#please do not match length

[mari-zuko]

who: @freddiekolbeck when: november 14th where: anywhere on campus

How long did it take for the idea that your...friend, lover, ex, however Greer may have been described...might be dead? It's not like it was the first time over the past year and a half that the idea had slipped through Mari's mind. It was something that she had thought, wondered, feared plenty of times, something she had heard other people whispering about, something she had overheard her father preemptively trying to do damage control on. But when it was written out like that, when it was news...that's when it became real. It hadn't been very long - not even quite twenty-four hours, but every time she felt like she was able to inhale without it hurting, it walloped Mari in the gut again, the reminder that she was out here breathing and Greer may not be.

Mari wasn't sure how she was supposed to finish this week, let alone spend the upcoming holidays with family, take her finals, literally go on with things like normal. But what other choice did she have? First, she'd have to figure out how to accept this, to not let it literally stop her in her tracks when it pounded back to the front of her mind again. And she hadn't succeeded yet, her eyes shutting for a second as she stopped in the middle of her route across campus, on her way to class, taking a slow, painful inhale.

At least the pain reminded her that it was real.

She had thought she'd be good to go to class, but as she stood there, trying to hold herself together, Mari realized she absolutely was not. Without thinking about it, she turned on her heel to head back the way she had came, nearly crashing into someone right behind her, considering she had stopped dead in the middle of the path. "Fuck, sorry, sorry," she said, stepping to the side before she looked up, meeting Freddie's eyes. Staring at him for a moment, Mari couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking - he had come back in the midst of all this. He had the opportunity to have not been involved at all, and yet...here he was. "At the risk of bringing my fathers biggest fear to life - want to skip class with me?" she asked suddenly, not bothering with any other greeting - the Freddie of before Greer's disappearance absolutely would've. And maybe Mari just wanted to cling to that time for a bit longer, before she was forced into accepting this news.

[denverneumann]

It was with not just a little bit of trepidation that Denver took her first steps into the Tower since she'd been escorted out. It hadn't even been that long ago. Snow, what had it been, a week? Two? Time seemed to be in a state of flux, or else a kind of liminal stasis. In a world without Games there were no bookends to the seasons, no touchstones upon which to ground one's sense of reality. And what a painful reality it had been. But Denver had been promised it would be okay this time. She was going to be okay. She had walked in through the front door, and no one had arrested her yet. Besides, even if someone didn't believe she was here on business, she was still just a low-level loyalist. A rich girl without a rich name to back her up. She'd be safe.

Her kiosk was gone. Denver wondered idly as she passed where it had once stood if there had been any satisfaction in tearing it down. Her manager was dead, she was certain. As best as she'd been able to gather, all of the upper management for the Hunger Games Museum were dead.

She walked in nearly a straight line until she reached the back of the Tower, a window in one of the old lounges. No arrest. She was okay. She sighed at that, a mix of relief and sheer uncertainty, and took a seat. She pulled out her notebook and a pen, lucky finds from the BEEF gift shop, and started taking notes of the world around her. So wrapped up in her observations was she, so bent on mastering the art of recording history as it was actually happening, that she'd missed someone coming up to her until she felt the presence right by her side. She jolted up, startled.

"Hi," she said, resisting the urge to insist she was allowed to be there. "Sorry, I didn't realize anyone was there. You must have quiet feet or something." She gave a laugh and a smile, but gripped her pen tighter.

[spidersins]

@gamblins plotted starter

nights like these were....conflicting.

on the one hand, angel found himself warm and comfortable indoors, not having to wander aimlessly down the streets for some asshole demon to take on as a john for the night. on the other hand, standing around like an overlords personal fuck doll made him wish he'd gotten his hands on lsd instead of just the pcp lacing his tobacco. but val had insisted on less drugs for the evening ( he didn't need angel getting all strung out and messy in front of so many high end clients ), offering instead the sicky sweet smoke that angel eagerly accepted.

but the foggy haze that softened the edge of the world was dissapearing, leaving angel acutely aware of how his retracted arms ached from how long they'd been tucked away, his mouth felt too dry and his dress too tight.

the dress in question was already attracting plenty of attention. he didn't need to look around to see the hungry gazes roaming his figure - he could sense each. with each sway of his hips as he moved around the room. it was one of his sexier looks, val had brought him there for a reason after all, and there was no point hiding his best assets. the baby pink dress clung to his body like a glove, his chest fluff primped and primed on display through the heart keyhole, along with his usual long black boots.

with a small sigh the spider sinner moved to down his drink, cerise pink hues looking over the room slowly, trying his best to mask his boredom with a sultry smile. angel could practically feel the irritation radiating from valentino. this is what happens when you fucking put your prices up too high. even overlords were stingy when it came to an easy lay.

