#❝ ✧ ﹙ ˢᵃᵐᵖᵒ ᵏᵒˢᵏᶦ ﹚ ⋆ ⦙ double the pay‚ double the service ! ❞

[venstm]

❝ we were having such a good time! ❞ (aventurine to sampo >:) )

Swathed in a gilded splendour that rivalled the imposing edifices of the dreamscape with their ostentatious facades, he commanded the attention in the room with a finesse that was equally impressive and terrifying. These were the sorts of people who understood the expertise it took to turn what was fortuitous into a powerful weapon. Sampo Koski, who adhered to avenues that proved auspicious, knew when to cut his losses. It required a certain amount of humility to relent, meekly raising his hands to reveal that all of his chips had been efficiently appropriated, it was a decisive final hand that proved once and for all that Sampo was no significant adversary against the IPC’s most competent gambler. ❝ a good time ? ❞ his voice wavers, incredulity that, when compelled to be amicable, sounded more like misery. He shakes his head, not quite protesting and yet also not out-right denying that all exploits within that halcyon dream held a certain vein of counterfeit delight. ❝  I find it hard to believe that anyone dealt - ❞ the despairing lilt of his voice is emphasized by the six consecutive losses that are tallied on his slender, leather clad fingers. ❝ if only you would show pity on Sampo and allow him one win. when it becomes predictable doesn’t the game lose its thrill ? ❞ there was a certain shimmer to his gaze or a vulpine cut to his smile that revealed that his dejection was perhaps not unlike the many deceptions that the dream made appealing. 

[venstm]

it’s lynx’s fault — or so he’s decided, the conclusion snowballing in his mind as he trudged through the absurdity of his current predicament: baking cookies for sampo koski, of all people. the incongruity tasted bitter on his tongue, yet here he was, flour smudged on his sleeves & a faint dusting of sugar still clinging to his hair. if lynx hadn’t made that offhanded remark — something about how bleak it must feel to have no one to celebrate the holidays with or to receive no gifts — he never would have entertained the notion. but, perhaps, he was softer than he gave himself credit for.

the memory of her words clung to him like frost on a windowpane gradually thawing into a guilty resolve. it wasn’t pity, he told himself, but some fleeting sense of decency that had pushed him to gather ingredients, fumble through the motions of baking, & scrape together this half-hearted offering.

now, the final product sat nestled in an ivory-wrapped box, tied with a disfigured blue ribbon that mirrored his own vacillation about the gesture. the package felt almost too pristine for its contents: cookies that were crudely decorated with shaky, uneven piping in wobbly red icing. no name accompanied the message; he wouldn’t dare risk that kind of vulnerability.

the underworld was quiet, its dim glow casting long shadows as he slipped into natasha’s clinic like a thief in the night, clutching the gift as though it might shatter under the weight of his reluctance. natasha’s knowing eyes barely softened the heat rising to his cheeks as he placed the box on her desk & all but begged her to keep his involvement a secret.

" don’t tell him i was here, " he muttered, his voice low, almost pleading. " don’t tell anyone, actually. "

she raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her silence heavy with amusement.

as he turned to leave, the door creaking shut behind him, a strange sense of peace settled in his chest. everyone deserved something during the holidays, even someone as vexing as sampo. maybe the cookies weren’t perfect — they were lopsided & clumsy, much like the sentiment behind them — but they were enough. it wasn’t much, but it was a gesture, a kindness wrapped in hesitation & second-guessing. & maybe, just maybe, that was the point of it all.

