#like 'your handwriting looks nice' 'thanks!' 'do you write in cursive because it's faster?' 'no i just like the style more' 'ah me too!' et

[anglerflsh]

*trying not to sound desperate* what's your system for not struggling with social relations?

people like it when they're given subtle compliments and when you let them talk about their own achievements, so, as long as you can get someone to think you're genuinely interested in their life they should come out of it with a good opinion of you + also people love complaining together so if you can try and bring up something you both dislike enough to have a fun rant on

[kyoupann]

Please do more of the writing head canons. It’s really interesting to see other people’s ideas on the topic, so if you can be bothered, I would highly appreciate more, thanks bye <3

Y’all don’t know how happy I am to talk about these headcanons, they are my babies and I love them so much :’) thanks for asking g <3

Handwriting Headcanons

Same dynamic as before, try to guess whose handwriting it is before reading and tell me how many you got right! <3

You can find the first post here (no need to check it tho)

Quick disclaimer: halfway through making my initial notes, I remembered I had one (1) single lesson of graphology in my applied linguistics class, but that was a year ago and some information might be off. I just thought it was neat to include.

Another quick disclaimer: I don’t know much about Hylian, but I like to think it has a similar stroke system to Japanese, so the pressure and accuracy of your strokes play a major role in your handwriting (among other things, ofc.) so there are some parts where I focus more on that

(First Row, from left to right)

Sky

Our first boy is mother hen! Believe it or not, he has the prettiest handwriting out of all of them! Sky: probably has nice, even elegant handwriting because Sun forced him to practice when they were little. In the end, that paid off because his handwriting is the prettiest one. There’s no pressure, but he is confident in what he writes that his lines aren’t thin. Mistakes? what is that? this boy has impeccable grammar and spelling. No mechanic errors to be found in his letters! I’d like to think that many of Hyrule’s classic/staple poems were originally written by the firt king aka sky child. Like, imagine, after a retiring from being a Person of Power (as the first ruler), Sky finds comfort in the arts: revisits his old woodcarvings and starts writing poetry about the world he still doesn’t fully understand. wowie. tldr: sky writes poetry and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

This is what one of his letters would look like: 

Next one is the one and only, our Hero of Time

2. Time

I’ll die on the ���Time didn’t know how to read and write” hill. His handwriting is simple, not pretty but not messy. It has some grammar and spelling mistakes here and there. Can become unreadable if writing in a hurry, he sorts of forgets spaces between words are a thing/letters have different sizes and lowercase letters end up the same size as capital letters. I’m not saying he sometimes forgets to write articles: he just doesn’t want to. Honestly, he just has this dad-neat handwriting. He is a gentle dad and writes like a dad, if he puts too much pressure onto the paper, his handwriting become too sharp/angle-ish and ends up looking ugly. And as much as he would like to not care about it, in the end he does (:

Malon taught him how to write and it was quite the experience. At first he didn’t want to because he was ‘too old’ to learn and it was torture at first, but now look at him devouring his cowboy novels. 

A chunk of his handwriting: 

*sniff* such a dad quote.

3. my mansss, your  4x1 deal at Target: Four

Look, my boy is patient! He could do some nice and fancy lettering if he wanted to. He was taught that handwriting and spelling said a whole lot about him as a person, you know, like a first impression kinda thing; so he always proof reads more than twice before sending ­a letter. Super rare grammar mistakes.

The faster he writes, the more slant his writing becomes. Under stress/ when not sure how to write things down, run-on sentences are everywhere and his handwriting is inconsistent in general (I don’t headcanon each part of him having completely different handwriting because handwriting becomes muscle memory over time. It’s just slightly different variations of the same, like idk  Vio’s handwriting is neater than Green’s and Red writes hearts instead of any dot/circle and no, I do not take constructive criticism on that, jk i do.) Adding on to each of the colours’ handwriting, I’d think Red and Green write with words slanted to the right( inclined), Vio is a mix of the opposite, so reclined and straight, and my mans blue a true neutral writes straight (kinda like Time’s).

The logic behind this is that inclined writing supposedly means honesty and need for giving (and getting) affection; reclined means, as you can probably imagine,  defensiveness and repression of true feelings, but also shows great concentration; straight handwriting means self-control, observation and reflection as well as distrust and indifference. But as complete being (tm), Four just writes as in the image example which is not too straight and not too inclined, and I believe that’s a good middle for him

HOWEVER, if I’m feeling in the mood for crack, I totally accept this boy to have the ugliest, chicken scratches-looking handwriting! :’D It’s just funny to think that someone like him, who has to be precise and careful in his work, can't write neatly to save his life. 

