major character not-actually death (this is my Boxing Day gift to you all) A/N: I wish I could've put Major Character Death as a real warning. Alas... such is life. Anyway :) I'm super done with writing this, I don't wanna keep going insane, I'm just gonna post it as is. It's actually pretty tame for angst on my part. Enjoy!! Tagging: @thehollowwriter (finn mention!!!) @kitwasnothere and @nahelenia as my top 3 murderers <3

-

When Santiago comes to, groggy and lightheaded, he’s greeted by the watered-down sun filtering through the seas of Octavinelle above him. Bird and sky separated only by the glass and several gallons of water, his limbs sure feeling as distant and heavy as the ocean.

Ah, he thinks, ever-intelligently. How did I end up here…?

He can’t quite remember. All of his recent memories are escaping like soap bubbles in the wind. 

While he racks his brain trying to figure it out, someone approaches and kneels next to him. A single glance at the person’s blonde hair and red eyes tells Santiago all he needs to know.

“Sorry about that,” Chrysos says, monotone as always. It’s hard to tell if the merman really is sorry or not. “I usually don’t get normal customers involved when 86’ing nuisances.” 

Santiago can’t help the smirk that comes to him all too easily. “Are you sure I wasn’t the nuisance?”

“Hard to say,” replies Chrysos with an amused huff. He stands back up and offers Santiago a hand, to help him stand up.

Something about it feels off—maybe because Chrysos’ gaze seems so benevolent, that he seems so unbothered about gently helping someone he’d normally be too embarrassed or proud to. Still, Santiago laughs and sits up. “Tight-lipped as always,” he comments, and reaches for Chrysos’ hand, pulling himself up to stand.

They hold hands for a moment longer than they need to. It feels, if he dares to admit it just to himself, nice—

“Hold it.”

As if he’s been burned, Santiago jumps away from Chrysos at the sound of Azul’s voice. Approaching them are the Octavinelle housewarden and his entourage of three. 

Santiago notices, with a distant sense of dread, that he’s never seen Chrysos look so furious and disappointed upon seeing his upperclassmen. 

“Get back, Parrotfish,” Floyd warns. “That’s not the right Lionfishie to be getting all buddy-buddy with.”

How odd. Why would Floyd, of all people, go out of his way to warn him?

Santiago glances at the Octaquartet, then at Chrysos, whose expression is steadily darkening.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chrysos says coldly.

“My, my.” Jade conceals his magic pen, clasped tightly in one hand, beneath the other. “There’s no need for that frigid tone. I’m sure we’re already on the same page.”

“No?” interjects Santiago. “No, we’re not. What’s going on?”

Finn looks him dead in the eye and then cocks his head towards Chrysos. 

Santiago turns back around, and everything changes. 

Where Chrysos was just standing as normal, there’s suddenly inky shadows surrounding the Octavinelle freshman. His eyes flare red-and-yellow as the ink (no, blot) viciously wraps around him in strands to form a cocoon of sorts. Santiago staggers back when the cocoon contracts, a dark purple haze spreading throughout the area and blocking out the sun. The whole dorm is plunged into a deep-sea darkness.

It’s Chrysos and a towering Phantom now, him hovering a little too close to the glowing pendant around its neck for anyone’s liking. 

“We’re running out of time,” Azul says grimly. “Our fight from earlier didn’t do anything—”

“I’ll help fight him if it cuts down on time,” Santiago immediately declares without missing a beat. “If it saves his life.”

“Of course you would. Well, stay sharp, then.”

And Santiago tries, of course—

—but it doesn’t stop him from misfiring at some point, trying to hit the Phantom, only for it to grab Chrysos with a sickening crunch of his ribs and hold him up in range of the destructive fire spell. Santiago can only watch as it strikes Chrysos indiscriminately. 

The resulting wail of agony is bloodcurdling and unbearable, but not nearly as much as when the Phantom moves a thrashing Chrysos closer and closer to its chest, a gaping hole like a beast’s maw forming there, the pendant dangling right before it.

“Wait—”

It’s what all the teachers warn about when they discuss the occurrences of Overblots. Defeat the Phantom, and the victim will come out unscathed. Take too long to destroy it, and the Phantom will… will…

Chrysos is brought to that gap, drawn in like an object near a black hole.

