Chapter Text
If there’s one word you can use to describe your job, it’s insufferable.
Why? Between the crappy late-night shifts, God-awful coworkers, and a long-gone enthusiasm for what it actually is that you do for a living, you really can't tell at this point. You just keep your mouth shut, and keep another day, another dollar running through your head on loop from 9 to 5 (if not later).
Now, it isn't unusual for people to dislike their jobs or find them soul-sucking in the worst possible way.
It just really sucks for you because you haven’t always been this way.
From the moment you discovered your sense of free will at the ripe young age of six or seven, your family placed a certain responsibility on your shoulders by gaslighting you into thinking the choice was yours. Funny enough, it wasn't even a real question at all. It was just “hey, Cortado Cookie, don't you think coffee magic is so interesting? I bet you’d love to study it someday.”
It was apparent that you were built for that fate. After all, you are a coffee Cookie–so, from a young age, you poured yourself into studying magic because it was the most obvious route for you to take in life.
Until you met your distant cousin, Espresso Cookie, to write an observational paper about what he did, and found you could never make coffee magic your life’s trajectory for two reasons.
A: You’d never have what it takes to be successful, simply because you didn't have the same passion your cousin carried (and, Espresso claimed, your dough is tainted with milk.)
B: Writing that paper lit a fire in you that wouldn't be put out for a long time.
As it turned out, you had quite the passion for writing, so much so that you completely abandoned any magic-related ambitions to study literature. Just like that, you had tangled yourself up in the pipe dream of becoming a successful journalist.
And somehow, you managed to do just that.
Kind of.
You have a steady job and a good name in your company to prove it. But you definitely aren't going to be winning any popularity contests for your writing in this lifetime, or ever.
Your reputation is built on legitimacy–no hunch ever becomes an article if it doesn't become fact first. You’ve always hated how your colleagues, piles and piles of gossip writers, make so much more bank than you by beefing up some of the most stupid rumors simply because they know people are suckers for it. Thus, the sense that you’re in the wrong place entirely is, to say the least, persistent.
It’s quite ironic, though, seeing as you’re the one who chose to work for a gossip journal.
But who could blame you? They’re the first place that hired you when you were so desperate for a job while you finished your degree, and somehow, it’s the only place that’ll still have you. People have told you time and time again that you belong in a scientific or medical journal, a place that actually values legitimacy, but never think to consider how damn hard you’ve been trying to get into one before realizing most of them are elitist and give you an unnecessarily hard time.
And the worst part? They always make it seem like they’re doing someone a favor by not accepting you.
They’ve called you thousands of things—intelligent, passionate, skilled, even MilkShakespeare incarnate that one time, even though you aren’t that kind of writer. But the one you’ve gotten almost consistently is just not what we’re looking for.
It sucks massively, especially because you know you’re pretty good at your job. When it comes to research and interviews, you have the tendency to go in knee-deep to find what you’re looking for, just to make sure everything comes from a place of legitimacy or total honesty. And yet, you’re held back, mainly because you don’t have the one thing every journalist needs to survive: popularity.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t mind it. It’d be nice to receive some credit for what you’re doing, but you never will, because you’re in the wrong place and the wrong position to try and find a better one. Over years and years of writing what you thought was compliant with the golden standard only to get nowhere with it, writing’s become less of a passion and more of an ass-pain. The only reason you still do it’s because your wallet is usually empty enough as it is.
This morning is a special kind of irritating, and for once you don't split lanes on your commute because you can tell it’s just not going to be a good one. You’re almost scared to take off your helmet as you slowly dismount your bike when you park, looking up at the glass tower that’s been killing you slowly for the past five years and will continue to until you finally manage to pay off your motorcycle…or, y’know, just die.
Your suspicion is only confirmed when the first face you see upon exiting the elevator to your floor is Peanut Butter Cookie.
Your first instinct when you see him is to take a deep breath—he is not going to be the reason you absolutely lose your shit at 7 in the morning. Of course, he puts on that anxious smile that can’t mean anything good when he sees you, immediately rushing over with your cafe order already dripping from the lid in his shaky hands.
Never let it be said that you hate the kid—he isn’t all that much younger than you, and the memory of life in his shoes is still a relatively fresh one for you. Hell, it was only a couple of months ago that you were always feeling bad for the guy because he was treated like fresh meat…which he was. However, that came to be your biggest mistake, because your bleeding heart that didn’t want another poor soul to lose the passion for their job like you did decided to help the guy out a little.
And suddenly, you were in charge of him.
At first, it came with its perks. He was like a dog, always following you around and offering to help with anything you needed while you acclimated him to the thrilling life of an underpaid office worker.
It wasn’t long before that dog suddenly became a leech, though, and everything that you saw as a perk before became an annoying distraction. Wherever he goes, something at least mildly irritating follows, and he’s constantly following you.
You’re honestly starting to believe the kid might be a curse.
“Morning, Cortado Cookie!” He beams despite his own nerve-wracked look, offering you an Americano that looks like it got cold seven hours ago after being generously taste-tested by a cake hound.
With a long sigh just to remind yourself that suicide is inconvenient, you take the drink.
You don’t say a word to the kid as you make your way over to your desk, able to feel his nagging presence tail you like a flea. He’s bound to say something soon enough, anyway.
“...How’s your morning going?”
There it is.
“Much like my coffee,” you deadpan, taking a sip of the awful thing despite yourself because hey, it’s caffeine. “Anything from The Geographic yet?”
He winces—he may be behind you, but you can tell by the short little breath he takes. “...Well, I hate to be the bringer of bad news…”
“Yet, you always are,” you mumble just loud enough that no one but the air in front of you can hear.
“They said they’ll think about it.”
Ah, yes. The “we don’t want to explicitly say no” way of saying screw off.
“...Awesome.” You sigh, flopping into the only thing that’s been doing your ass a favor in this damn place—your Herman Miller chair.
You really do hope they’ll let you take it when you finally quit. Or just won’t notice when you steal it.
You can tell PB’s looking for something helpful to say from the way he’s wringing his fingers between themselves. Somehow, he hasn’t yet gotten the point that you’ve heard them all and positivity is only the solution to about 23 things, by your count. This is not one of them.
“Anything else?” You grumble into your room-temperature-at-best coffee, shooting him the side eye that he’s hopefully deciphered means you aren’t in the mood to talk.
Seems he’s got the message quite well, because he purses his lips and quickly shakes his head before scurrying off about 10 feet away to his own desk, where he’s still close enough to yell to you from his spot should he want to talk later on.
Knowing him, he absolutely will.