One of his letters would look like this: 

Also I just LOVE how his hero titles look in this font ksksks

and that’s

(Middle row, from left to right)

4.- Mister Bunny Boy - Legend

His uncle taught him how to write. I’d call his handwriting pretty and neat at a first glance, but he presses too hard on the paper, most of the time staining the back or the following page. Sometimes will retrace some words if he doesn’t like how it looks (which only makes it messier). According to my notes, a thick or strong handwriting represents determination/commitment.

As I also headcanon him to know many languages, mechanical errors are more present than grammar ones; that is, weird capitalisation of words. Punctuation is somewhere in between; uses too many commas when he should just cut the sentence. he mixes punctuation from two languages or more in writing when too distracted (or too focused, because, well, pressure.); when he writes for himself, he has almost no problem following said language’s punctuation rules. Also, this is just polyglot culture, and I’m projecting a bit, but when he forgets a word in the language he’s writing, he just replaces it with its equivalent in another language because we don’t care about fluency, but rather functionality. in this household (more on that in my language hc, ksksks).

An example of his writing:

so powerful

4.-  Mr. Wolfman, howl me a song - Twilight

I don’t have much for him because 1) I don’t think he writes a lot and 2) he is a hands-on/visual learner, I’ll die by that. He only learnt how to write because Ulli insisted it was important and he was not about to disrespect his momma; he IS That Guy, but doesn’t really write enough to have neat handwriting.

Many people seem to overlook the fact that his house is filled with books and write him as completely illiterate (which if not explored properly, ends up feeling a bit disrespectful and full of prejudice, but go off I guess; and that’s on my core Headcanons for Twi); however, he sticks to simple sentences. Knowing how to read and understanding a text is different from knowing how to write them. Like, when we would see a semicolon and understand its position in the text, but didn’t understand the nature of it. Is this clear? idk i’m sorry. So yeah, boy reads a lot, writes very little.

As for his Actual Handwriting, as opposed to Legend, his handwriting is thiccc but not because he presses into the paper; he is just that messy, he has no sense of ink-flow-control, he does what he can with what he has. To the untrained eye, his handwriting illegible letters like v, n, u are very similar; when he makes notes for himself he does it in the form of doodles or small ‘icons’. But! He reads a lot, so he rarely makes spelling mistakes (: he is your go-to guy when you don’t know how to write a word.

An example of his writing:

He keeps a journal, sue me.

3. My first born- Warrior

Okay, first off... I accept this is completely biased. I saw the idea and said “That’s True”. If you haven’t, please read Effective Communication; or The Lack of Thereof by htruona, a fic where the boys reflect on the language barriers between them. It’s incredibly funny and probably what made me start making these silly notes. So, if you’ve read that fic, you know where I’m going.

My man, Warrior, can’t fucking write. I mean, he physically can, but it’s very bad. Here’s the reason for it, tho, and it’s not his fault: Technically, he knew how to write alright but he joined the military and whatever note he had to write had to be concise or in the worst case coded. He mixes capital and lowercase letters. If we consider that he joined the military at around 15, his handwriting and grammar had yet to continue developing. Just think about how after summer break, your handwriting was always slightly worse than before because you didn’t write for an entire month. Now think what 2 years can do to that. Hmm, not cool, dude. He makes quick notes, when writing he’s all gotta go fast. he is the lighting mcqueen of writing; good for emergency messages, not ideal for love letters. His punctuation also suffered a lot, he only know full stops and commas and hardly uses them. A sentence for him is either one word or fifty without a single comma, no inbetween.

His hero title and an example of his writing.

(Bottom row, or what I like to call “fuck cursive” row)

7.- Magic man - Hyrule

I’m basic and I do agree with the popular headcanon of he not knowing how to write because well, y’all know his Hyrule. He only knows how to write his name because that’s important, same with numbers. I don’t see why would he write/read except checking the roadsigns. (he can even use this as an excuse for getting lost frequently; he thought it said something different.) But I do think that because his habitual reading consists of roadsigns, his ‘punctuation’ is weird af and places full stops/points/periods at the same level of his words and his commas/question/exclamation marks below them. Yk, creative license. Sadly, I don’t have much about my magic hands man so here’s what his writing would look like if he actually wrote a paragraph:

Man, I love Hyrule.

