#... they're a shame to scrap tho... maybe the others should go on a queue too

[advernia]

of cats, jade, honey, nightingales, and spilled ink — — a compiled assortment of ikerev drabbles i’ve managed to spit out last week during break hours - they're spoiler free + scenes with vague contexts because that's all i can manage to write recently lmao _(:3 」∠)_

stray cat conjuration theory || loki & alice prompt: rain, rain, rain // shady stuff under an open umbrella

her umbrella is a shade of red.

it's shade because you see, it’s hard to be too sure considering the conditions: the umbrella’s cloth is soaked through and through due to its heroic sacrifice of shielding two people from a sudden torrential rain, the sky above them is covered by a thick spread of dark grays and obscure blacks so there’s little to no lighting that equals to harder visibility, then there’s the overgrown trees with their -

- ki, are you listening?

… hmm?

he turns his head - it’s a slow twist of his neck from up, down, then a tilt to his left with a little push forwards; perhaps painfully deliberate - and voila, there she is in all her glory; a face he was getting fond of filling his vision: wide eyes framed by dainty eyelashes, a small nose resembling what a fine-made porcelain doll might have, round lips without a single trace of rogue yet have the natural color of an enticing peach, and… oh -

alice, he says almost in sing-song, your cheeks are red. like apples! are you okay?

the umbrella skews a bit to the right as she shrinks back, grip on the handle tightening - a bit of his arm is left exposed and attacked mercilessly by the rain, dry turning damp in seconds: it’s cold and frankly annoying against his skin, but there’s a quick solution to that, and that is -

w…w-wha… hey, loki?

yes, alice?

uh… do you mind moving back? a little bit? please?

aww, but my shoulder’s gonna get wet!

oh… i wouldn’t want that either, but… don’t you think you’re standing a bit too -

- a bit too what?

a step closer has their shoulders brushing up against each other and his face just a handspan away from hers, and he takes this opportunity to peer much closer at her eyes, and he sees that her irises are a brilliant shade of -

i… i-if you move any closer, i’ll leave you here to get drenched!

a pause. brisk raindrops hitting the umbrella fill it in, dull sounds of tap tap tap tap tap, then -

he breaks into light laughter, a foot moving backwards and upper body retreating, a safe breathing space in between them now visible again.

sorry, alice! I was just kidding… did I take it too far?

really, loki… is this how you treat people who share their umbrellas with you?

nope! it’s not everyday that someone offers to share their umbrella with me… even if their umbrella’s too small to begin with.

… does that mean you want to get drenched after all?

no way!

please speak well of me || ray & alice prompt: in memor(iam)y // a fragment of me on your skin

"now that i think of it, why did you call this necklace a 'collar'?"

the king of spades raises his head briefly, eyes shifting from the wordy official document in his hands to the woman standing in his office. she's by the bookshelves, small hands, lithe fingers intent on relocating the books from their former places to wherever she saw fit. pull out, set aside, dust away, evaluate possible positions, then insert back to the shelf. rinse and repeat, like dance steps: one, two three, four, and five.

around her neck, chain hidden by the collar of her blouse and ribbon, a sparkle of green shone. it showed itself occasionally, peeking out of the ribbon when she would begin to chase the dust away from the books and shelves with a feather duster. it doesn't mix, he muses, that red ribbon against that bright green. to begin with, why was her dress blue and her ribbon red? do they mix? then again, did he really need to know?

she was wearing it, anyway - that's all.

"... i don't get you," he replies, tossing the now-signed document onto one of the many stacks piled on his desk. he gets another document from another stack and tries not to groan when he's greeted by multiple lines of ink, beautifully dull and almost consuming the paper itself. "does it matter?"

"of course it does," she replies, tone and pitch of voice a little bit higher than usual. he can't see her facial expression, but he envisions a frown - or maybe a scowl crossing her features. either way, she's not happy. "a collar is something you would use for pets. or domesticated animals."

"i know."

"so do you see me - or think of me as one?"

his lips quirk upwards, a snort escapes him. "is that your question for the day?"

she stops to glare at him, a thick tome in her hands. "that's just cheating."

"it isn't," his reply comes off as casual.

she doesn't buy it.

"i can see you grinning, ray blackwell."

he laughs when his full name rolls sharply off her tongue.

"are you actually angry, or are you trying to act like my mother?" 

♠ ♠ ♠

the king of spades learns that morning that alice the second can wield a five hundred twenty-three-page book with a thick hardbound leather cover like a training sword of the wooden variety, something that one could find in the black army's barracks.

sturdy and definitely not lethal.

he fails to account lethality for multiple hits straight to the head, though.

to his credit, she does apologize after she'd whacked him thrice. the book goes back to the shelf (without bloodstains), he mournfully clutches his head, she looks at him with worry.

"it's just that a necklace this nice," she says, fingers reaching up to her neck to clasp the jade in her palm, "doesn't deserve to be called a collar. it’s a gift from you, and i intend to treasure it when i get back to london.”

he’s not sure where’s the dull throbbing coming from now: it’s either from the back of his head, his ears, or his chest.

who cares, it hurts.

lather that honey on your tongue || blanc & alice prompt: ye olde pickup lines // romance in the eyes of the full moon

when he finds her, he sees her standing a few paces away from his house's backdoor, her hands set behind her back. her head is tilted upwards and her eyes reflect the moon over their heads: it's a large silver coin shining bright against a blackened sky scattered with stars.

he calls her name once - she turns her head, smiles and waves. moonlight casts a dainty glow on her facial features, making her skin seem softer and the blue of her eyes more vivid. he pauses for a moment before he walks to stand beside her.