You send a quick prayer to whatever deity is out there because lord (or lords?) know/s you’ll need it, jamming the power button on your computer for five seconds and promptly mashing your fingers against the spacebar. Of course, nothing you do will change the fact that it’s still going to wake up at the speed of an old, retired man with arthritis, but you much prefer taking your rage out on company property over waiting idly while it does.
When it finally blinks awake, the first thing you see is that red dot out for your jam mocking you from the corner of your email.
Right. That.
Sighing, you open your inbox, already knowing what to expect.
Sure enough, the one sitting on top among piles and piles of identical ones is an email from your personal patron—a guy named Shrimp Cocktail Cookie from the Crème Republic. For the last few weeks, he’s been asking you to write him some articles—and when your employer noticed, he decided to make it your official responsibility, because you weren’t doing much for the company otherwise.
You still have no idea how he found you and picked you specifically for his requests, but as long as you get paid, you don’t ask questions—and the checks this guy offers you are stupidly fat. He’s the reason you were able to treat yourself to fancy takeout last week.
You have to admit you find his requests strange, though. Given your reputation as a writer, you’d think he might want you to make a piece about an actual problem that only you’ll cover accurately, instead of beefing it up as emotional bait for readers like the blood-sucking parasites you have the joy of calling your coworkers.
But nope. He wants you to write smear pieces on some Cookie’s gossip show.
Ironic, isn’t it?
Black Sapphire Cookie, the host, has been…something to research. On the one hand, he’s a very expressive person—for a radio host, anyway. But somehow, he’s perhaps the most cryptic and obscure Cookie you’ve ever had to research at the same time.
From what you’ve gathered, he’s something of a yapper. The one time you listened to one of his show episodes for research purposes, you spent the next hour moping about the absolute waste of fifteen minutes you’d just spent for a slight increase in your paycheck. Listening to a guy blah blah blah about honestly stupid and baseless rumors without much in terms of a break isn’t something you’d recommend to anyone who values their time or holds dear their gift of common sense.
You have to admit he’s got a nice voice, though.
Still, despite all the talking he does, he never says much of anything about himself. Not even the internet knows what the guy looks like, where he’s from, who he works for, or even if Black Sapphire’s his real name.
It’s honestly made your job a lot harder than it has to be. You can’t get any solid evidence against the guy that Shrimp Cocktail Cookie wants canceled for whatever reason, so you’re reduced to writing generic stuff that can hardly be counted as smear work to keep him happy. Of course, he never is, and just keeps sending you requests—but as long as he keeps paying you, you’ll keep him on the hook with bait you’ll just have to withhold until someone can get you some proper dirt on this radio show guy.
You didn’t expect the person who’d give it to you would be the actual guy, though.
You don’t even have to open Shrimp Cocktail Cookie’s email to know what it says: I hate this guy, write something bad about him, here’s your commission, etcetera, etcetera. A sigh naturally slips out at the realization of just how monotone your life has become.
You take a quick glance down, subconsciously looking to depress yourself further by looking over the countless emails, all from the same guy, that all say the same thing.
So it comes as a surprise when you find, right under it, a message from Black Sapphire Cookie.
You nearly grace your screen with the rains of your saliva-infested coffee, eyes blown wide the moment they land on that particular email.
What the hell?!
You force yourself to swallow hard, pushing your chair away from the screen like it just tried to stab you. Of course, it doesn’t make the email you still haven’t even read go away—just creates ample space between you and the desk to go about this like a sane person instead of instinctively chucking the monitor out the nearest window.
For a moment, you just stare at the computer, eyes wide like it’ll jump you the moment you blink. You don’t imagine you look much different from a startled cat, arms and knees tucked so far in on yourself that your hair might as well be sticking up.
People around obviously notice your commotion, heads swiveling like owls toward the source of the sound on instinct. When they realize it’s just you, they fortunately shrug and continue to mind their own business…except, of course, for PB.
“Are you okay?” He immediately frets, scurrying up to the little island in the middle of the walkway that you’ve made in your chair. It takes every ounce of willpower in your body not to pick it up from under yourself and swing it at him—besides, you’re too busy borderline hyperventilating.
A rule of thumb in journalism that anyone would be stupid to forget is that reputation is everything. If you’re going to say something about anyone, you’d better be able to back it up better than they can support anything about you. It’s why you were so skeptical about taking Shrimp Cocktail Cookie’s requests at first, until your boss made it your official job.
You figured this would happen sooner or later—with all you’d been writing about him, Black Sapphire Cookie was bound to notice at some point, even if your articles weren’t very popular at all. The scary part was that you had no idea what he wanted from you—people usually wrote a response online to clear up the drama, but no one had ever had the guts to email the journal, let alone the article’s author personally.
Either this guy knows he's going to come out on top between the two of you, or he's really, really stupid.
“...No, not really,” You finally answer PB, because neither of those theories is going to mean anything good for you.
You have to hand it to him—he’s a smart kid when he wants to be. The moment he sees the screen, his eyes go just a bit wider with realization before he looks between it and you like it’s the guillotine he’s about to watch you slip your head into.
“That’s the Cookie you’ve been writing about, isn’t it?” He asks anyway, looking almost as concerned as you.
You don’t say a thing, just nod slowly.
Your plan at the moment is to simply never move again. You’ll stay right here, paralyzed on your little isle of fear, until hunger or dehydration or some kind of freak accident kills you. The last thing you want is to read the email that's likely to spell your doom.
So, of course, PB reads it for you.
“Dear Cortado Cookie,” he begins, either oblivious to or purposefully ignoring the death glare you shoot him. “I wanted to write you to say I must admit I was quite surprised upon discovering your articles about me. I have to say, I’m quite flattered despite what I’ve read in them, but a bit concerned for my reputation all the while.”
Your face scrunches up before you can help it.
Flattered? Who does this guy think he is?
“Thus, I do anticipate you’ll understand my asking you to cease—rumors are best left to me, I believe—and perhaps an opportunity to address what’s been said about me in your articles. Would you be willing to schedule an interview or something of the like?”
Screw that fear—you’re pissed now, pushing PB aside as you scooch forward on your chair to glare at the email yourself. Sure enough, everything he’s just read is spelled out on the screen in an annoyingly pretty cursive font, addressed and signed at the end in a royal purple. What a tryhard.
You should reasonably be relieved that Black Sapphire Cookie isn’t looking to pick a fight. But of course, your general distaste toward the world this particular morning took his diplomatic message and interpreted go ahead and try—you can’t touch me, bitch. You can even hear it in your head in that irritatingly smooth voice of his…well, the best imitation you can come up with from the one time you listened to his show, anyway.