8.- Man, I don’t understand this boy -  Wild

Cursive? ain’t nobody have the time for that. He woke up and had to save the world in his underwear while not knowing how to read nor write.  He learnt during his journey and was taught by multiple people from different regions, that explains his inconsistent spelling of things and names for them. So Wild knows language variations for many items and uses them interchangeably (even if they aren’t exactly the same). Another headcanon related to writing/language skills that I’ve been thinking about is that if the shrine was able to cause amnesia, I’m sure there were other areas in the brain affected which leads us to language disorders such as agraphia and aphasia. But that’s a story for another day ksksksk

An example of his writing (after relearning)

9.- The best of sons - Wind

I don’t have much for him and that makes me sad. Look, he’s a kid, doing kid things like stabbing dudes on the head. This boy was taught cursive by his grandma, but could never do it and no one needs it anyway. His handwriting is good enough for his pirate life, Tetra is the one to handle Official stuff, he just gotta sign. Spelling and grammar mistakes abound. He is still relatively young and can correct his handwriting if he desires. But same as Wild, with how many times he’s been thrown out and hit his head, I’m starting to consider some language disorder for him as well.

An example of his writing:

aaand that’s it.

Thanks, y’all for showing interest in this silly thing uwu it was fun to finally talk about this. If you ever want to discuss ideas/headcanons(especially if they are related to language and culture), I’m your person (: I’m always happy to hear new headcanons. Feel free to add anything to this post either in a reply or in a reblog, I’d love to hear from y’all <3<3

[genshinconfessions]

Really, REALLY random but

katheryne, did you ever do/consider doing hand lettering/calligraphy? I just noticed that I think your hand writing might lend itself to that in a way.

I started doing it some months back and I've been enjoying it (and improving my horrendous handwriting, thank god, I swear I was worse than Xingqui is said to be lol). Ig what made me think of it was the Cereal post thing? Your writing looks pretty fluid and smooth, I could imagine if you used a fountain pen for example, it could look super nice?

-Seelie :)

seelie istg

everyone i've ever met says the exact same thing LOL

i'm like 'it's illegible' and they're like 'shhh it's pretty'

i did have a brief obsession with fountain pens back a few semesters ago (still do but i don't usually write on paper good enough for fountain pen ink + cleaning up is messy) so you got that right ;)

(here's a pic from ye olde fountain pen era:

literally looks the same as if i used a normal pen but it's the thought that counts, ain't it? it also might be because the paper was special fountain pen paper so it didn't bleed or anything.)

and the reason i developed this sort of handwriting anyway was because... #formergiftedkidthings haha my brain usually works faster than my hand. even now, it still does, or maybe at the same speed, but the point is, if i write clearly/separately, i can't get things down fast enough.

and i hate standard cursive so it became this... pseudo-cursive thing LOL.

i actually always wanted to write chinese calligraphy, but the only chance i had (when i was very small), i didn't take it seriously since i was, well, small. then, afterwards, i just never got the chance again :(

i am glad you like my handwriting tho 😘 and i'm glad you're enjoying calligraphy!! feel free to show us some lettering if you ever feel comfy enough :O

- katheryne from liyue

[fanaticwritings]

smoke and mirrors [chapter 1]

The Streetcar named desire

pairing: tom holland x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: smut, profanity

updates: saturdays!

a/n: i am reuploading this fic cause tumblr messed up big time the first time. anyway, i didn't plan on writing a lot of smut but my hand slipped (oops) so please don't read after the warning if you're underage. also, others, let me know if I should include more of it! happy reading!

___

You hummed sleepily as you felt warmth encompass you; the warmth undoubtedly being Tom's body. You felt his chest press against your back, felt his arm slide under your stomach and pull you close. 

"Mornin' love," you mumbled into the pillow. 

You didn't really want to wake up. Tom's touch, the covers, his room were all too warm and far too comforting. For a moment you could pretend you didn't have responsibilities and expectations to live up to. It was just you and him. Him and you. A perfect forever. 

You were almost drifting off again when you felt Tom's fingers push one of your bra straps aside and then, a moment later, his plump lips kiss your shoulder. 