Santiago can’t breathe. 

He can’t bring himself to close his eyes either. Even when a sinking feeling blossoms in his stomach, gripping him with all the force of a predator’s claws.

The ‘hand’ of the Phantom squeezes, another crunch of body parts that shouldn’t be breaking—

“Don’t you dare take him—let him go—” Santiago begs, but it’s useless.

The Phantom simply. Tucks Chrysos away in itself like nothing. Ignorant to his furious, fearful screams. 

The hole in its chest closes over with viscous blot. 

Santiago can’t look away.

“Ah… Ahh…”

He 

can’t 

look 

away—

“AAAAAHHHHH—!!!”

A guttural scream tears its way out into the open from Santiago’s raw throat, burning and hoarse and painful. Still begging for a life not his own, his eyes fly open as he sits up in a grieving frenzy. “Chrysos, please, don’t leave—!”

“I’m right here,” calls a familiar voice from beside him, miraculously free of its terrifying Overblot overlay. It’s melodious and soothing, easy on the ears, just when he thought he’d never hear it again.

“You—” Santiago’s hand shoots out without thinking, clamping down on Chrysos’ where it was gripping the edge of his blanket.

…his… blanket…?

Only then does Santiago realize, half-delirious, that he’s on a bed in the school infirmary. He’s not in Octavinelle, he’s not surrounded by torrents and mists of pure blot. The air is clear here, and the sun is shining bright and pleasant through the windows like it does through the forest canopy back home. Although his lungs still burn a little, everything’s okay.

And, looking at the boy sitting right next to him—Chrysos is okay. He’s alive. 

In silent awe, Santiago squeezes the cold, ungloved hand in his a little more tightly.

He’s alive.

Chrysos bites his lower lip and pointedly avoids looking at their joined hands. “What a nightmare you were having,” he says, false indifference in his tone. “Screaming like that… You’re lucky the nurse isn’t in right now.”

Santiago blinks. “A nightmare?” 

“Yes. You were trembling and crying out in your sleep. If it weren’t the first time you’d shown any signs of movement in days…” Chrysos trails off, brows pressed tightly together.

Putting aside the fact that it was all little more than a bad dream, thank the Great Seven— “What do you mean, in days?” Santiago echoes disbelievingly. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, and you’re telling me I’ve been unconscious for days? Hello? Way to hit me with the double whammy.”

It was an attempt to lighten the mood for both their sakes, but when the corners of Chrysos’ mouth twitch downwards and his lips thin in a stressed frown, Santiago immediately realizes he’s said something either really wrong or really stupid. Or both.

“You don’t remember what happened at the SDC?” asks Chrysos. “Weren’t you there? You know, for Schoenheit’s Overblot, like Yu said…”

Santiago’s eyes widen. He only slightly loosens his grip on Chrysos’ hand a second later. “Oh, you mean—”

Toxic purple mist surrounded them, reeking of a sickly sweet concoction. 

More saccharine still was the smile on Vil’s face. Even as blot dripped down his snow-white face from beneath his elaborate crown, he still found it in himself to pursue being the fairest one of all. 

Showing simultaneously all and nothing of his burning jealousy and bitterness.

“—yeah, I remember,” he continues, letting out a laugh with no real humor in it. “I even remember getting a faceful of poisonous mist and then passing out right after the awards ceremony ‘cause I tried to act tough.”

“At least your brain wasn’t permanently damaged. That’s good,” remarks Chrysos with a half-hearted smirk. “Maybe you’ll be out of here sooner than I thought.”

No, there was definitely a screw knocked loose if Santiago was imagining Chrysos Overblotting in place of Vil… much less sobbing desperately at the possibility of his death…

…Santiago swallows, mouth suddenly dry for no good reason. “Uh-huh? I don’t know, I still feel a little off.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Chrysos suddenly leans forward, hand subconsciously moving at lightning speed to place itself on Santiago’s wrist. “You still feel off? You’re not messing with me, are you?” he asks, voice demanding with a hint of… something else. “I swear, I will have the nurse over here faster than—”

“Whoa! Don’t get your boxers in a twist, jeez!” Santiago exclaims, and Chrysos halts immediately. “Am I still dreaming? Did you just gaslight me into thinking this is reality? I mean, seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried about me.”