“An interview, huh?” You challenge the computer screen, earning a very concerned look from PB that is honestly valid. “Like hell I’d give you the time of day for a-”
You freeze.
The petty, stubborn savage in your head has just come up with an idea, it seems. And with how particularly pissed you’ve been feeling all morning, you’re more than happy to let it cook.
It’s at that moment you realize he’s just handed you his head on a silver platter. The only reason you haven’t been able to do any real damage on the guy is because no one knows anything about him, and an interview is just the ticket to changing that. You’ve got your own set of Q&A ground rules that have made your interviews incredibly successful—stick to those, and you should gather more than enough dirt on him to make him eat his words.
“Hey, PB,” you mutter, cracking your knuckles and promptly stretching out your fingers as they come to rest on your keyboard, vibrating with malicious intent. “Do me a favor and hold the fort.”
Given how moody you’ve been all morning, it’s no surprise how quickly he recognizes you’re out for jam. And let it go down in the record that you’d never do this kind of thing otherwise—you give professionalism the utmost importance in your job.
But sometimes, the world just needs to burn, along with prissy show hosts who think they can get away with dissing you through fancy emails.
“What?” The kid stutters, hands flinching as if he isn’t sure whether to keep them to himself or pull yours away from the computer before you explode something. “But…you just got here! Where are you going?”
“Wherever this guy is,” you mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard at breakneck speeds fueled by pure, unadulterated (metaphorical) jamthirst.
If it’s an interview Black Sapphire Cookie wants, it’s an interview he’s going to get.
Of all the places you expected the silver-tongued show host to have his base of operations, Beast-Yeast was not a strong contender on the list.
And yet, there you are. Gathering your bearings, you prepared to step off a helicopter freshly landed on a patch of grass and 17 different types of weeds, more than half of which are likely capable of killing you.
It doesn’t help that the pilot’s been eyeing you with a guilty skepticism since the island came into view. Somehow, he seems even more nervous than you are, like he’ll never be able to forgive himself for sending a kid with a death wish off to get devoured by whatever got to them first.
Real reassuring.
But even as you step off the chopper alone with nothing but a satchel containing your writer’s tools and the clothes on your back, you’re in no position to complain. After all, when you responded to Black Sapphire Cookie’s email, it was per your request that this interview be live and in person—it’s the only way you can guarantee you'll get useful information from him that he won’t be able to deny or edit out later, and have your own recording device on your person should he find some way to do just that.
You just…really weren’t expecting his place to be in Beast-Yeast.
The whole situation is starting to make you regret taking his interview offer in the first place. The paycheck increases aren’t even that big—you could’ve easily backed off and told the guy to have a nice day, then given up on the articles about him entirely for the sake of your own well-being. But no, you just had to let beast mode take control and end up here, on the land of certain doom.
It also didn’t help that the moment you told Shrimp Cocktail Cookie about it, he increased his offer tenfold and then some. Forget takeout—you’re going to the steakhouse this weekend, and it better taste amazing.
This is definitely going to be one of your more regrettable impulse decisions, though. After quickly scheduling your interview for today and assigning PB basically all your duties in the office, you booked the next helicopter (it was actually a lot easier than you’d expected) to Beast-Yeast, going solely off the address in the middle of nowhere that he gave you.
It’s only when you’re knee-deep in the woods, too far to see the pilot that was probably right anymore, that you realize this is more than likely a death trap. The location on your navigation app (that still has signal, somehow) is leading you either to the dead center of the forest, where some rabid monster awaits its next meal, or an abandoned warehouse where this Black Sapphire guy plans to finish you off himself.
Seems you’re the fool for letting your rage blind you to common sense, but oh well—at least your death won’t be boring compared to rotting away in an office chair.
The fact that you keep marching blindly to your death is honestly a bit sad, seeing as you’ve really got nothing better to do. But at least if you survive this, you’ll have a mildly interesting story to tell about traveling through Beast-Yeast. With how often the itch of wild plants brushing against your legs and pollen spores making you dizzy plague you, though, you’re fairly sure you won’t have anything positive to say about the island.
You’re so lost in thought that you nearly fail to notice an ivory tower looming in the distance through a thick fog.
You nearly jump at the sight—even through layers of trees and brush, it’s an intimidating view. It doesn’t take long to make out multiple more surrounding it, each tipped in indigo roof tiles that look infinitely older than anything you’ve ever seen, even from a distance. Yet, the entire structure is pristine and tall, with a looming presence that just can’t be overlooked.
Immediately, you recognize the structure. You’re beholding the wonder that is the Spire of Deceit, former home of one of the five emissaries—the Fount of Knowledge, to be precise.
Even from so far away, it’s the spitting image of the depiction in your college textbook from a few years ago. Never did you think you’d get to see such a place, yet here you are, witnessing it in all its glory despite the many plants you’ve quickly come to hate obstructing your view.
You gulp, looking down at your phone—sure enough, it’s pointing you right toward the palace.
No way Black Sapphire Cookie’s sent you to the domain of the fallen virtue…has he?
You know the virtues were sealed in the Silver Tree of the Faerie Kingdom when they corrupted and became Beasts. Still, you can’t help but wonder whether they know, even in their prison, when Cookies enter their domains. If so, what might happen to you once you set foot in the Spire?
…Guess I’ll just have to find out.
Despite how much poorer this decision is looking with every passing second, you press on toward what you’re certain now is a death trap.
As you get closer and closer, a path begins to reveal itself at your feet, a mix of old cobblestone and long-since-imprinted footsteps that fade into a trail entrenched in the dirt. Seems this place was quite popular in its heyday, given all the clues to the heavy foot traffic—you even see traces of towns as you walk along, imagining this was the path dozens upon dozens of Cookies would take every day to visit the Fount of Knowledge.
Maybe you should write an article about it.
You’re honestly expecting the Spire itself to look about as unkempt as the path leading up to it. With just how many weeds and grasses are poking through the stone and remain sprouting up with no one to have stepped on them but you, you’re certain the structure will be all old and dusty and abandoned to the mercy of the overgrown island.
So you nearly topple back in shock when you find a pristine, wide-open gate to a sparkling courtyard, decorating the entrance to the Spire with a luxurious grandeur that everyone working in your office combined could never afford.
Someone lives here—that much is clear with how well-kept the terrain is. Heck, it’s bold to assume only one person occupies this place, with the excellent care that’s been taken to the garden terrace and the near-shining steps up to the front double doors, adorned with gold and blue embellishments that gleam in the golden sun.