"Morning," he whispered hoarsely, kissing a trail towards your neck, before turning you towards himself. 

You blinked open one eye, gazing at his hazy form sleepily.  "I don't want to be awake yet."

Tom reached over to run his hand down your back. It was a soft gesture but you knew what he was up to. You blinked a couple of more times, albeit reluctantly as Tom's face cleared before you. His curls were in complete disarray, eyes crusty from sleeping in and lips puckered in a funny way. And yet, there were fewer things in the world, more adorable than him in this moment. 

Completely disregarding your comment, Tom decided to slide on top of you. 

You groaned in mock dismay as he settled down on you because you had to admit, the pressure felt wonderful. 

"Tom, what in the-," you began but were cut off by his lips gently pressing against your own. 

Morning cuddles were a daily ritual with Tom. You never got enough of them. 

"I'm so lucky," he murmured once you broke apart. He was now half on top of you and half on the bed, one arm propping his head up beside your own.

He looked at you fondly then, trailing a lazy finger down the length of your arm. 

You brushed a curl of his hair aside, smiling. 

"Oh, so we're in that mood today."

"What mood?"

"The I'm-going-to-melt-Y/N-with-my-words mood."

He smiled. "I'm always in the mood for that, love," he retorted, squeezing your waist, which was where his hand now rested. 

"As much as I'd love to stay and hear everything you have to say about me, I- we- have work to do," you sighed, caressing his cheek gently. 

The reluctance with which you said it was even more evident when you didn't move to shift from under him. Not your fault, he was mesmerizing. God he looked beautiful above you; freckles and curls galore. 

"I hear ya," he whispered, nodding as his fingers slipped inside your underwear. 

You gasped. The nerve. 

You slapped his arm gently, almost wanting to give in to his obvious desire but, but, work. 

He pouted at you, clearly disappointed. 

"You could spare two minutes. I promise I won't take long," he mused, suppressing a grin. You noticed that his fingers were still resting on your hip bone. 

Why, o' heaven's above, did this man have to make everything so difficult? 

"You wish," you said, biting down your lip to stop yourself from blushing at his cheekiness. You shifted a little under him, trying to find wriggle room to escape. 

"Get off!," you huffed, when he didn't budge. 

Tom looked at you for a long moment and then sighed, lifting himself off of you and sliding onto the bed. 

"When will I see you next?" he asked, as you rose from the bed and headed towards the shower. 

"Tonight."

"That's a," he glanced at the tiny alarm clock on the bedside table,  "- whole fourteen fucking hours."

You looked at him for a moment, his puppy eyes almost getting the better of you. But two years was good practice enough and you shook your head. Besides, it was fun to watch him suffer. 

"Patience, Holland."

*

Some days at the Corp were just plain boring. Nothing of consequence happened on such days, you had to merely sit through the whole day, attending meeting after meeting to discuss short plans. These meetings you could easily avoid but you were a dedicated worker. 

The Corp was where it was today because you had never slackened. 

After finishing the third meeting for the day, you settled back into your office, scanning through your mail to reply to some of the pending ones. 

Just as you hit send on one of the replies, there was a knock on the door. 

"Hey," Lucas Valdez, your PA, entered holding a large number of envelopes. You smiled at him as he placed them on your desk. 

"Thanks. How'd the date go yesterday?" 

"He was a total bore," he said, shaking his head in disappointment and his curls flopped on his head. 

"Aw, I'm sorry! Don't worry, you'll find someone nice soon," you said, handing him a few files. "Also could you please send these to Lopez, Sharma and Phil for me? I need them to meet me."

Lucas nodded in confirmation and politely left. 

You decided to go through the post as well because it was a boring day anyway and nothing could possibly bore you more.

You quickly leafed through them; a couple of advertisements, a few job applications (you kept those aside) and one small, plain envelope. There was no name on it, no stamp. 

Huh. Strange. 

You grabbed the letter opener and sliced the envelope open. A smaller piece of paper slid out of it. 

The material looked quite expensive and vaguely familiar. Your eyebrows furrowed as you picked it up. It felt like it was an office paper but you couldn't be sure.

You turned it over. Written in a perfect, cursive handwriting and neon red ink were the words:

"Nothing is as it seems." 

Something you know too well with the secrets you keep, 

As you sow, so shall you reap, 

Learn, lest you fall, 

Beware, take from you, I will all. 