"oliver told me you would be here," he says. "it seemed like you two had a pleasant chat before i arrived."

her brows furrow, lips purse themselves together. "i think oliver enjoyed it more than i did."

"oh? i would certainly enjoy myself as well, if i were in the company of such a beautiful lady such as yourself."

a pleasant smile lights up his features. one could not say the same for hers, however - her mouth has gone slightly slack, but she shook her head immediately and turns her head up back to the moon.

"i say, the moon is beautiful tonight," he says as he points to the sky with a gloved finger.

"but not as beautiful as i am, maybe?" she says, a lilt in her voice.

she laughs for a bit until she realizes that his eyes are on her: his eyes are wide open, his mouth slightly agape. heat flushes and colors her cheeks slightly.

"okay, i'm sorry," she splutters, angling her face away from him, "it's just that i mentioned to oliver that i get so flustered when you compliment me, and he said something along the lines of 'then why don't you beat the rabbit in his own game', and - "

" - and you decided to compliment yourself before i would?"

"yes, well - gosh, that sounded really awkward, didn't it? please forget i said anything."

he fixes her with a blank stare for a few seconds before chuckling.

"on the contrary, i can't deny your words."

her breath catches in her throat for a moment before she replies. "which ones?"

"you being far more beautiful than the moon will ever be, of course."

"now you're just exaggerating - i didn't even say half of that!"

"you didn't, which is why i took the honor of doing so."

he leans forward to take a lock of her hair in his fingers, pressing it to his lips with a smile.

sing sweet nightingale || sirius & alice prompt: i’m drowning in siren calls // my own two feet as a compass

that deep tone has engraved itself so distinctively well into her ears and mind that each time she would hear it, even if it was of the softest of murmurs, she would find herself looking for its source. it's almost unbelievable how it's become something like a reflex in such a short amount of time, making her feel quite sheepish. she was no dog, nor did she wish to give off the impression that she was a clingy lover constantly observing her beloved's actions... but time and time again, her body would fail her and she would always end up in another search for him.

whenever she would successfully find him, he'd pause whatever he was doing for a moment to greet her with a smile and a voice that soothes her sudden wanderlust. the sound is oh-so kind and noticeably happy so she smiles back, but somehow there's a lingering feeling of disappointment for herself.

so one day she tries to stop turning his way when she hears him from afar: whether she was at the kitchen and him just outside by the training grounds, she by the flowerbeds and he near the headquarters' entrance, or her in the saloon and him issuing orders by the hallways; she stifles the urge of her feet to drop everything and go to where he was. it's far from easy since she wants to hear more, but she tries her best and it actually works for a while - perhaps three days. it makes her feel a bit better about herself, but -

- it's all for naught when he literally corners her in her own room, back and wrists pinned against the wall. she breathes an inhale of surprise at the sudden action, turning sharp when he lowers his face so it's just inches away from her own. his breathing sounded strained, how strange, like he was in pain - oh dear, did something happen? could she be of help?

worry begins to flood her thoughts, but it's washed out without a care just as quick when his breath tickles her ear and he speaks to her with an urgency, demanding and agitated and frustrated but still so beautiful to hear -

why have you been avoiding me?

oh no, she muses but doesn't say - her body had involuntarily trembled out of sheer delight at the sound of his voice so close, heart singing loud and knees growing weak.

words don't dare crawl out of her parched throat.

trails of sea-foam ink || dean & alice prompt: that i hold dear // the chase for a permanent you

today before he leaves his home he walks over to that one drawer and collects every single letter she sent, keeps all those tiny envelopes complete with their barely torn seals inside a folder that fits snugly into his bag, then goes on his merry way.

when they meet for tea, he shoves the folder - and all those one hundred fifty-seven letters of four seasons - into her hands.

“you should do something about your penmanship,” he says like the professor he really was, and that just makes her frown. what - was her alphabet too round, the edges too curved? were the words, sentences, and paragraph alignments all wrong on each and every line, like how music notes would dance on staves?  

“i’m sorry,” she says, but she’s not even sure what she’s apologizing for. maybe it was better to ask. “... is my writing too small for you to read?”

“i would’ve told you immediately if that were the case, rather than subjecting myself to eye strain.”

“is it too large?”

he holds himself from clicking his tongue. “it’s not an issue about size.”

“oh. then is it about how i write everything in a slanting manner?”

“no - you aren’t the first and perhaps the last person i would see whose penmanship presents itself in such a script-like fashion and objectively speaking, you are one of the agreeable examples of those writing in such a style.”

“uh-huh,” her head tilts to the side, she frowns. “then can i ask you what... well, you don’t like about my handwriting?”

he raises the teacup up to his lips. what i don’t like, he muses, is how light you write. what i don’t like is how the ink you used to write all those letters is dark enough to leave its mark on the paper but light enough for me to think that its fading, like touches of moonlight on a cloudy night. it reminds me of you and how you came to be in this world in the first place, and how easy it is for you to go back if you firmly decided on it. but what i dislike the most is the fact that i still have lingering thoughts of the possibility of you leaving when every single letter you have sent me has told me otherwise, all because your penmanship is as light and dainty as yourself.

“dean?” she calls out, voice something small.

unease unable to quell itself, he allows an amount of pure black tea to hold his tongue.