You stop just past the gates for a second, taking a moment to admire the excellent work that’s been done to keep the place looking beautiful.
Then, you remember Black Sapphire is the one who called you here, and thus, likely the one who lives here—and suddenly, the sheer appeal of the place becomes annoying.
So you pluck the best-looking blue roses from the nearest bush and shove them in your satchel.
He made you come all the way out here—you’re allowed to be petty.
Still, the little act helps you discharge a little bit of the anger still coursing through your jam, allowing you to properly compose yourself and take a breath to assert professionalism as you make your way up the steps to the front doors. It almost irritates you all over again how clean the place is, but you keep yourself calm with the idea that he’s more than likely not the only one who lives here. Maybe he’s got a roommate or two that had some ties to the Fount of Knowledge, and let him stay for…whatever reason. Still, you’ve no doubt in your mind that they’ll be easier to deal with than him.
So you give the doors a couple of firm knocks, gripping the handle of your satchel as you wait for someone hopefully much nicer than the show host you’ve come looking for to answer.
When they swing open, you’re met with the sight of a little girl.
She’s honestly adorable in a creepy way—her face is almost as pale as porcelain, and she’s dressed up in a strange little gothic lolita getup, but her pudgy little face and pink cheeks sell it as charismatic. Her bone-white hair forms a big, droopy bang between her eyes, the back adorned with big candy apples fashioned as adorable pigtails. She looks no older than eight or nine, but given the little devil horns she’s embellished her hair with and little red-tipped wings protruding from the frills of her skirt, there’s a good chance she means trouble.
You have to admit, though, it’s a bit strange seeing how she contrasts with her surroundings, the reds and blacks she’s dressed in sticking out like a sore thumb against the whites and deep blues of the Spire.
The moment she sees you, a puppy-dog look of confusion overtakes her face as she tilts her head, but you really can’t blame her—she was probably expecting to see an office worker in what’s likely her home as much as you were expecting to see a living gothic Anabelle doll today.
“You’re not dad,” She observes aloud, a rascally and a bit nasally sort of sound that has you resisting stooping down to your knees to talk to her in that classic hey there, kiddo tone.
Oh God, does she live here alone? Is she an orphan?
Wait, is Black Sapphire Cookie her dad?!
Instead of speaking your mind, much like she’s just done, you straighten yourself out, looking down at the little girl you honestly hope won’t be your executioner today.
“I’m here for a meeting.”
Her face scrunches, and you have no trouble imagining for a moment it curling in on itself and leaving her looking like a scrunkly little pug. “A meeting?”
“...With Black Sapphire Cookie,” You choke out, trying your damn hardest not to snicker by reminding yourself she’s probably capable of ripping your throat out. “The interview…?”
“Oh,” She scoffs, quickly sizing you up to decide whether or not you’re worth her time. “You’re the writer that stupid dummy won’t shut up about. He said you might come by.”
You think it safe to draw the conclusion that this is his little sister.
Before you can explain yourself further, she retreats back into the Spire, motioning once for you to follow.
If you thought the outside was something, the inside really seals the deal that you definitely aren’t getting paid enough for this.
Structures, staircases, and doors all float and fluctuate around, serving no apparent purpose except filling the space with no sense of rhyme or reason. Even the walls look misplaced, ruining any illusion or sense of spatial awareness with how dizzying they are to look at. Paintings and portraits of figures you vaguely recognize from your history course and rich velvet curtains hang from no solid place, and every piece of furniture or decor seems to be placed purposefully in a way that makes absolutely no sense.
You keep your eyes on the Cookie in front of you as you walk, just to keep from tripping over your own feet from how nauseous the place already has you feeling. She’s apparently facing no such problem, trotting along with ease down a changing path she apparently knows well.
While small talk is one of your least favorite things in the world, you have more than a few questions, and so much anxiety mixed with irritation flowing through your system that staying quiet might drive you crazy.
“...So…” You hum, fixing your eyes on the little bob up and down of her bang just to keep yourself grounded. “You are…?”
“Candy Apple Cookie,” she answers with a rasp, like she’s trying not to make it too obvious how unhappy she is about this interruption of her day. “Loyal follower of the great Shadow Milk Cookie.”
Your nerves spike at the Beast of Deceit’s name. Apparently, Candy Apple’s keen enough to hear the little hitch in your breath, because she lets out a mildly irritated exhale.
“Relax, he isn’t here—still in that stupid tree.” She reassures you half-heartedly, letting out a wistful sigh at her own words.
You can’t help but pity the poor girl—whatever her relationship with Shadow Milk Cookie was, it clearly runs deeper than just minion and master, and she clearly misses him—but you aren’t about to pry with how unenthusiastic she is about taking you to her brother in itself.
Come to think of it, you vaguely remember something about Shadow Milk Cookie creating a subordinate from his first lie. Is this her? It only makes sense that she seems so disheartened about her absence if he’s her father, after all.
But if your suspicion about her and Black Sapphire Cookie’s relation is correct, does that mean he’s also the Beast of Deceit’s son? And if that’s the case, does he have the same power as his dad?
You’re suddenly a lot more skeptical about meeting with him—should’ve listened to the red flags when they were still warnings and not told you so’s, but it’s a little too late for that now.
The remainder of the walk is spent in silence as she leads you up stairs, down hallways, and through impressive chambers that you’re certain some historians would sell their souls for a glimpse of. You consider taking a couple of pictures that could be useful later, but you’re not so sure how well Candy Apple Cookie will take it—you’re only a guest on business in her esteemed father’s house, after all.
Eventually, after traversing countless steps in a spiral tower, the two of you reach a door adorned with purple garnishings and cords. The Spire seems to stop shifting up here, letting you grimace without throwing up from wooziness at the sight of what must be Black Sapphire Cookie’s quarters.
“Just go the same way backwards on your way out,” Candy Apple is quick to dismiss you, waving you off and trotting away with an almost equally irritated look. You briefly thank her, a bit offended even though you did take time out of…well, whatever she does in here.
For a moment, you’re tempted to turn around and bolt out of this hellhole, interview be damned. But you’ve already come all the way out here—of all the chances you had to back out earlier, this is probably the worst one.
Besides, there’s no other way to get what you came for, and you know what you’re here to do. Not only should this get Shrimp Cocktail and the radio host you’ve never met but already dislike off your back, but it’ll give you a chance to diss him properly—and that’s a chance the spiteful part of you that’s currently in control is not going to pass up.
So, with a quick breath to psych yourself up, you knock on the door.