You read it once, twice.

Now, you were a pretty famous public figure. Getting hate mail was a part of the job description but that didn't make it any easier.

The poem left you feeling just as uncomfortable as others had before. Nevertheless, this was still new. People were rarely this poetic in them. 

What secrets were they talking about? If they meant you and Tom.. 

As if on cue, your personal phone chimed with an incoming notification. 

Tom <3

I'm at your place. 

Fourteen hours. I'm counting. 

You smiled in spite of yourself and clicked the phone off, deciding to leave him on read. More the suffering, the better. 

You glanced back at the note, the uneasiness settling over you once again. What could they be possibly talking about? If it was a hate mail it was unnervingly vague. And if it was someone's idea of a cruel joke, it was working. 

Just then someone knocked at your door again and you hastily pocketed the note. It was Lopez,  Phil and Sharma. 

You blinked at them, struggling for a split second to remember why they were here. 

Get a hold of yourself. 

You smiled, recalling that you were the one who had asked for them. As they say down and began talking, you did your best to push the words to a far corner of your mind, the left side of your pants feeling strangely heavy. 

*

[smut warning]

You found Tom in the living room that was attached to the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone. He motioned to you that he'd take a couple of minutes and you nodded, slipping inside the kitchen. 

Your cook had, as always, laid out a scrumptious meal for you and Tom to down. You had barely opened the lid to the first bowl when Tom called from behind you. 

"Your fourteen hours are up, Miss."

You turned to him, holding the bowl of pasta in hand. He was dressed in a plain white tee and your favorite grey sweatpants. 

"I've still got half an hour left," you said nonchalantly, picking one piece of pasta and popping it into your mouth. 

Tom watched you chew it slowly. It was completely involuntary that you let out a moan at the warmth that spread through your chest; you were actually famished. 

"That's it, you little shit," Tom muttered under his breath and the next thing you knew you were being pushed against the counter, Tom's hands working down your body in a frenzy. He unbuttoned your shirt faster than you could process and chucked it to the floor. In another swift motion, he pulled off his own shirt as well before pulling you close again. His lips slammed against your own and then you couldn't really think at all. You moaned as he ground his hips into you, his hardening length pressing against your abdomen. You let your hands wander to his hair as he continued to grind into you, your knees already giving way under you. Warmth filled the base of your stomach as you slackened against him, mouth hanging open and eyes fluttering shut. 

Just as your hands moved to his neck, he stopped, dragging his lips to your ear. 

"I'm going to finish what I started and you're not going to say a thing," he grunted, his voice dropping low. 

Before you could respond however, he'd turned you around and pushed you further up against the counter. You could feel him press against you, your shoulder blades digging into the hard muscle of his chest. 

He thrust one hand into your pants and under your panties, fingers finding your wetness immediately. 

His lips attached themselves to your neck and then he began to work you. 

You moaned loudly as his middle and index finger dipped inside your already aching core and began to scissor their way through. His lean fingers knew exactly how and what to do and you immediately collapsed against him, groaning. He twisted and squeezed at your clit as his lips sucked hard on the skin of your shoulder. A flick of his wrist made you buck against him and you heard a deep chuckle rumble behind you. 

Fuck. 

Tom loved marking you. It wasn't good sex until you'd woken up with a few hickeys all over your back and chest.

Meanwhile, his other hand had unhooked one half of your bra and cupped your breast, thumb playing with your nipple. Your senses were in overdrive. You could smell his cologne; hear him panting in your ear as he pushed against you; feel his touch inside you. And God, nothing had ever felt this good. 

You groaned as his fingers worked their magic, sliding further up and towards the spot he knew would tear you down. He moved faster now, the friction pushing you closer and closer towards the edge just as he started grinding against you again. 

The sensation was a bit too much and you weren't even aware of the moans that tumbled out of your mouth as you gripped the back of his head and fucked his fingers. You bit down on your lip, to stop yourself from screaming his name. 

"Come for me, darling," he whispered, his voice dripping with lust, fingers moving with a pace you couldn't keep up with. 

And just like that, the ground slipped from beneath you, the world erupting in colors before your eyes. 

"Fuck," you moaned as pleasure rattled through your body. You spasmed as Tom's fingers slowed their movement; stopping all together as you came down from your high, panting heavily.