[anhxdonia]

@godsunderfoot — antioch university, august 5th, afternoon. trigger warnings: religious references!

PERHAPS  THE  MOST  ELEGANT  FORM  OF  BEAUTY  IS  THE  STORY.  Smithed  words,  struck  when  molten,  and  shaped  until  piercing  at  first  strike;  others  daintily  crafted  and  cut  gems  of  prose.  A  professional  fabulist  drips  jeweled  sentences,  their  carats  reflected  in  the  bright,  yearning  nebula  of  the  human  iris,  a  rapt  audience  caught  in  the  splendor.  As  simple  as  it  may  be,  this  truth  bears  repeating:  we  are  a  species  wrapped  up  in  aesthetics,  fabrics  of  our  imagination...  seeking  beauty  in  the  forms  that  cover  the  ugliness  we  harbor.

Many  believe,  quote  rapaciously,  that  beauty  —  some  unspoiled,  earthly,  carnal,  tactile  essence  —  is  terror.  But  one  is  gripped  by  fear,  horrors  that  subsume  underneath  one's  skin  when  encountering  the  unfamiliar,  unknown.  When  one  believes  they've  never  witnessed  it  before.  Beauty  is  a  terror  when  it  is  FOREIGN.

Maharth's  fingers,  ashen  at  the  tips  with  the  finest  dust  of  Hagoromo  chalk,  underline  the  word  terror  on  the  blackboard.  He  is  still  a  lover  of  the  Classics  and  basks  in  Inquisitive  stares  following  the  arc  of  his  arm  as  he  encircles  the  truth.  He  faces  their  eagerness,  matches  with  a  spark  of  his  own,  and  lovingly  tosses  in  his  kindling,  a  speech:

"  How  we  view  one's  beauty  becomes  one's  truth,  one's  belief  in  the  world  we  live  in...  All  religious  art  has  a  motif  of  untouchable  beauty,  the  peerless  perfect  faces,  serenity  in  the  expression  both  present  and  empty,  seeing  a  world  that  a  mortal  onlooker  could  never  comprehend...  "

The  projector,  more  like  a  banner  that  floats  down  from  the  rafters,  depicts  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  capturing  a  sliver  of  its  phenomenal  flair.  The  professor  summarizes,  "  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  his  final  painting,  stirred  controversy  at  its  time.  The  Catholic  Church  was  in  its  Counter-Reformation  movement,  and  the  Council  of  Trent  deemed  the  Last  Judgment's  Neoplatonic  influences  heretical.  Nudity,  in  fact,  was  the  issue...  I  hear  the  snickering,  students.  Stay  with  me  for  a  second.  "

"  Now,  we'd  think  it  baseless,  quite  prudish,  no?  Given  the  fame  of  the  Statue  of  David,  the  Ecstasy  of  St.  Teresa  of  Avila…  The  bodily  beauty  of  mimicked  flesh  and  blood,  as  a  means  of  extending  the  greatness  of  its  Saints  to  the  people,  was  now  rejected  for  being  baseless,  vulgar,  and  Godless.  "

Maharth  wonders  briefly  how  the  indictment  fell  on  Michelangelo  when  the  commissioners  who  pulled  art  after  art  from  him  betrayed  him.  Did  the  artist  burn  up  in  shame  when  the  poet  Pietro  Aretino  accused  him  of  defiling  the  Sistine  Chapel,  of  denigrating  it  to  a  whorehouse?

"  That's  what  I  want  you  to  think  about,  students.  Expressions  of  piety.  What  is  religious  beauty?  What  is  artifice  and  truth?  Upon  completing  his  last  painting,  Michelangelo  wrote,  'Neither  painting  nor  sculpture  will  be  able  any  longer  to  calm  my  soul,  now  turned  to  divine  love.'  What  divine  beauty  drives  a  pious  servant  to  agitation?  "

His  lecture  ends  with  synchronized  silence  before  students  and  some  faculty  onlookers  remember  the  time  and  place.  Then,  as  if  coming  out  of  a  daze,  they  shamble  out  of  their  desks,  the  nooks  at  the  edges  of  the  room  to  leave.  As  the  newest  member  of  Antioch  University's  roster,  Professor  Chandrasekhar  fields  ravenous  last-minute  questions,  chatting  with  the  engagement  of  a  beloved  old  friend  who  has  a  train  to  catch.  It's  only  after  the  regulars  dip  and  the  field  of  people  thins  out  that  the  professor  notices  someone  in  the  midst,  stately  and  tall  even  when  far  back  in  the  room.