/ gepard & sampo, holiday inbox

Eventide mantles jarilo vi in a silver veneer of rime and the shadowy apertures of sinuous alleyways unleash one, duplicitous merchant before the yawning entrance of natasha’s clinic. As darkness circulates through those narrow vennels, ushering in the imminence of a festive culmination, he is left both with the sense that this was quite an auspicious opportunity to turn to his advantage and the strange, nameless hollow that came with simultaneously belonging and being a stranger to these glacial streets. Inside, soft, ambient light spills from the solitary room still occupied, it was late, later than he had intended to slink back in at but he knows, almost as certain as the finesse of his own two hands, that it would be natasha who remained awake at these peculiar hours drenched in solitude. Across the vast, constricting distance she meets his eyes and her mouth, just slightly at the corners, crinkles with a fondness reserved for him and his late-night antics. Sampo’s wave is a meek, noncommittal sort, as if he had been caught in the midst of some illicit act and when it came to the abstruse businessman who could truly say if he hadn’t. She guides his attention with her gaze, deliberately resting on her neatly kept desk, atop it sat a gift, evident by its pristine wrapping and the incongruous way it contrasted almost every other thing present. It was his eyes then, emerald and dancing with depthless intrigue, that trace the contours of the package like it were something to be understood rather than accepted. There’s a tacit understanding between the two of them, the origins of it shall not be spoken aloud lest the tenuous moment of kindness be dispersed. It was strange, to recognize how a man whose hands wore down to calluses, resolved to protect in the most inexplicable ways, could meticulously slow his hands and pay attention to the delicate folds in the paper that fit around the present snugly. The sound he makes is an expelled, incredulous breath, leather gloves easing through his hair, like he needed to shake it free, dispel the laughter that crept up the back of his throat before the onset of a harrowing bout. Too strange to believe, the one so set on his capture could extend such benevolence, was it an accolade to be pinned to his pristine white liveries, rivalling those undulating hills of hibernal white, or an unprecedented act of generosity levelled at his chest, just as dangerous as his clenched fist. He circles the desk warily, each long, languorous stride precisely measured, fingers clasped idly behind his back, leaning in just low enough that his gaze was almost directly in front of it. “ it’s almost too good to be true, the captain of the guard showing such kindness to sampo koski of all people.” amusement curls indolently between his rumination, the curve of his mouth an impish premonition of what he might say the next time their paths fortuitously cross, those pretty, cerulean eyes narrowed in umbrage at sampo’s next clever enterprise. It felt almost felonious to strip away the neatly wrapped paper, to inspect the contents of the box like it was a crate of exquisite rarities. perhaps an act such as this, from someone as exalted as captain gepard landau, was indeed a rare gift to be savoured. He leans back, inhaling and exhaling the utter disbelief, the precariously stacked cookies, each decorated heavy-handedly, as if the delicate act of piping it was too much to bear, was so endearing it made his insides twist. He could, with alarming clarity, envision what gepard might have looked like toiling over a bench coated in white flour, sedulously deciding what festive decoration fit each slightly misshapen cookie. Gingerly he picked one out of the box, suspending it pinched between his index finger and thumb, it left a slight smearing of icing on his gloves and under the light he could only just tell it was intended to be a tree. Encircled in jagged red tinsel, a crude star sat proudly at the very top.

He sunk into natasha’s chair and it spun just once before his shoes hit the ground and he lowered his head until it was almost resting on the desk, the cookie still held carefully, protectively in the palm of his hand. Gepard Landau, what a person he was, every time Sampo seemed to have him pinned, finally comprehending the absurd regulations he lived by, he would prove him wrong yet again. This game of theirs continued to evolve beyond the orthodox and into something even he could never fully expect, someone who preferred to be pulling the strings reduced to a mere participant. Natasha stood in the doorway, the light illuminated her silhouette and managed to distract him from this spiralling, disorienting moment of untangling every nuance that made up the esteemed captain of the silvermane guard. “ soooo, do you want one ?” he lifted the cookie in offering, casting a side-long, intense gaze at it before flitting back to her giving a loose, insouciant shrug. Having seen the captain’s flustered expression Natasha shakes her head, this was a gift intended for Sampo Koski, it seemed only right he was the one to really enjoy them. Giving it a bite his nose crinkled, despite all it’s gaudy piping and its less than appealing shape it was actually rather good, he could positively add this to the list of things he knew Gepard was good at. Colour him impressed.