"I had to wait fourteen hours to do that. Told you you were missing out," he said as you leaned against the sink, still breathless. You watched him saunter back to the living room and plop onto the couch casually, as if he hadn't just fucked you senseless. 

You adjusted your pants and shirt, discarding your bra altogether. You reckoned you wouldn't really need it now. Legs still wobbly, you walked over to him and sat down on his lap, straddling him. 

He looked up at you, eyes still dark and hair an absolute mess. 

"I'm sorry you had to wait, baby. Let me make it up to you," you murmured locking your lips with his, the tiny note inside your left pant pocket, long forgotten. 

___

Tagging:

@lil-writes  @captiveties  @imaginingthefandoms @fangirlingonrhys  @killbillls  @miklsnvengers @bunnie-kookie @silverreading @skz-in-ncity  @estate-euphoric  @tragicluver @aestheticgaybish  @rororo06  @forever-stuck-in--neverland @sholland4 @sabrinaaa056 @winterierwriter @annathesillyfriend @libbyloos @vintageroses1014516  @isletsoflou-gerhans @maryosprinkle @colored-confetti @fallingfortom @prettylittlekitty97 @peter-spider-parker-man @waiting-to-be-myself @justnatys @itssolyn @dah-knee-cuh

[Want to be tagged? send an ask/ comment!]

Please, please keysmash in the comments if you liked the fic!

[afjakwritesarchive]

usuk fic?? much angst??? soulmate au where everything you write on your wrist goes on your soulmates??????????? and maybe alfred is blind? so he cant see anything written there much less reply? so arthur thinks he aint got no soulmate? jgbshajhygvshuytb i love your writingg hhhhh i read all your usuk fanfics in like a day

Title: you were right here all the time (i was blind)Pairing: USUKWords: 3,114AU: Human/SoulmateGenre: Romance/AngstSummary: Arthur grows up believing he has no soulmate. Then he runs into him in a grocery store.A/N: Wow! I can’t believe it’s been over a month since my last post! I changed the prompt a little, but I hope you like it nonetheless. Title taken from OK GO’s Skyscrapers. !!! TW for mentions of self harm and alcoholism !!!

Arthur was six years old the first time he saw his father’s neat handwriting appear seemingly by magic upon the back of his mother’s pale, freckled hand.

“Mum, what’s that?” He asked, forest green eyes peering curiously at her hand.

Alice’s eyes–the same sparkling green as Arthur’s–flitted downward and a soft, fond smile stretched across her slim face. “Your father’s making a grocery list,” she said gently, watching as the words appeared letter-by-letter upon the milky white skin of her hand.

Milk, tomatoes, butter, tea, spaghetti noodles.

Alice smiled and reached into her pocket, extracting a pen. Don’t forget bread, she added in her loopy cursive script. Arthur watched in wide-eyed fascination as more words appeared below hers, again in his father’s handwriting. Right. Love you. 

I love you too, wrote Alice in return before raising her eyes to her son’s face and giggling at the starstruck expression he wore. 

“Mum, are you and dad magic?!” Asked Arthur excitedly. 

Alice’s giggle turned into a full-on laugh. She reached out, resting her ink-covered hand over Arthur’s shoulder and smiling broadly at him. “No, sweetheart, although I believe there’s a certain magic about your father and I share. We’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates?” Arthur echoed curiously. He’d heard the word more times than he could count, but he’d never fully understood its meaning.

“Yes. When people are meant to be together, they can communicate in a way they can’t with others. Whatever your soulmate writes on themselves will appear on you, and vice versa. Your father and I are soulmates, which is why we can write back and forth to each other.”

“When can you start writing to your soulmate?”

“Well, you have to know how to write first. Your father wrote to me for the first time when I was only two–he’s six years older than me, so it took me a while before I could write back. But once I could we wrote to each other every day.”

Arthur peered down at his mother’s other hand, which was empty of words, and then down to his own pale palm. “Do I have a soulmate?”

“Of course,” she said. “Everyone does, either platonic or romantic.”

“Can I write to them?”

“Yes, if you want,” she said, smiling gently. 

Arthur reached for the pen and put it to his arm, writing the words Hello soulmate in the messy script of a six-year-old. His mother grinned and moved her hand from his shoulder to his head, ruffling his pale blond hair affectionately. 

“We’ll have to wait for them to respond now.”

“How long will it take?” Arthur questioned. 