There  are  continuing  education  courses  for  adults  at  the  university,  so  the  age  of  the  man,  sculpted  in  rugged,  well-defined  features,  does  not  illicit  any  curiosities  from  the  professor;  however,  the  lack  of  academic  equipment  (no  papers,  pens)  hints  at  Maharth  that  the  visitor  may  not  be  a  simple  course  auditor.  Well,  there  is  no  hurt  in  asking.

Or,  there  shouldn't  be.

"  Good  afternoon!  The  lecture  wasn't  too  long-winded,  was  it? "  Maharth  calls  out,  hand  cupped  around  his  mouth.  He  follows  his  greeting  with  easy,  long  strides  to  the  man.  Hand  out,  fingers  loosely  together,  knuckles  forming  soft  ridges  like  a  clam's  shell,  he  signals  his  invitation.  "  Professor  Maharth  Prasad  Chandrasekhar.  Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance.  "

[unitleada]

❝ Every technology money can possibly afford and you're telling me that no one is able to get a better fix on that-that thing out there! We're right in the heart of London for gods sake! ❞ Hands placed on her hips, casting a nod towards the half a dozen screens mounted to the wall before her. All six displayed a similar image, albeit from different vantage points, the same grainy, CCTV footage of a Cherry Blossom tree peering out at her, smack bang! in the middle of a suburban street.

One could be forgiven for assuming it was some sort of street art, or political demonstration. Under any other circumstances she might've assumed as much....had UNIT not received intel of government lines being tied up left right and centre, tens of eyewitnesses phoning in, swearing that they had seen that tree falling to earth! Barely an hour later and they had mobilised, she and a small elite team in an unmarked van, parked as close to the site as possible, the entire road cautioned off and under armed watch. She wasn't about to go taking chances.Certainly not in such a densely populated area.

Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Kate mulled over her options, knowing very well that there was really only one way to get the best view of this thing.. ——And then, as if it was some preordained sign from above, a distinct whirring sound echoed over the comms. There was no mistaking it. She knew the TARDIS when she heard it.

In the next moment, her UNIT issued firearm was in one hand, the safety switch disengaged. Her other hand reached for the door handle. Osgood's protests rung in deaf ears, "Ma'am I really think we should wait for more intel. How can it even be him, I mean, it isn't usually .... " ❝ a police box, I know. ❞ And yet, how could it be anyone else? ❝ You are all to stay put, awaiting further orders until I have a clear visual, is that understood? ❞

She could sense the concern, but, faithful as ever, a chorus of "yes ma'am!" followed her out of the doors. A brief nod to the soldiers standing guard and they allowed her past, finding herself standing mere inches from the tree now. She could hear it clearly out here, without the static of the comms. If this was the Doctor's TARDIS, then the sound was slightly different to what she remembered. Although she supposed, that could be another factor of the chameleon circuit. Still not a very good disguise, she noted. If it was him. Well. There was only one way to know for sure. Kate took a deep breath, reached out with her free hand, and rapped her knuckles sharply upon the tree's trunk, mindful of how foolish she must look in this moment.

@chloevlinder / accepting

[beauwolfsong]

who: @jayparkv where: jay's house in the early morning of july 14

It had been a long night, and Beau knew it would probably be a while before he attended the summer festival again—maybe not until next summer, if ever. He finally managed to catch up with Nathan, who looked a little worse for wear but would be okay. Though beyond exhausted, there was one more place Beau needed to go before he could rest. He had to make sure Jay was alright. His phone hadn't worked during the festival, but now it did. Still, that wasn’t enough. He needed to see Jay with his own eyes, touch him with his own bloody hands.

Sneaking out of the house without waking his brothers, Beau avoided drawing attention to himself. They’d all had a long night, and the last thing he wanted was to answer a million questions. He drove to Jay's place in record time, swerving around debris scattered in the road.

