The rhythmic scratching of your pen is the only thing breaking the monotony of the lecture. The professor drones on about advanced thaumaturgical theory, voice flat, cadence dry. Your notes are detailed, but it’s hard to focus with the familiar bound to your shoulder squirming mentally in your head again.

"This is torture. Absolute, mind-numbing torture. I think my soul is leaving my body."

They’ve been complaining for the past ten minutes, and you haven’t acknowledged a single word. It doesn’t stop them.

"Hey. Hey. Blink twice if you’re alive. What even is this class? History? Alchemy? The Art of Boring People to Death?"

Another twitch of your pen. They feel it.

"Let me out. Just for a second. I promise I won’t cause trouble. Okay—maybe a little. But I could push that kid rocking back in his chair. He’s asking for it."

Silence stretches between you, but they fill it with their usual brand of desperation.

"Summon me as a pen? A desk ornament? A stress ball? A super cute imp mascot to sit on your desk, glaring at people? For morale!"

More silence.

"Wow. The cold shoulder. Truly, I am suffering. Guess I’ll just narrate everything. The professor adjusts his glasses. Raises a hand—nope, just scratching his head. And Orien—oh look! Still writing. What a prodigy. What dedication. What a—"

You feel your muscles twitch beneath where they rest, the shift of your shirt causing their ink-form to ripple ever so slightly. That earns a tiny spark of joy from them. You can feel it radiating through the bond.

"How much longer is this class? I’m going to explode from boredom. Please? Just a minute. Thirty seconds. Five. I'll be silent! Maybe."

They pause. Then more pitifully: "Please?"

Their presence buzzes just under your skin, desperate for something to do, anything but listen to another line of magical theory they don’t care about.

They go quiet now. Waiting. Watching.

Your move.