“I’m not worried,” retorts Chrysos, although the watery look in his eyes as he tries to meet Santiago’s gaze says otherwise. And where there would normally be an underlying bite to his tone, it’s totally absent. “Isn’t it fair to ask questions when a certain someone has been unconscious for days?”

Nevermind, I’m definitely not still dreaming.

“So you’ve been worried about me. Got it.” Hopefully that isn’t giddiness bubbling up in his chest, despite—or because of—the way Chrysos sputters out another denial, because it sure as hell is conflicting with his sense of spite. “Why don’t you save any of it for yourself? You’ve been a resident here way more often than me.”

Chrysos stiffens, before puffing up a little; chin lifted indignantly and gaze judgmental. Santiago wouldn’t have it any other way.) “I was conscious all those times and did not actively inhale dangerous toxins made by a very powerful mage.”

Seriously, this guy… Santiago shakes his head. “Dude, I heard you nearly turned yourself into sand that one time, also because of ‘a very powerful mage.’ I saw for myself when you could’ve died fighting Jamil or Overblotted at the same time and had to stay in the infirmary for a very lengthy check-up. You know, you—” 

died in my dream because of me and I would never forgive you or myself for that matter if that actually happened,

“—are a grade-A idiot getting hung up on the wrong details,” he decides to say instead. “One of these days, you’re gonna end up back here and I’m gonna get to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Hmph.” Chrysos scoffs and turns his head away. To anyone else, it might look aristocratically prim and stuck-up in the way his hair tosses slightly. “You wouldn’t come running to my bedside crying out my name, then?”

It’s Santiago’s turn to stiffen, feeling called out in too many ways. “...fuck, I forgot you heard me talking in my sleep. Well…” He pauses, searching for an appropriate response. “I would if you wanted me to.” He doesn’t have time to appreciate how smooth that was on his part before his traitorous mouth moves faster than his brain, going right ahead and saying, “And I’d still do it even if you didn’t want me to, ‘cause if you die on me I’m absolutely going to—”

Crap! Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack!

He shuts up immediately before he can incriminate himself any more, pursing his lips and watching carefully for signs of a negative reaction.

Almost too neutrally, Chrysos glances back over at him from the corner of his eyes, the piercing look in his irises only partially hidden by his lashes. “...You really would be that concerned?”

“Maybe,” Santiago answers, pasting on a nervous smile.

“‘Maybe’ isn’t an acceptable response.” Chrysos looks him straight in the eyes. His hand feels warmer, for some reason. “Don’t be shy. What would you do?”

Santiago huffs defensively. “Fancy that, you telling me to not be shy—”

“Santiago. Stop messing with me already.”

That tone, desperate and curious and impatient all in one, is singlehandedly more commanding than any other order Santiago has ever gotten in his life. 

The beastman slumps back against the headrest, being sapped of his will to argue. He already knows it’s pointless. It’s kind of hard to beat around the bush when the bush has already slapped you in the face with a very thorny nightmare. “Miss you, probably. I mean, I dreamed about it, but…” 

He thinks about the way he screamed and forced himself to wake up because that scenario had seemed so real. Probably can only begin to describe whatever he was feeling.

“...Well. You’re the only person who’s ever gotten me, y’know, so don’t die because you couldn’t help yourself. I don’t wanna have to cope with my dream becoming reality. Please,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh.” Chrysos stares blankly at him for a moment, then at their hands. “...oh,” he repeats, in a much quieter ‘sudden realization’ sort of voice.

Santiago squints at him. “Dude. What kind of guy tells his buddy to open up about his feelings in such a pleading tone and then is surprised when he actually opens up about it?”

“The one right next to you who was expecting his buddy to dodge the question again.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Santiago replies, rolls his eyes. 

Chrysos worries his bottom lips, gaze shifting to the side suspiciously quickly. It looks like he’s considering something.

“...Are you taking that literally?” Santiago wants Chrysos to take what he said literally, to be honest, but that’s beside the point.