“That’s up to them,” Alice replied gently. 

Arthur never got a response. 

As the years wore on, Arthur wrote to his soulmate daily. When he was nine and still hadn’t received a response, his mother assured him that there was nothing to worry about. Perhaps he was older than his his soulmate, she suggested, like she and his father. His soulmate may not have been able to write back yet; or, perhaps, they weren’t even born yet. 

When Arthur was twelve and still hadn’t received a response, his father patted him on the back and told him that sometimes people got nervous about responding. He had felt strange about replying to Arthur’s mother at times, he said, because she was so much younger than him and wanted to talk about their relationship. Perhaps Arthur’s soulmate could tell that he was much younger and felt uncomfortable writing back, too. 

When Arthur was fourteen, Arthur shed the first of many tears over his absent soulmate. His best friend, Francis, rested his ink-covered palm over Arthur’s blank one and promised Arthur that his soulmate was out there. That night, Arthur put a pen to his arm and wrote please, please be out there. 

When Arthur was seventeen, he accepted the fact that he had no perfect match. That night he took something much sharper than a pen to his wrist. 

When Arthur was twenty-eight, he started writing to his soulmate again. He knew, realistically, that he didn’t have one; he’d long since come to terms with the fact that he was one of those extraordinarily rare individuals who had no ideally-suited match. In his teenage years, the knowledge that he was destined to be alone had resulted in more nights with his fingers clasped around a bottle or a blade than he could count, but he’d long since cleaned up his act. Knowing that he would never have something 99% of the population had–especially when that something was so beautiful–was painful, of course, but he wasn’t entirely alone. 

There were people with awful soulmates, people whose soulmates were abusers. There were people whose soulmates were dead or dying. There were people who disliked their soulmates or had fallen out of love with them; it wasn’t uncommon for married soulmates to get divorced and re-marry someone outside of their match these days, although some still considered it taboo. 

Arthur could accept that, he thought. He could be happy falling in love with someone outside of a match, if he ever found them. After all, love was what one made it; if two people really loved each other, they could make it work no matter the odds. At least, that was what his friends and family had told him. Arthur didn’t know if he was totally sold on the idea of “true love” yet. How could he be, when the universe was clearly trying to tell him that it couldn’t happen for him? 

Nonetheless, he’d started to write on himself again as a way to cope. It was nice to write to his soulmate, even if he knew that he was writing to a person who didn’t exist. He covered himself from elbow to wrist, thigh to ankle, in ink. He wrote about his hopes and dreams, his fears, his day, anything and everything that came to him. He liked the idea of his soulmate reading his words and being comforted by them, although he knew it was impossible. 

Today, Arthur jotted a grocery list down on the heel of his palm the way he’d seen his father do all those years ago. He even signed it with an I love you, and imagined his soulmate taking up a pen the way his mother had and writing a soft, I love you too in return.  

The walk to the supermarket was a calm and easy one. The sun was low in the sky, the world awash with its golden light. It was warm enough that Arthur didn’t even bother with a jacket, and he’d rolled his jumper up to the elbows. It used to embarrass him, having all of the ink he covered himself in on display, but now he rather enjoyed how normal it made him feel. People would walk by and smile, complimenting him on how sweet he and his soulmate were for writing so much to each other, and Arthur would get to pretend, if only for a moment, that there was someone out there writing back to him. 

Arthur entered the supermarket, scooping up a basket on his way in. He walked slowly through the aisles, taking his time to find what he needed. He’d stopped and was reaching out to grab some tea when an older woman approached with a smile, patting his shoulder. “You and your soulmate are so sweet, writing to each other like that,” she said, eyes glittering with sincere happiness.

Arthur smiled softly down at her, “thank you, miss.”

“It’s adorable that you write to each other even though you’re together now, too. People must compliment the two of you all the time!” 

Arthur’s thick brows furrowed and he blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure what you mean. I haven’t met my soulmate yet,” he lied, because it was easier than explaining that he was pathetic enough to write to someone who didn’t exist. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, dear. I saw a man with arms covered like yours in the next aisle over and assumed he was with you because the handwriting looked similar. I’m sorry to bother you, then!” She chuckled, patting his shoulder lightly before turning and walking off. 

