#callirem

[carnagefated-blog]

@callirem.

` You’re from the guild. `

kyōka had retained the habit of remaining silent -- an assassin’s trait she would never rid herself of. sneaking up on others was far too easy, even if she hadn’t meant to do so purposefully. this time, she had. she had assumed the guild had been disbanded or the surviving members had fled.

[irrealiite-blog]

callirem beckoned.

                         a crown is placed at the the top of steinbeck’s head. comprising of fresh-cut flowers, with their stems cleaned and bent and twined into shape, it rests crookedly among hazy golden locks. poe allows himself the pleasure of brushing his fingers through that soft hair when he straightens the crown, smiling faintly to himself at the tickle along his palms.

               “-- there,” he murmurs, lips barely moving to sound the word out. “you always did remind me of something that belonged more in a field of flowers than anything, spending your days basking in the morning sun and swaying with the gentle evening winds.”

[extraplanaire-blog]

face plants into lovecraft's back "let me rest here for a moment."

he immediately stops moving as soon as steinbeck falls against him-- can’t accidentally make the guy drop to the floor, now can he. (steinbeck would catch himself before that, but lovecraft doesn’t may attention to that fact.)

a nod is given in response to the request, followed by “okay” once he realizes that steinbeck couldn’t have possibly seen the gesture. lovecraft harangues steinbeck into making a perch out of himself often enough that he’s more or less obligated to assent when the same is asked of him. he reaches an arm back and pats steinbeck’s head (barely. reaching that way is difficult with the limited number of joints in an arm). “are you alright?”

it’s more common for lovecraft to be the one complaining about fatigue, this other way around is different enough for lovecraft to express some mild form of concern.

[irrealiite-blog]

It's not that he meant to drift off. It's simply fatigue, coupled with the temperature of room and the oddly comfortable silence. Soon enough, eyes have grown heavy and his head's dropping to the shoulder of his companion.

                                   the noise he makes is nothing unlike the startled sound a cat makes when awakened or even touched. (he spends too much of his time around animals.) there’s a head perched at his shoulder. he hears the slow and gentle breath reminiscent of sleep -- a lazy push and pull that tells him steinbeck possibly fell asleep with his mouth open. (poor thing must be so tired to have passed out like that.) 

                                     with a certain degree of hesitance and squirming in his belly, poe reaches up and combs his fingers through the younger’s hair, smiling to how soft and untangled it is, and retracting his arm before he wakes him up. with that free hand, poe procures a decent amount of treats from his pocket, beckoning karl over and striking a deal with the little thief before he can snatch the food out of his palm -- bring me the blanket from my bed and they’re all yours. of course, it takes a few minutes, and poe has to bite his lip hard to keep from cackling at the sight of a raccoon, clearly struggling to carry an awfully-bundled blanket in his tiny arms. deal has been seen to its end, karl paid and scurrying off to nibble on his treats, and poe drapes the blanket over steinbeck single-handedly and with as much care as he can manage. 

[irrealiite-blog]

"Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got fine written all over you."

                         what’s this? (lies. trickery, deceit, just like the rest.) poe stumbles over any semblance of a response he’s got to offer, but all that leaves is a meek noise of confusion ‘tween pale lips. 

                           steinbeck is a handsome man. much younger than himself, mere inches shorter, friendly, outgoing. he’s a country boy, through and through, much different than poe -- poe, the reserved, the quiet, with the appearance of a stubborn ghost refusing to move on, clinging to old threads and hiding his face from all who look his way. much the way he does now, having lowered his head to obscure the way he nervously sucks a breath of air in, as if having to prepare himself to speak. (don’t play games with me.) he has nothing to reply with after a moment’s thought, no cunning or clever response. only the flutter of cape as poe turns on his heel and scurries off.

[irrealiite-blog]

( ✉ → sms ) i j sut left you a 3 mintue long voicemail singing. sorry

late-night texts || accepting 

sent to --> steinbeck, 3:14 A.M.: I hope this means you’ve made it home safely?