“Because you’re so dense, yes,” Chrysos snaps back. His free hand comes up to tug one of his curls closer to his face in that bashful way he always does. “If you died like you could’ve from Schoenheit’s poison, I would march right over to the afterlife and drag you back into the world of the living. Then I’d beat you into the ground for hurting me like that. Your ass is not leaving this life until I say it’s okay to. Does that make enough sense to you?” 

“I don’t remember the story of the musician and his muse being this violent,” mutters Santiago, feeling incredibly touched despite the brash nature of that admission. Or maybe because of it.

Chrysos’s cheeks flush as red as the ends of his hair. “You asked. I delivered. Look who’s being a hypocrite now.”

“Touché.” 

It feels like something between them has… changed, when they both fall silent for lack of things to say. Not in the terrifying way Santiago’s surroundings shifted during his nightmare, but a change for the better. Like a burden has been lifted off his shoulders, making the silence bearable.

“I… think I may need to go,” Chrysos says, a dusting of pink still on his face. Maybe because he’s spoken too much, or at least by his own standards. He stands up, letting go of Santiago’s hand. “Culture fair and. All that. You know how it is. I’ll see you—”

“Wait a minute.”

Santiago reaches out and, instead of just grabbing, intertwines their fingers. His longer ones settle perfectly between Chrysos’ knuckles as if they were meant to be there. 

The merman goes still. 

“Hypothetically,” Santiago begins, “if I asked you to stay a little longer—would you say yes?”

Chrysos’ mouth opens, freezes, and then closes. When he next speaks, it’s slow and cautious, like he’s testing out how the words actually feel. Testing the waters. “In this hypothetical scenario… I could be convinced to stay. Possibly.”

“Cool. So don’t run away just yet. Stay here with me.”

They make eye contact.

“...How persuasive. Well—” Chrysos sighs and sits back down, before offering Santiago a small smirk. Barely noticeable, but there. “It seems like I’ve actually got plenty of time to spare all of a sudden.”

Santiago can’t help but smile too.

[figgrrr0]

I had a brain rot these past couple of days where female reader and cyno were pen pals and used fake names for one another. But then when cyno and female reader meets for the first time cyno noticed how similar there hand writing and is immediantly smitten

Ooh that's so cute!

Cyno realising you're his pen pal

Reader: Gn // Genre: Fluff // No Cw.

As soon as he met you, Cyno felt like he knew you from somewhere. He couldn't tell if it was the way you worded things, or the topics that you chose, but something about you felt familiar. And what's more, something about you just felt right; as if he'd wanted to meet you even before he knew you existed, (Of course, later he'd realise that he did know of your existence before that...).

He'd unknowingly watch you everytime you wrote something down, his subconscious mind having already put the pieces together before he had. But it's not like it was unusual for Cyno to be curious about someone's handwriting. It's a good way to recognise them, should he ever have to.

(But, he's glad that watching your words unfurl across the page seem to have a way of calming him, while also getting him somewhat excited, for some "unknown" reason...)

Everyone has a sense of irregularity when writing – it's impossible for your handwriting to be neat all of the time, or to stop your pen from blotching or smudging. But, that just means that the same pen would be likely to cause the same imperfections.

So, when Cyno takes notice of the handwriting, he can't help but be surprised. After all, what are the chances? However, that wouldn't quite be enough for him to know. He'd play it off as a coincidence, pushing it from his mind with a clear of his throat and a quick glance away. But when he looks back a second later, he sees the same blotting of ink above your "i"s and stamping of jumbled letters where the ink had printed onto the side of your hand as you wrote. And while even this is common enough to write off as chance, your signature sign off, even with a different name, is enough to convince him that it's really you.

Out of everyone, he'd know. From many hours of reading your words, and re-reading them over and over whenever he needed a little pick-me-up, no-one is better acquainted with your lettering and wording than Cyno is...

As much as Cyno wants to ask you then and there, he manages to hold himself back. Barely.

He doesn't need the reassurance; he'd already known it from the start.

Plus, wouldn't it be funny if he confronted you about it in a letter of his own, sent to the "pen-name" he'd been so affectionately involved with over the past year? Cyno certainly thinks so.

Thank you for reading! 🩷

Want to send a request/brainrot with me? Check my rules!