The moment your knuckles hit the wood, you realize you have no idea what to expect. It suddenly dawns on you that you’ve never actually seen a picture of Black Sapphire Cookie or even formed an idea of what he looks like—you’re going in completely blind.
Obviously, Black Sapphire Cookie won’t look exactly like Candy Apple, but will they be similar? You honestly don’t find it too hard to picture his outfit looking like hers, but if they’re related, will their features be alike? Heck, Shadow Milk Cookie himself doesn’t look much like either of them at all, aside from having white accents in his hair. Maybe Black Sapphire looks more like his dad—unless he’s adopted?
Your mind is in the middle of conjuring a weird Candy-Apple-Shadow-Milk hybrid in your head when the door swings open, revealing a Cookie that looks absolutely nothing like you’re expecting.
You’re surprised to find he’s got a good couple of inches over you, leaving you just a bit embarrassed when you have to tilt your head up to get a good look at him. His skin and complexion look nothing like either of his relatives’, a muted gray-lavender tone highlighted by a deep purple eye. He’s got the same slit-like shape in his lilac pupil and white eyelid highlight as Shadow Milk does, and a couple of eyes hidden in his deep black and purple-tipped locks of fluffy hair like his dad. Seems he also took up hiding half his face from his master, his right eye concealed by thick black bangs.
His build also differs a bit from Shadow Milk’s, more top-heavy but still pinched at the waist. His style is somewhat similar to Candy Apple’s in the gothic sense, but there’s definitely personal taste in there. He’s wearing a massive black gemstone over a crisp white cravat, with a white rose brooch pinned just to the left of it. Black bishop sleeves billow over his arms, attached to a tailored jacket with the lapels lined in a swirly gold. Behind them, there’s a sliver of a purple vest, two gold chains hanging from his left hip. The rest isn’t nearly as detailed, but still pristine: sleek black bell-bottom slacks tipped in white lace and adorned on the sides with purple triangle designs, hanging over black wingtips.
As soon as he sees you, he smiles, a toothy grin showing a fang on the left to your mild inconvenience.
The moment you lay your eyes on him, you want to find something to hate, eyes quickly skimming over every single detail making up his figure. He’s supposed to be the image of all your distaste, the very personification of everything you find irritating in the world.
The only problem?
…OH NO HE’S HOTTTTT-
Uncannily, inconveniently, terribly hot.
You see his mouth move, but you have no idea what he says as you size him up a little too much through a sort of hazy mist clouding your vision—maybe this Spire really has had an effect on you. You quickly rub your eyes, shaking your head around to clear up your head a little.
When you open them again, his head is tilted, looking at you with mild concern.
Damn it. Still hot.
“Sorry, what?” You blurt to force yourself to focus on the task at hand, probably looking too dazed for your own good.
He almost seems entertained at how disoriented the whole situation has got you, clearly biting back a smile that definitely isn’t out of courtesy. Thankfully, that in itself reminds you that you don’t like this guy, temporarily shoving out any notions that he’s attractive for later.
“You must be Cortado Cookie,” he repeats, offering his hand in a way that you find way too inviting, despite how much it makes you want to grimace. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Unfortunately, his voice isn't any different on the radio than in person–if anything, it just removes any static from poor quality that might have made it sound less appealing, only making it silkier and harder not to find attractive.
Professional, you remind yourself, forcing a smile and giving his hand a firm shake that doesn't last any longer than it has to. You don't care to grace him with an answer, either.
“Please, come on in,” he’s quick to offer the moment you peel your hand away, stepping aside to let you through the door. The tight smile thankfully persists as you brush past him, purposefully ignoring when your elbow lightly bumps against his arm.
You're quite surprised to find that Black Sapphire Cookie's recording room is quite small, yet still lavishly embellished with the little space allowed to trinkets and decor. There's a full studio setup tucked into the corner of the space, nicely lit by a tall window in the back wall that offers a full view of a nearby beach. The other back corner is home to a writing desk that honestly looks quite cozy, complete with a purple mobile armchair that challenges the comfort of your cushy desk chair back in the office. The rest of the walls are mostly dedicated to aesthetics, decorated with cords, curtains, hanging lights, and paintings that give the place an almost royal vibe.
Your first instinct is to head to the back where his recording station is, given how easily you'll probably get distracted if you browse the walls. You freeze in your tracks when you realize there's only one seat there, though–the place is designed for only one person, after all.
Despite your distaste for the guy, it'd be pretty rude if you just took his spot–heck, he never even invited you to get comfortable.
Lucky for you, he's quick to fix that, darting over to the chair by his desk once you’re inside.
"You'll have to forgive the lack of space," he (sort of?) apologizes, wheeling the armchair over to the other side of the room until it's a good distance from his own in the recording station. "This place isn't exactly built for having guests."
"I can see that," you respond, hoping he'll perceive the slight dig at him even as he offers you the more comfortable seat.
Damn, you hiss internally when you sink into the chair with an entrancing ease. This thing is comfier than mine.
He's still setting a few things up once you're settled, so you take the opportunity to size him up further.
There's an almost practiced control to his every muscle movement, like poise itself was built into his body when he was baked. Much to your dismay, he doesn't move with one bit of the minor awkwardness you've seen in every Cookie you've ever met–everything he does is deliberate, like he's got a plan behind every place his hands and feet take.
He seems to know what he’s doing in every sense of the word.
Hopefully, you can work your way around that.
“Just a few questions before we start,” he suddenly announces, like he can sense your eyes on him even while his back is turned as he picks up a tall mic staff from a stand next to his desk. “I don’t want to be unprofessional, but I have to admit I’m quite curious as to why you chose to write about my show.”
Your brows shoot up at how forward the question is. It catches you off guard, immediately sending some red alarms in motion in the back of your mind. You can’t slip up this early in the game, not when you’ve got a snob to metaphorically slaughter.
“It was per request,” You answer, because you still value honesty despite how much you dislike Black Sapphire Cookie. “I’m hoping this interview will be the last time we have to talk—to satisfy my customer, of course.”
He lets out an intrigued hum, looking you in the eye as he absentmindedly fixes up his microphone between the seats. “Who’s your customer?”
You know better than to answer that. You’re not about to lose your job and good reputation from a rookie mistake like that…plus, with all you’ve assessed about this Spire and its current residents, Shrimp Cocktail Cookie will likely end up dead by the end of the week if you reveal him.
“That’s classified.”
That’s the end of that topic, apparent from the wide-eyed look he gives you for just a second before he returns his attention to his setup. Seems he wasn’t expecting you to take that as well as you did.