What he found at Jay’s wasn’t what he expected: dead animals and their stench. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Beau saw himself caked in dirt and dried blood. The blood on his hands was Nathan’s, from when they pulled that metal rod out of his foot. Maybe he should just go home, text Jay like a normal person. But Beau had never been normal when it came to Jay. He turned off the car and got out.

It didn’t take long to find Jay on the edge of his property, digging holes. Beau’s heart constricted in his chest as he watched him for a moment. Jay seemed perfectly fine. Relief flooded through Beau, and he quickened his steps to reach Jay faster. "Jay, I—" He stopped short, noticing the dead pigs beside Jay. His empty stomach twisted. He was hungry, but not that hungry. He stepped closer, stopping a couple of feet away. "Do you need any help?"

As Beau stood there, a realization hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t just relief he felt; it was something deeper, something that had been simmering under the surface for far too long. His heart wasn’t just constricting out of concern—it was out of something much more powerful. Beau had always been protective of Jay, always felt a strong connection, but he’d never allowed himself to dig deeper into those feelings. Standing there, he couldn’t deny it any longer. He cared about Jay in a way that went beyond a hook up.

"Jay, I—" Beau started again, his voice softer, more vulnerable. "I’m really glad you’re okay." The words felt inadequate, but they were all he could manage at the moment.

[hells-musing-along]

// closed starter for @statiicstag //

A haunting melody drifted through the skyline, emanating from one of the rooftops. Those within the vicinity felt a deep ache clutching at their hearts: sorrow, anxiousness, and heartache hung heavy within. The siren’s song only lasted a few minutes, but those feelings still lingered with those around and within her.

“...What a fucking happy day in Hell,” Sarcastically muttering to herself, Lilith poured another glass of whiskey. Her lilac eyes slowly take in Hell’s skyline before they fall upon a particular hotel. A faint twist of anguish crossed her features as she realized it was still her first day back in hell.

It was supposed to be a happy day, a joyous reunion with her family. The moment she was released from Heaven's golden cage, she eagerly searched for her loved ones. Yet, upon finding them, she hesitated, realizing she couldn't simply re-enter their lives as if nothing had changed. 

Lucifer and Charlie looked so happy when she saw them heading into the hotel. She didn’t want to intrude on their happiness. It’s been seven years… did she even have that right? You’re just going to ruin them. She did not, at least right now, and retreated into the city.

… where she is currently now, draining yet another glass of whiskey on the rooftop of her recording studio. Reaching for the bottle again, she found it empty. Letting out a heavy sigh, she headed back inside, the warm buzz of the alcohol tingling her senses and dulling her pain.

This was what she wanted, needed even, to be fully vulnerable for just one night. To let go of all the restraints she had built up over the past seven years to protect herself and just feel again. Liquor might not have been the best choice, but it was what was available.

Lilith stumbled into the studio, briefly appreciating the soft sound of jazz emitted from the wooden radio, before heading straight to the liquor cabinet, oblivious to her surroundings. Her fingers traced the tops of the bottles before settling on a bottle of rye. With a satisfied hum, she turned around and finally noticed that she was not alone.

An elegant eyebrow arched ever so slightly as hazy lilac-colored eyes fixed on the intruder. "...I wonder when these hallucinations will finally cease," she murmured to herself, knowing her dear friend wouldn’t be here. No one knew she was here.

[exmcrtis]

location: the huntsville daily

closed starter for: @ambercast (conrad)

she'd been standing on her chair when she heard her name being called. the shelf above her desk was chaotic and disorganized, and pru had left it for so long, the sight of it was starting to irritate her. and so she was being ambitious, climbing up and onto the chair with wheels despite the voice in the back of her head telling her not to. it was the same voice that sounded eerily like conrad, and it was one she could never ignore.

with a sigh, pru dropped her arms, turning just in time to catch sight of the mailman now. of course they'd seen each other since the ball, but something was just a little off, and pru hated it. she'd been using needing to be at the paper as an excuse to avoid his place, though she wasn't avoiding him all together. she just didn't know how to initiate the conversation they knew they needed to have. despite that negative feeling, she still managed to flash him a smile.

"hey," she muttered, scooting her chair until she could face him fully. "what's up?"

[stillgrows]

@decomposited

A flood of information. Violence, terror, apathy, disconnect, void, all of it connecting and intermingling with even more words than Sigma could think to describe, a horrible torrent, a gaping wound, a tsunami higher than they could see, pulling the world out from under them, their world out from under them, and they were so small, and he knew what they had agreed to, and they were drowning———

Silence. Stillness. Those were the first two things Sigma was aware of. The flood of panic was sequestered to the back of their mind; they were aware of it, of the weight of it, lurking there, pressing and seeking any weakness it could find and threatening to take them over again. But their defenses held—the same defenses that landed them here.