[keicordelle]

The Adventures of an Inconvenient Au Ra: Writing Lessons

The pen felt awkward in Keshet's hand as he tried to mirror the way Urianger had held it. One finger curled over the top, a second resting against the back to support it, and his thumb steady beneath to keep it trapped in place. Almost like chopsticks, but not enough to shake the foreign discomfort of holding it.

How on earth was he supposed to recreate the elegant, fluid motions that Urianger was demonstrating, sketching half-familiar characters onto the page between them? His grip felt clumsy and imprecise, and about the furthest thing from "elegant" that he could imagine. But at Urianger's encouraging smile, he lowered the tip of the pen to the paper anyway, brow furrowed as he focused on the motion Urianger had shown him. He could do this. Urianger was watching, and he wouldn't disappoint him.

The blasted pen slipped right from his hand when he tried to press it into the page. Keshet cursed under his breath, snatching it back up before ink could blot on the paper.

"Prithee shift thy fingers like so, and perhaps that will help." Urianger reached to adjust Keshet's grip, easily maneuvering his fingers until the pen felt slightly less foreign in his hand. "There. Try again now."

Ink warbled onto the page, stilted and graceless but undeniably the same letter as Urianger had sketched - if a somewhat mutated, almost unrecognizable version of it. It was hardly an accomplishment, not by Eorzean standards anyhow, but Urianger beamed at him like a proud parent. It was enough to shift the mild embarrassment that plagued Keshet into a sense of triumph, burning through his chest beneath the warmth of Urianger's golden gaze. "What next?"

"Try this one next." Another character flowed from Urianger's pen, elegant and looping. Keshet copied that one too, and then the next and then next, each one as clumsy as the last but unmistable. A far cry from Urianger's neat print, and further still from the looping cursive he'd seen in plenty of the tomes scattered around the study - that, he was quite sure, was entirely beyond his capabilities. But even he had to admit there was something charming about the squiggly, blockish letters that stuttered from his hand. Maybe that was just the pride talking.

Six letters stared up at him from the page when he pulled his pen back, halfway familiar in form but not in meaning, despite the endless hours he'd spent under Urianger's tutelage. Keshet squinted at them, perplexed.

"Hast thou divined their sense?" Urianger asked.

Keshet sounded them out the way Urianger had shown him, each letter rolling awkwardly from his tongue. "Ke. Kes-h- no wait, those two make a different sound together. Kesh-et..." Surprised lifted his eyes, and he blinked up at Urianger. "My name? You had me write out my name?"

"What better place to begin might there be than with thine own identity? A reminder, if thou wilt, of who thou art, and all of that which thou art capable."

Keshet looked back down to it, six letters that represented him, penned by his own hand. Urianger was right, there was something about it that seemed right. The power of a name, a sense of permanence. His gaze slid back over to Urianger, standing steadfast at his side. "Will you teach me how to write yours next?" For what better choice was there for his second word than the one that belonged to his dear friend?

-

Read the rest of the series on Ao3!

Masterlist | Prev | Next

[chiropteracupola]

emothy what is the deal with wormsfic. I Must Know

It's The One Where I Put Worms (So Many Worms) In That Man :)

in more seriousness, this is the very very long flight of the heron undead!Keith au which I ...apparently have not posted another chapter of in over a year.

this is an expansion of 'this is not your grave, get out of this hole' to great, wiggly, slimy heights, wherein the idea of this hole not being a grave is somewhat complicated by the fact that it Is in fact a grave. but despite that I continue asking questions such as 'what if you had a Big, Terrible, Difficult-to-Conceal problem (it can be a metaphor for all manner of things if you like) and were loved anyway? what if that problem involved the fact that your open chest cavity was just writhing with worms?'

snippet for vibe taste-testing purposes:

Keith forces his fist closed around a pen, pressing each finger into its once-accustomed place and cursing when they do not comply with his wishes. His hand falls open once more if he tries to refine his grasp, and when he manages to hold the pen long enough for a few letters, the script is shaky, unfamiliar. The ink twists on the page, spidery and wet, and Keith pushes the inkwell aside with enough force that it spills over, blotting out an hour’s efforts. “Of course a dead man cannot write,” he says, and laughs, as much a pitiless half-choked sob as it is a laugh at all. But “Tell me what you wish to say, and I may write for you, if you will permit me,” says Ewen, and finds a fresh sheet of paper to replace the stained one.