Ha. Loser.
But, much to your dismay, he’s not done talking.
“One more thing,” he remarks as he settles into his chair, crossing one leg over the other and leaning his chin on his hand against the left armrest in one swift move that pisses you off at how egregiously smooth it is.
“What are you trying to accomplish here?”
Your heart drops.
“...Pardon?”
You really hope you didn’t stutter, because he’s giving you a sharp look that says you heard me. You hate how intimidating this guy is, especially when it doesn’t look like he has to try very much at all.
“Journalists usually don’t answer my emails on the same day, let alone at all—same for scheduling the interview. You just might be the most determined yet, so I’m dying to know what you want to achieve here today.”
Ohhh crap.
The question itself feels like a knife to your throat, and his slight little smile that you just know is out of malicious intent doesn’t help with that. He’s clearly getting a kick out of watching you fret over an answer.
Once you realize that, you straighten yourself out and take a breath—he may think he’s so good, but this isn’t your first rodeo. You know his game and just how to win it, if you play your cards right.
Of course, you can’t just tell the guy that you’re looking to get as much dirt on him as possible because you’re a sucker for money and so petty that you’re willing to end his whole career over one passive-aggressive email. But you’ve got a pretty good idea of an answer that’ll put you in a nice spot.
“Well, my patron insisted I come out here when I told him about your offer,” you explain, pursing your lips and wringing your hands together in a way that makes you imagine you look like PB. “I’m getting paid extra to take his requests, and I need a little extra cash right now, so I’m honestly just trying to get this over with.”
You know well how you’ve made yourself look with a response, affirmed by a little hum of pity from the Cookie across from you. Now he thinks you’re a sad little pushover, and a broke one on top of that.
Good.
If there’s one thing that’s going to be helpful, it’s getting this guy to underestimate you.
“Well, whatever the case, thank you for coming,” he suddenly switches up, smiling all cheeky and innocent and apparently back in professional mode. “I’d hate to keep you here too long, so let’s get started, shall we?”
You take one last deep breath, mentally preparing for the absolute hellhole you’re about to plunge into headfirst.
And nod.
Black Sapphire Cookie doesn’t wait one second to oblige, switching a few buttons and settings on his recording set with quick, calculated flicks of his fingers. His microphone suddenly shifts into a live countdown from thin air, adding another assessment to those you’ve already made that will both help you later on and make you a little more nervous to be right in front of this guy: he’s got some magic under his belt. Granted, the whole Spire seems to be flowing with it, so you really can’t calculate how well or how much he uses it from that little trick alone, but it’s something.
Honestly, as much as you dislike it, you have to admit it’s a little impressive, seeing as you never got far in learning magic yourself.
Your thoughts distract you from keeping an eye on the counter—you startle back to reality when he suddenly starts talking, addressing his audience with the usual stuff. He starts with the same introduction you remember from the one time you listened in—introducing himself and all that broadcasting to every corner of Earthbread stuff—but it mostly mutes out in your head. Your focus is on watching his face and body language, trying to get a head start on seeing what makes him tick.
For a moment, your mind slips.
This guy doesn’t make performing look too bad, despite your distaste for most overly showy or theatrical people. He’s actually kind of fun to watch, unlike most tryhardy actors or performers, in your opinion. If anything, the showman’s smile looks dangerously good on him, and every emphasized expression as he speaks into his mic is almost glamorously attractive on his face.
Somehow, he even makes basically being a theater kid look hot.
Upon realizing this, you stab your leg with your pen.
Focus!
“I’m here today with Cortado Cookie, a journalist I’m sure you all recognize by now,” Black Sapphire all but sweet-talks the mic, giving you a side glance that lasts no more than six, seven seconds. “I’d like you all to be assured that your concerns have been heard, which is why I hope to answer some questions Cortado’s articles may have raised.”
It dawns on you right then that the email wasn’t just an eloquent gesture of passive-aggression—he’s genuinely hoping to clear his name a little. You really hadn’t expected your pieces on him to do anything to his reputation, with how generic they all are and how popular he seems to be…then again, maybe it’s because of that popularity that the articles came to light.
Interesting.
“The floor is yours, Cortado Cookie,” he says just as that train of thought wraps up—with a quick glance up, you find he’s looking at you expectantly, rocking the foot suspended in the air up and down in a tempo engulfing the whole space, one he’s in control of.
It’ll have to stay that way…for now.
You quickly flip open your notebook, ready with a list of questions. Only a few of them are your own, the rest based on some details Black Sapphire Cookie personally asked you to address in an earlier email response while you were scheduling the interview. They’re honestly pretty plain, but that’s just how you want them to be—always save the juicy ones for last.
So, with a quick, professional smile, you ask him the first question.
And for the next half hour, a cycle is set in place. The interview itself is nothing special—but although you hate to admit it, you find the host you’re talking to definitely is.
Despite how vanilla all your prepared questions are, he somehow finds a way to make all his answers sound decorated, like he’s doing his listeners a favor by not only answering them but doing so in that silky little tone that’s his staple. His voice isn’t just his best advantage—it’s his weapon, one he’s perfected over however long he’s been doing this.
As you watch him gesture and talk to the mic like he would a friend, you’re honestly starting to think it’s a good thing his show is on the radio instead of TV. There’s really no denying that he’s actually super attractive, as much as you hate to do him the favor of thinking so.
Not only does his complexion make his every move look silky somehow, but he wears the look of a host quite well—for once, you’re starting to see how people like P.T. Barnum and Jimmy Fallon pulled such badass wives. There’s a magnetism to him, and quite frankly, you can’t tell whether it’s just because he makes yapping people’s ears off look good or a part of the magic that you’re certain has played a role in getting him where he is now.
Of course, such thoughts are incredibly unhelpful, especially since you’re sitting right across from him. Almost every answer he provides you gets lost in the muffle of your head, or you just don’t pay attention because you’re too busy thinking about how unfortunately nice his voice is in person.
He’s too damn fine for his own good.
That’s not to say the interview completely brings out the best in him, though—you disliked this guy from the get-go for a reason.
Despite how honestly skilled he is, he’s cocky. There’s an underlying tension between you as he speaks, an unspoken battle for power in the room since no one is there to watch. He keeps this almost daring glare on you the whole time, like he knows you won’t dare go off script, paired with a wide smile that adds a level of threat. Every question you ask is an arrow in his direction, and every answer is that arrow shot right back, now tipped with poison.
The questions in your notebook won’t get you anywhere in terms of getting some dirt on this guy.