They should have been dead. It was possible they were dead, they supposed. They never had any thoughts about what would come after, even when faced with it. But they didn't think they were dead. They were floating—or were they falling? Drowning again. Panic surged through them once more, the air leaving their lungs in a thoughtless, terrified gasp, bubbles rising upward. They flailed, desperately seeking the surface.

They broke through, coughing and gasping, clearing water that wasn't there from their lungs. Beneath them was the water, its surface solid and smooth despite the ripples. It reflected the starry sky above like a mirror, but their reflection was nowhere to be found. They stood on unsteady feet, not trusting the ground they couldn't see. From this angle, with the stars reflected so clearly on the water they looked to be beneath the surface, it looked like the thick glass floor in the center of the casino.

But there were no stars below. There was the earth and the twinkling lights of cities far below the Sky Casino there, and here there were stars caught in the deep sea.

Sigma's mind was moving slow, still groggy from the onslaught of information their ability had pulled from Dostoevsky, and it was only now that they realized that the improbability of it all made sense in only one context: a dream. The impossibility, the rationalizing... this was a dream, and they—

A quick look-around revealed one part of the dream their mind was doing its best not to parse, or not create. Shadows. The depths of the sea made solid. A current ran a chill through their bones, and for a moment they thought they could see a faint cloud of their breath before it was gone. There was a presence there, just out of sight. They could feel it, even if they couldn't see it.

This may have been a dream, but they were not alone.

"Who are you?" they asked, voice sounding braver and more sure than they felt. Their fists clenched at their sides, manicured nails digging into their palms to steady their shake.

[denverneumann]

After a day and a half in the Tower, Denver had failed to achieve her goal. She couldn't find Cain. For all she knew, he was dead. When was she supposed to give up on him? When exactly did she write off the unknown as a sure thing? She wasn't ready to do that yet. Cain had survived a Hunger Games, and she and Cain and Monty had survived a month of squatting in a nightclub together. He was strong and crafty and well-trained. If anyone could survive, it was Cain.

But was pushing her luck, being here. Denver had already run into a handful of people, and needed to get out of there before she ran into the wrong person. She needed to get back to Monty, back to safety. Everyone here was aligned with the Vox, and as much as she still didn't know which side she agreed with in all of this, the Vox didn't know her mind. They didn't know her. They'd see a Capitolite who worshipped the Games and worked for their preservation. Because she had, hadn't she? That's what Denver had done without even realizing it. She had been just as bad as the fangirls she made fun of. And it would get her killed if she wasn't careful.

Denver had barely slept last night, out of fear. And now, even groggy as she was, as she moved through the corridors, she was terrified. One wrong step and this would all be over. She just needed to get back to the hospital wing, out the window she came in. But was that a right or a left after this hallway? Or had it been the previous hallway? It wasn't like she was able to stop for directions.

Denver was, however, able to stop in shock when Calliope Snow of all people rounded the corner, headed directly toward her.

@calliopesnow

[quietlyblooms]

open to mutuals | in which chiyo doesn't want them to leave <3

" thank you, " softly chiyo mutters as laces are untied and shoes discarded, careful hands helping her beneath a comforter that feels heavenly against her skin. typically she'd never go to bed in street clothes, but the night calls for an exception; she's had just a tad too much to drink, feels much too tired to worry about dirty clothes. no, chiyo's more concerned with squeezing her pillow as tightly as she can ( the pressure against her chest soothes something that she can't name, doesn't want to name ).

she feels the bed shift as her companion stands, and eyes like melted chocolate stare up at them. belatedly chiyo realizes she's grabbed hold of their wrist but doesn't let go. belatedly she realizes she's allowed her pillow to fall to the ground, half-risen upon an elbow, though she doesn't care. she just doesn't want them to leave.

" could you stay a while longer? " her voice sounds so small, fragile. " please? "

[thomashxmilton]

@cxptainflint liked for a starter

The Savannah sun had been fierce that day, the guards had told the men as soon as they got the soil plowed and ready to be planted, they would be excused for the day. Thomas, eager to get back to get out of the sun, put his back into it, working as hard as he could to get him and the other men the reprieve they all so desperately needed. The life was so drastically different than his life back in Whitehall, his once soft hands that used to debate politics and philosophy were now calloused, and dry, a testament to how hard the man had worked to survive over the past ten years.