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

@fallenlondonficswap @alexis-royce I had a lot of fun writing up this fic for your secret swap!! I also had to trim it for the word limit

Mr Pages takes the Ex-Disgraced Academic out for a night at the theatre. Something is being planned.

Rating: Teen

No Warnings

Word count: 2,016(fic) + 398(oc credits) AO3 Link

It was later than typical when the letter arrived at the door. Mr. Cards had just changed out of its robe, and back into the Ex-Disgraced Academic. They were preparing to work on their Correspondence when it had slid through their mail slot. 

If neither the distinctive seal, nor name, had not indicated the sender, the address would. It was sent from the tower apartments directly above their own. Those which belonged to Mr Pages, Cards' greatest rival. The Academic broke the seal on the overstuffed envelope eagerly. Their good eye flew over the dense verbage contained therein. It posed no challenge to them, and they quickly deciphered the meaning of the letter. It was an invitation to a play. And yet, did the Academic not recall Mahogany Hall being closed that evening? Oh, something clicked. Rumors had been circulating in Bohemian circles for many years about a forbidden play, performed only with explicit permission from Mr. Wines, against direct order from the Ministry of Public Decency. So why would the Master of censorship, the very one who, if rumors were to be believed, tried to stamp this play out at every possibility, decide to take them along?

The best way to find out was to go. They would send confirmation in the morning, but through the night they would prepare for any likely schemes.

~

They agreed to arrive seperatly to avoid being seen together in public. A theatre box far above most was... still public, yes, but easier to mistake features in, or to not notice at all. So when the Academic arrived at their reserved box, Pages was already waiting. At least, they recognized it as Pages as soon as it opened its mouth to wish them an "Enjoyluminating" evening. The loquacious master was not wearing its usual ink-stained robes. It seemed to have even ditched its bandolier of pens and inks. Or, judging on the suspicious way the oversized robe fell, perhaps it was simple under the cloak. The cloak which, based on style and size alone, clearly did not belong to it. In fact, it looked as though it had stolen a spare robe from Mr Apples. It was ill-fitting on the current Master. Pages looked about to burst when the Academic did not immediately ask why it had shunned its typical robe. They took a seat to one side, and then took the bait.

"So, my eloquent acommpanyment, why the change in attire?"

Pages arranged its own chair. "You are possilikely aware of my disgustred for this... play. Thus, you are also aware of my multinumerous attemps to blot it from the history books. As such, the only actors that would perform in it at those with ireverice towards me."

"Ah, so if it were known that is was you... you would be rather unpopular for the night.

"Precisorrectly."

The red curtains raised up, and the audience turned their attentions towards the stage. 

An actor strutted onto the stage. Their costume was composed of deep blue and black feathers, contrasting nicely with hair the color of dark cinnamon. Flickering candles lit the stage. The light danced along the costume's wings to bring the iridescence to life. This was the role of the Raven.

Pages leaned over to whisper to its companion. "Jamie Awnings, a Poet-Laureate who writes the most horrendful poetry. How they were chosen I do not know, but I have had to step in many times to keep their work from the public."

The academic raised an eyebrow. One did not typically become Poet-Laureate while being horredful at the art. 

The actor's talent with words and meter became evident quickly however. The round Raven began to sing an aria, but the words had not matched entirely with the Academic's research. If it weren't for the research, they wouldn't know that any of the words had been changed. They had, however, but it was well keeping with the original intent, and far better suited to the rhythm and rhyme of the piece. 

Pages' attention was rapt and fixated. Pages was also clearly becoming inebriated by the music. Even the Academic was being affected. Still, now was the perfect opportunity to enact their plan. From a hidden pocket of a sleeve, they carefully slipped out a notepad, and a fountain pen preloaded with violant ink. The Academic has chosen their seat strategically, putting their writing side as far from Pages as they could, to hide their work. It was known for forbidding this play, and it was likely to try something tonight. Naturally, they could not be blamed for taking a transcript in shorthand.