But lucky for you, he hands you back the conch, unaware that you’ve hidden a dagger inside up until now…metaphorically, of course.
“Any more questions?” He eventually asks once he sees you cross off the last item on your list, fully expecting you to smile and shake your head like the good little journalist who just wants to go home.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You’re well aware no one is going to see your next gesture, as your interview isn’t being recorded on camera—but you’re perfectly fine with that.
You lean forward just a bit, looking Black Sapphire dead in the eye as you shut your notebook without glancing down once.
“Just a few.”
It’s on.
His eyes widen a bit when you do, but he manages to keep his composure, still smiling and fully relaxed in his seat.
You absolutely cannot wait to take that from him.
“Well, I’m all ears,” he offers, gesturing at you with his left hand to proceed. You can tell he knows something is up, and you’re more than ready to confirm that suspicion.
“Why is it that your audience doesn't know where you’re based?”
For a split second, he freezes. He’s careful about it, almost managing to pass it off as a measured pause, but you know better than to fall for it when you see his jaw click. To add a little salt to the wound, you tilt your head just slightly, blinking twice like you have no idea what you’ve just asked him.
“...Well, you know what kind of show I run,” he says. He’s got control of his expression, but you can tell he’s concerned about the reins slipping when he slowly straightens up in his seat. “Keeping an air of mystery is what keeps the listeners hooked, isn't it?”
You completely ignore his answer, instead opting to prod further.
“Is it because you're in the Spire of Shadows, perhaps?”
His voice catches, and he doesn't even try to hide it when his eyes go wider. His lips break into a smile when he chuckles lightly, glaring at you with a look that doesn't match his mouth.
He knows exactly what you’re doing, but so do you.
So you smile right back at him, folding your hands atop your knees as you turn to the microphone–the ball’s in his court now.
“No, my location here in the Spire has not influenced my decision to keep that under wraps.”
“Uh, huh–and is it true you’re a former minion of the Beast of Deceit, Shadow Milk Cookie, still awaiting his return?” You pry further, leaning in closer on your elbows.
He’s starting to slip now—even through the grin, you can see it. The foot he’s had suspended in midair is swinging a little faster now, assisted by the slight tap of the one holding it up. His look is sharper now, the only warning he can give you to shut your mouth while maintaining his composure, but you don’t care. You’re in too deep now, thoroughly enjoying watching that smug face twist into something trying its best to conceal its panic.
“Well, I will admit I did work for him before he was sealed in the Silver Tree.”
“And he gave you a measure of abilities, did he not?” You shoot again. “After all, the only way you can broadcast a signal to every corner of Earthbread, as you claim, would be through magic.”
His eyes are at their widest now, lips pursed as he draws a breath“...Yes-”
“Thus, it's safe to assume you use these same abilities for aspects of your show. Tell me, do people know that you and your rumors are technically a liability because your practices are based in Deceit?”
That’s your last question, and thankfully, the last straw for him. He clasps his hands together, putting his wide smile back on as his fingers dig into his own dough.
“I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today, folks.” Black Sapphire announces, returning his full attention to the recording setup beside him.
You let yourself smile, heavily repressing the urge to point in his face and shout I win at the top of your lungs, followed by some well-earned maniacal laughter.
Jesus, I’m as crazy as this lunatic.
“Thank you again to Cortado Cookie for joining us today,” he says without looking at you, slowly reintroducing the charm to his voice despite how much saying your name visibly pains him. “It's once again been my pleasure to entertain you. This is Black Sapphire Cookie, signing off.”
While you’re relishing in your victory, you aren’t stupid enough to say a thing as he cuts the broadcast. Given the murderous intent he’s been eyeing you with, you think it best to just leave ASAP.
Apparently, he isn’t exactly in agreement with that idea—you’re halfway through gathering your things and heavily eyeing the door when he speaks again.
“Alright. I think it’s time we cut this act.”
You freeze.
…Shhhhhit.
Slowly, you turn around, looking to use the tried-and-true tactic when dealing with intimidating people—remind yourself that he’s just a Cookie, same as you.
Except he isn’t.
He’s a velvet devil, standing tall less than 10 feet behind you with a narrowed eye out for jam. The charming smile and performer’s voice are completely gone, stone-cold seriousness taking their place now that the thin fabrication of naivete has been broken.
You swallow a gulp, but there’s no point in playing dumb. You both know exactly what he said.
“Let me make something clear, Cortado Cookie,” he hisses before you get the chance to draw a breath. “You aren’t the first smear writer who's come here trying to ruin my reputation, and you will not be the last. If you write anything about me again, be assured that I will know.”
With every other word, he takes a step, slowly approaching and looming over you more and more as he does.
All that smugness over your self-proclaimed victory is long gone, replaced with a mix of intimidation and bravery trying its best to keep you upright from how wobbly your legs are. Whatever trace of a smile you may have had has morphed into concern, furrowing your brows and twisting your face despite how much you want to hide the effect he’s having on you.
Your natural fear response tells you to back the hell up—he sure isn’t going to. If anything, he takes your cautious paces back as an invitation to keep moving forward, still looking you dead in the eye as he does.
Then, because the world absolutely hates you, your lower back suddenly hits something sturdy—the edge of his desk.
Panic kicks in when you realize there’s nowhere to run. In the time it takes you to look back and assess what hit you from behind, he’s quickly crept up on you, using the mic staff to encase you between the wall, the desk, and himself. Much to your dismay, your heart skips a beat.
He’s close enough to stab you even with a boot knife if he has one.
All you can do is hope he doesn’t.
“I know exactly who you are,” Black Sapphire growls, right up in your face and just guttural enough that it sends chills down your spine. “It won’t take me very long at all to find out where you are.”
The air is tense—much too packed with intimidation and unease and the sound of your own accelerated heart pounding in your ears for your taste.
Oh my God this guy’s actually threatening me what the hell do I do WHY AM I FINDING THIS HOT-
Looking around for an escape isn’t an option—show no weakness. The only thing capable of getting you out of this mess now is some good old-fashioned diplomacy—y’know, the kind that disappeared the moment you challenged him on his live broadcast.
Thus, you’ll have to utilize every journalist-in-a-pickle’s greatest weapon: a really well-thought-out excuse.
Well, kind of—usually, protocol is to use an awful excuse, but you like to think you’re special like that.
“Sorry, dude,” you start out sputtering, steeling yourself halfway and clearing your throat. “But I have to do what the company asks, no matter what you say.”