Oglethorpe's plantation wasn't ideal, a prison was still a prison no matter how you wanted to present it. However, considering what he had endured in Bedlam, he would take the plantation any day over a traditional jail. At least he felt like he could breathe at the plantation, that he had at least some form of privacy. He had also garnered favor with Lord Oglethorpe by proving himself not to be the problem that his father and Peter Ashe had painted him when he was brought to their gates, so he even had more freedom than others did. But still, Thomas yearned for his freedom, just like the other men there.

There had been rumors and whispers of a new prisoner being brought to the plantation today. "I hear it's a pirate!" He had overheard one of the men comment, and another added, "Yeah! I wonder which one it is?!" Thomas had kept his thoughts to himself but listened to the men as he had ate breakfast. Wondering himself what poor soul was being brought amongst their ranks?

Focused on his work he could hear the men unshackling what he assumed to be the new prisoner. Back to them, he turned the dirt with his hoe and had taken a moment to stand and wipe the sweat from his brow, but as he took a moment to breathe, something made him take pause. He felt as if he was being watched.

The men were watched 24/7, but this was something different, something new, but also familiar. He could almost hear the air around him telling him to turn around, a familiar voice, a kind one. Slowly he turned around to face what ever happened to be watching him. He first noticed the sheer amount of men that were there just to drop off one prisoner but as the man was uncuffed, and slowly started walking towards him, the heart in Thomas' chest began to beat hard against his ribcage. No. Thomas thought to himself. No he's gone, your mind is playing tricks again.

As the prisoner got closer to him, Thomas was frozen a moment, trying to take in what he was seeing. Those shoulders, the eyes, how often had he dreamt of those blue eyes that seemed to look right into his soul? Thomas stared in disbelief for what felt like an eternity before joy bubbled through his chest and a smile crossed his features, one that he never thought he'd give to anyone ever again.

But James was here, he was alive and he was here, with him.

Finally closing the gap between them, Thomas pulled the man into a tight hug, his hands gripping him to him, so scared to let go and find out this was just some wonderful dream. He tried to speak, god how he wanted to say everything to James, why couldn't he get anything out? Closing the gap between them, he hugged him close, rubbing his thumb against his shoulder the was finally able to let out an emotional, "hi. . ."

[serabellyms]

i hate that feeling when i'm writing w/ a new mutual or a mutual that I haven't written with much and don't know what's too long of a reply that's gonna scare them off

so ig this is my way of saying to the dash: if you're not intimidated by long replies sometimes PLEASE let me know directly bc this vibe literally results in me deleting and rewriting replies to people multiple times when the first few were probably just fine to send and i'm instead overthinking how much content i'm putting in it when that particular mutual would've just gone with the flow--

[sea-of-flxmes]

// @lultimagoccia starter for you!

                       ✦• · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · •✦

        Ah, the land of the dead. The Underground, as they called it in Shibuya.

A plane of existence in which Reapers possessed superhuman strength and stamina. Where eating and sleeping could be performed on a whim, or never at all. Where functional wings could take any Reaper to the furthest reaches of the city (sky's the limit, baby!).

But now, reincarnated as a regular human, Nywe could no longer enjoy those otherworldly privileges. She was stuck again in a body that needed food and rest to function. A conglomeration of muscles, organs and bones that demanded her constant attention, from the growling of her stomach to her racing thoughts, impulses and nightmares.

        Oh God, the nightmares.

The last Reaper's Game Nywe participated in had been a monumental disaster. One in every two nights she would wake up with a start, her mind reeling from the horrifying things she had witnessed during those endless seven Days. If adjusting to a new body wasn't tiring enough, there was also her hectic life as an exchange student in Shibuya. Soon, Nywe started to lag behind on her studies, unable to keep up no matter how hard she tried. Despair eventually took over, and during a particularly intense moment of crisis Nywe had a epiphany:

        She had to get the hell outta there, and pronto.

So she packed her things, filled all required forms to take a sabbatical year, and embarked on a journey to reconnect with herself. Nywe visited one location after another with no clear goal in mind, until her travels brought her to a pizzeria on the edge of a small town.