The Raven continued their aria, setting the scene to fill in the minimal scenery. Something, however, caught the Academic's notice. Their box provided a good view of the stage, and importantly, the lightest of views into the wings to the side of the stage. The absence of visible stage crew told the steward that there was either a stage crew composed of only the actors, or that what crew there was knew well enough where to avoid walking to be seen. Perhaps both. So when someone in the Ministry uniform nearly stumbled onto stage partway through the song, it was an immediate tip off. Something was indeed going on behind scenes, something Pages had been planning. The rest of the song was performed without a hitch however. In fact, the Official seemed to be avoiding messing anything up as much as possible. Shouldn't he be trying to stop things? Still, perhaps the Academic's plans were compatible with Pages'. The music was working in their favor. It would addle the Curator's thinking, making it less likely to notice the gentle, soft scratching of pen on paper. They were a minute or so behind, but the Raven's personality had imprinted the details onto their mind quite nicely. It would make reconstruction easier later. A new character enters, their costume black and ragged. Tattered strips of cloth are woven into the spokes of their chair, and a shredded train follows behind them. Their stubble and bun were both intentionally left messy and unkempt. The overall effect was reminiscent of a wedding dress that has been dashed upon the zhoreline. A sense of love-sick duty weighed them down. The Messenger's sadness laid like Lacre on the stage. The Raven had been bragging about their singing not a moment ago, but as the raggedy Messenger approached, Raven deferred to the song of the Messenger. Pages scoffed. "That one has never been fond of me, always mooning for another. They have... circumvented my plans on multiple occasions." ~ The scene changed, with no sign of interference. ~ The play progressed, with no one noticing what had transpired, save one. Pages continued to interject comments at odd moments. The Academic continued to respond as well as they could while paying attention to the play and writing it all down. Suffice to say that it was rather difficult, and there were many unfortunate moments lost to Pages’ chattering. They wondered if it was deliberate, but that would require it to know what the Academic was hiding.

The Messenger, now played by a tall actress with manicured facial hair and a tattered groom’s suit, was holding council with the Owls. The Principal Owl had pale, tawny feathers that stood out from his dark brown skin. His head covering had baubles and trinkets that made a light sound as he trembled with fear.

Pages seemed particularly incensed by this scene.

“What do you do among my spires?” questioned the Messenger.

“Why, great master, we watch, we wait, we consume” he responded. “You watch, and wait, and consume, you say. And yet, is there not one who will consume you as prey?” On cue, another Owl stalks out from the shadows.Their hair is stark as fresh blood, the beak of the mask sharp. Their cane makes little noise as it lurks around the others. Their large feather tufts reveal their true nature. They are a Great Horned Owl Hunter. “Great Master, protect us so we will be free from their shrieks always, and we will serve you loyally the rest of our days!” She adjusts uncomfortably. There are many beats of conflicted silence, until she speaks again with a sigh “oh, were it only my unfettered choice. But alas, I owe them their hunts and the joys of their voice.” She left, and the Owls were left alone with the Hunter, who grinned behind their mask. Most of the actors were on stage at this point, distracted by the hunt. Another enforcer! Behind the curtains, nearly tripping on something, and carrying a large stack of papers. The Academic could not get a closer look however, for when they tried to shift closer, an ink-stained talon came to rest on their thigh. The intermission began, the curtain smothering any other chance. With its other hand, the Master made a sweeping gesture to the stage. Ice blue eyes turned towards their box from across the auditorium. Wines, who had bribed the Ministry to allow the play for the night. Their attention snapped back to Pages. “-these actors perform this play as an act of rebellion against me. They revel in this illegalbidden display. It is done to spite me, and undermine my authority”. It spat the sentence with less-than-figurative venom. “I will ensure they acknowledge my position as Paramost Poet and Auteur. And you” it turned towards them with luminescent eyes. They slid their writing out of sight. “You shall bow as well, Mr. Cards”. Was the blood rising to their face from anger? Or from the darker, more intense emotions that often defined the two of them. Those emotions had become so entangled of late. The Academic had been thinking of a clever retort when the brief intermission ended. With a personality that filled the stage and beyond, the Phoenix would not permit distraction from their soliloquy. The reflection of candle flames danced across their round lenses. Instead of the Phoenix's typical dress, this one opted for a tuxedo with the train of a peacock and the color of their fiery hair. “I am so very tired of flames, I will drown myself in snow and emerge in perfect serenity. Or not at all”. “What’s that? You have no more use for flame?” the Messenger reappeared and rolled towards the Phoenix. The scene went without hindrance. Even the final ‘immolation’ of the Phoenix in ice went as planned. It aroused the Academic’s suspicions. ~ When his cane made contact with the stage, it cracked like thunder, and reverberated against the proscenium arch. The gray streaks of his bright hair conjured to mind the storm clouds of the surface. His expression held little pity for the Messenger. Though she was taller by far, her presence was miniscule next to the Dragon. “You again,” she whimpered. “Yes. I remain the servant of you Master, as must you. He awaits the delivery.” “Do not! I beg you, do not! He cannot hear the message yet, he cannot hear what i have to say!” her voice turned frantic, fervent. The Dragon’s voice had little care. “You have a little time yet. Should this place fall, two will remain”. The booming of his cane grew distant as he left. She fell to her knees with a wail. ~