His brows shoot up like he’s just as surprised as you are that you’re capable of talking, let alone defending yourself. Still, he keeps the death glare, mixing his confusion and rage into a weird expression. He looks like he just got hit with a Swiper, no swiping—you’re almost tempted to laugh because he clearly has no idea what to do about it.
“If you have a problem with that, take it up with them,” you continue while there’s still an opening to speak. “...If you’re looking to start even more public drama, that is.”
Black Sapphire looks almost Cynthia Erivo levels of shocked, despite how well he manages to mask it under a majorly unshifting expression. Still, little tics and twitches give him away, but you have to restrain yourself from exhaling in relief—you aren’t out of the woods yet.
Even when he takes a step back and withdraws his staff, you have to keep your cool. He’s still looking at you like he’s contemplating killing you in cold jam right here and now, after all.
Eventually, he lets out a hum you can’t quite decipher the tone of, brows raised and eyes half lidded in an almost pitiful look.
“...Well played.”
You’re not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a temporarily withdrawn death threat.
You also don’t want to stick around any longer than you have to—you’ve been threatened one too many times for your liking today, and the urge to run out with your tail between your legs and never look back is stronger than ever. But you can’t look weak, not when he’s just let you off the hook for having the guts to defend yourself.
So you nod firmly once, sidestepping past him and marching toward the door. It’s ajar, a promising sliver of light serving as your beacon of hope to escape with your life.
Then, there’s a sharp snap.
And suddenly, it’s shut.
“Oh—before I forget.”
You’re really starting to hate how ominous this guy can be.
Face pinched, you turn around, hoping you look majorly unimpressed and not like you’re absolutely freaking out…which you are.
Black Sapphire’s still standing in the same spot, fingers pinched in the air, not even trying to hide that they were the source of that dreaded sound. He’s mostly maintained the stoicism on his face, but a flat yet smug little smile gives his lips a slight curve that immediately sets a panic and something else you’re embarrassed to admit into your chest.
“The bug, please.” He all but demands, tilting his head.
Your eyes go wide at the implied accusation, heart rate naturally spiking.
“...What?”
“Don’t get stupid with me,” he scoffs, stepping forward and extending his hand in a way that’s much less friendly than when you first walked in. “All of you come with one. The bug, now.”
You swallow and furrow your brows when he folds his fingers twice, motioning at you to hurry up upon seeing your hesitation.
Damn it.
You scowl, but don’t say a word as you reach up to your ear and remove your helix earring without breaking eye contact. It’s a shame to watch the little microphone go—it wasn’t cheap, and it did make a really nice earring. He seems pretty satisfied with himself as you deposit the poor little spy into his waiting palm, likely to be executed behind closed doors.
“Any more?”
You look him dead in the eye with a glare promising vengeance for your lost soldier.
“No.” You hiss.
He seems satisfied with that.
“...Feel free to see yourself out.”
So the day is…kind of a win.
After Black Sapphire kicks you out of the Spire, all you can do is mope about how terribly wrong things went at the end. Still, you have to give yourself credit for pulling some info out of him on live at the end of your interview, but it doesn’t take away the fact that he was clearly the one in control there—there’s no doubt in your mind he’ll find some way to twist his answers into what people want to hear, and the worst part is, he probably won’t even need to use any powers to do it.
You’ve still taken away some wins from that encounter, though. On your way out, you make sure to take a couple of pictures of the terrain outside the Spire’s gates and the towns surrounding it, as well as a few of the interior in the rare moments the structure would stay still enough for you to get a shot that isn’t blurry. Surely someone will find them useful, and maybe they can get you a spot at a history journal if you use them as motivation.
The helicopter pilot looks happy to see you alive when you get back to the chopper, too. Given the fact that you could have actually died in the Spire, you’re honestly happy to relieve him of his worries that he might be an accessory to your demise. You can tell he wants to ask you about Beast-Yeast the whole way back, but thankfully, he doesn’t pry—while you would’ve been happy to answer his questions, your mind is still too full from the day’s events.
The moment you touch back down in the city, you hop on your motorcycle and start heading home—you’ll more than likely get in trouble at work for it tomorrow, but you’re beyond done with today. Besides, you’ve still got an article to write, and you’d much rather do it after a hot shower on your bed in fluffy sweatpants with some Ben & Jerry’s at your side than covered in all the dust and pollen from the wilderness of Beast-Yeast. It’ll take an act of God to get you to go back there willingly.
Once you get home, you clean yourself up and send the pictures to PB—he should still be at the office, and you’re honestly too tired to figure out what to do with them, so you leave that to him. The article itself, however, takes up all the energy it would have required, but by the end you’re quite satisfied with the result.
You make sure to highlight Black Sapphire’s statements at the end more than the questions he purposefully answered, because after all he’s put you through today, you think you’ve earned the right to dog on him more than a little. Unfortunately, you can’t say anything about his threats—while it’s be the most effective piece to shutting him down, your only evidence to that accusation is in the earring currently in his possession, and you’re honestly afraid he’ll be able to defend himself better than you can defend your claim should it come to light.
Once the article is posted, you let yourself flop onto your bed and really think.
From the beginning, you try to keep your thoughts focused on the article, planning what you’ll do tomorrow once Shrimp Cocktail Cookie has hopefully seen it and hopefully compensates you some big bucks for going to the Spire.
And yet, they keep straying off to the one place you hate them going, lingering on Black Sapphire Cookie.
Despite everything that happened today, you really aren’t sure what to make of the guy. Of course, most of your impression of him is built on the fact that he threatened you, seized your personal property, and summoned you all the way out to the Spire of Deceit just to intimidate you into giving up on the article in person. It’s enough to paint him in a pretty bad light to begin with.
Then again, he’s also the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
Obviously, that doesn’t get rid of all the other stuff—you’re not that shallow, for God’s sake.
Thus, you hate how quickly your cheeks start flushing when his face pops into your mind, irritatingly attractive like some kind of sugar-coated fly buzzing silky melodies in your ear at 3 A.M. Somehow, he manages to make everything look good, from yapping to theatrics to even threatening your life, and you just can’t picture a bad look on him. God forbid you ever start to like him with how bad a person he seems to be—he’s just too hot for both his and your own good (mostly yours).
Still, you’ll feel no guilt writing bad stuff about him and hoping it’ll end his career. He more than likely deserves it, after all.
It’s just a shame such looks have to be wasted on such an ugly soul.
…An ugly soul that just happens to be your latest hear me out.
You’ll continue to hate him for as long as you have to, though. Hopefully, today’s the last you’ll ever have to see of Black Sapphire Cookie.
Realistically, though, you know this’ll come back to bite you…likely sooner than later.