Besides its logo, something else drew Nywe's attention: on the front door, there was a ❝ HELP WANTED ❞ sign. Curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped inside without a second thought; maybe she could start a new life far away from a city that threatened to devour her whole. ❝ Hello? ❞ Nywe spoke in a somewhat meek tone. ❝ I would like to apply for a job here—if you're still hiring, that is. ❞

[voxiiferous]

Maria Carvillius makes her way to Vox's office, having received a call about the overlord wanting to meet with her. Her brother in tow "for security", she stares him down for a moment. "Do not fuck this up for me," she hisses, which gets her a dramatic eye-roll. Checking in with his PA, the duo waited patiently.

Hellaina buzzes them in easily enough, once she double checks they're actually meant to be here-- and if, privately, she thinks it might be time to look at getting a new PA or receptionist, it's only fair.

Vox is leaned back in his office when the chime on his computer alerts him of the next meeting. "Fuuuuck," he mutters, pressing his fists against his screen, as if he still had eyes or temples to massage. The last meeting had run long and accomplished what felt like bugger all.

He lets out a whirring sigh, and pulls himself back to his proper posture. He grabs a USB from the drawer beside him, jabbing it into his arm, and waits for the quick synthetic thrill that exe.stasy gives him. Who needs coffee when he can just mainline a stimulant? (That's mostly a lie, he would still like coffee-- but such was the existence of the screen).

He wipes a microfibre cloth over the screen to wipe away the worst of the spots, and types back a 'send them in' to Hellaina.

Deep breath, and grin: showtime.

"Ah Ms. Carvillius, how nice to finally meet you, please, sit,"

[mystiika]

@miidnighters plotted for a starter — flynn & jamie.

jamie had never really thought too hard about how to act around flynn, nor particularly cared how he presented himself beyond dressing as reasonably as he would have in any other company. from start jamie had been comfortable with him. the only thing jamie had ever really been consistent in caring about was him trying to use the same cologne whenever he met with flynn. he felt it was important that he at least comes with a familiar scent even if the time of day left his appearance hard to make out with clarity. but now jamie had been stressing needlessly about the outfit, needing to focus on something. but to finally put himself out of his misery he eventually he just video called hannah & got her to settle on something for him — what are siblings for, just as she told him in response to his thanks.

in the final hours leading up to picking flynn up, jamie seemed unable to settle between anxious & excited.  he ultimately he's still not quite sure if this was meant to be a date or not. but at this point he was far too afraid of getting it wrong to outright ask & risk ending up embarrassed for assuming that's what it was simply because flynn had expressed interest in him— enough to flush his cheeks pink at the very least which is something he'd prefer to avoid. normally, being around friends like flynn would calm him down ( relaxing is easiest among friends after all ), again, normally but this was FAR from normal for jamie, it was new & a little confusing but ultimately quite pleasant thus far. & he never minded a shifting kind of friendship, they change so much over time as you grow & jamie had every intention of taking this seriously so he can respond to flynn despite the clear insistence that there were no expectations placed on him. as far as confessions go, jamie hadn't been on the receiving end of all that many of them over the years. but he quite liked flynn's. he supposes a part of that is the comfort of flynn already knowing him as well as he does, & choosing to like him after all that. 

❝ it's really not as crowded as i thought it was going to be, ❞ jamie says to flynn; only half turning his head towards the other while distracted by the sudden ❛ winner winner winner ❜ soundbite echoing from a test of strength game directly beside them. but he's able to bring his attention back to flynn just as fast as it had been taken away ( although, aided largely in part by the slightest tug on his hand where the two had ended up with fingers laced together ). ❝ it isn't all that loud either, i mean yeah there's the sound of the rides & games & stuff but i don't think i'll really have to rely on lip reading much. ❞ it was a bit funny how they balanced each other out in that way too — with jamie able to read out the signs for flynn as needed while flynn took care of the times when something was a little too far away or a little too quiet for jamie to catch it all with absolute certainty.

it is a real date, right?

jamie certainly doesn't mind the idea & it's not much different from their usual hang outs in a way. there's still good conversation, good entertainment, & their inside jokes. they'd held hands before too. & yet it felt so different now when simply walking around holding hands was enough to make him overly concious of every way flynn seemed to near him. & near him flynn was, but discerning if it was intentional was made difficult when the environment alone seemed to have them be repeatedly ( both physically & emotionally ) pushed together without their efforts.

he wasn't even sure he knew how to date someone after so long. but he was enjoying his time with flynn & figures he can focus on that for now & make up his mind on how he feels once the night is over.