The play ended as it always must, message undelivered, crimes judged, and with Time devoured. The curtain fell, and then rose again for the final applause. “So, why did you invite me to see this play? Should you not have stopped it?” Pages stood to loom over them. It swayed slightly. “Have I not already stopped it? It would be rather difficult to perform without a script!” “The cast could perform-” “Oh certainly! Alone in their cells of New Newgate!” With gritted teeth, the academic stormed off. ~ They found Mr. Wines, and with pulled string, favours, and promises, convinced it to stop the Neddy Men from making arrests. The scripts however, were still missing. ~ Weeks later, new scripts of the Seventh Letter entered circulation. Lines and music had to be reconstructed from memory and missing gaps, but it was rather accurate. Most importantly though, Mr. Pages had not managed a score over Mr. Cards. ~~~~ OC CREDITS.

CURTAIN RISES. The last to ENTER is the PRINCIPAL OWL, with the MINOR OWLS FLOCKING behind him. He has dark brown skin, and near-black hair. He is still wearing his head covering. He is short and slight. He is The Theological Caregiver, created by @moonstruck-stormy. He bows with pride, then MOVES STAGE RIGHT.

The HUNTER ENTERS next. A step forward, ready to extend and ki- a pause. They had forgotten to leave character. A shift, and it is once more Harper Faraday. Light-olive skinned, with spectacles, and hazelnut shell hair. Their cane is light and practical. They were created by @the-insouciant-scientist. They bow, sheepish, MOVE STAGE LEFT. The PRINCIPAL DRAGON ENTERS with the presence of a rumbling Storm. His cane clicks are distinct and pronounced. He hais fair skin, large round glasses, and hair like a cloud rimmed sunset. The PRINCIPAL DRAGON is played by Orsinio Elderwood. He was created by @house-of-mirrors. The MINOR DRAGONS EMERGE from the WINGS to FLANK him. They bow together, then MOVE STAGE RIGHT.

The PHOENIX ENTERS from the East. At first look, they are similar to Orsinio. They share glasses and skin tone and hair color. On second look, they are different. The Partial Performer is taller, and has no cane. They were created by @thedandy-detective. Their bow has been practiced, with calculated flair. They MOVE STAGE LEFT. ENTER the RAVEN. Tonight, he is a stocky actor with russet hair and many freckles. They are short and fair-skinned. This is Poet-Laureate Jamie Awnings, created by @thedeafprophet. He makes a grand, sweeping bow, and MOVES STAGE RIGHT. The two halves of the MESSENGER STEP and ROLL to CENTER STAGE. They clasp hands. The MASCULINE HALF is tall, thin, and pale, with a well maintained mustache and goatee. Her hair is dark and short, and she wears glasses. She is Irving Merritt, created by @the-insouciant-scientist. The FEMININE HALF uses an elegant wheelchair. They have long hair, dark but greying, in a bun. They have stubble, and small glasses. They have fair skin, and are plump. They are Elias Leroux, created by @the-dye-stained-socialite. They bow with much drama. The CAST MOVES towards CENTER STAGE and form a solid line. They JOIN HANDS where possible, and raise them together. They swing forward into a final bow, then slowly raise back up to applause. CURTAIN FALLS.