Arthur paused, watching her leave with widened eyes. There couldn’t… She couldn’t have seen… No. It was impossible. Arthur didn’t have a soulmate; it was just a coincidence, surely. There were other people who wrote a lot to each other; it wasn’t as if he was the only one with ink-covered arms. There was no use getting his hopes over nothing. 

And yet, Arthur felt his heart beating faster in his chest, and a feeling eh couldn’t place had settled over him. It was something like longing, something urging him to investigate, to seek out this man. But why? Surely he had no soulmate, so why work himself up? His soulmate wouldn’t had gone all these years without ever writing back to him… Would they? 

Before Arthur could stop himself, he was turning on his heel and rushing into the next aisle. It was empty, aside from two tall, blond men standing side-by-side at the opposite end. They were nearly identical in appearance; twins, most likely. One had a pair of round glasses and was scanning the shelf while the other had his back to Arthur and was speaking animatedly, arms moving wildly as he spoke. Sure enough, in his sky blue t-shirt, his ink-covered arms were clearly visible. Arthur was standing too far away to make out any of the words or the handwriting, but something about the sight made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Self-conscious, Arthur rolled down the sleeves of his deep green jumper to hide his writing. His heart was racing and he didn’t know why. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter what was written on the man’s arms because he had no soulmate, but he couldn’t make himself walk away. In fact, his feet began to carry him forward, toward the two pair of men, until he was approaching the one with his back turned. 

“Excuse me,” he said. The man with his back turned jumped, startled, and whirled around. His twin placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s okay, Al,” said the one with round glasses before meeting Arthur’s gaze over his brother’s shoulder and smiling politely. “Hello,” he greeted, obviously confused by the stranger who had approached. 

“Hi,” Arthur said, shifting his weight from foot to foot and feeling incredibly foolish. “I couldn’t help but to notice your arms. I-I just think it’s so sweet, how much you and your soulmate write to each other,” he said, parroting the words of the woman from before. He couldn’t bring himself to look down and scan the man’s arms, nor could he bring himself to look up into the man’s face, so instead he settled for looking past him to his twin. 

“Oh,” said the man–Al, as his twin had called him–sheepishly. “Thanks! I guess they write to me a lot. I think it’s sweet too!” 

“They sure write a lot,” his twin added with a smile, “Alfred already had words on him when he was born.”

Arthur still hadn’t brought himself to look into the man’s face or at his arms. “Is that so? That must have been quite the surprise for your parents. Would you mind if I…?” Arthur trailed off, freckled cheeks flushing awkwardly.

“Oh! Sure!” The man exclaimed, raising an arm slightly. “I’m Alfred, by the way, and that’s Matthew.”

Arthur barely had the sense to give Alfred his name in return, already reaching out to take Alfred’s arm in his hand. He’d hardly taken a glance at his the man’s arm when he paled, his familiar script unmistakable to him. He glanced down and caught sight of the shopping list he’d written less than an hour ago on Alfred’s palm. The sight of his “I love you” on Alfred’s tan hand made his heart ache. 

“What’s wrong?” Matthew asked, seeming to realize that something was off based on the ghost like paleness of Arthur’s face. 

“I-I…” Arthur trailed off and slowly released Alfred’s arm. He was still reeling from the shock of what was happening, but he managed to pull up one of his sleeves to reveal the identical writing along his arm. Not once had he looked into Alfred’s face, unable to meet the man’s eyes knowing what he knew. So he had a soulmate after all, and somehow it was still painful. Arthur had hoped and prayed for this for years, and yet now that it was happening all he could feel was pain. Obviously Alfred didn’t want him–why else would he have never responded? 

Matthew’s eyes flickered from Alfred’s arm to Arthur’s and back. His jaw fell open. “Oh my god,” he gasped. 

“What? Mattie, what’s wrong?” Alfred asked, as if he were entirely oblivious to the entire encounter. Arthur felt a bit of rage flare up within him at that; how could Alfred act so unaware? How could his soulmate be someone so cruel? 

“Al, you–This is–your arms match! This is your soulmate!” Matthew cried, still gaping.

“What?!” Alfred cried incredulously, his voice taking on a sweet, sing-song quality out of excitement. “Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you! You said it was Arthur, right? That’s such a cute name. I love your accent too! I-I can’t believe you’re here, oh my god, I wanna know everything! You’re from England, right? How old are you? What are your hobbies? What do you–”

“Al, give him a chance to breathe!” Matthew cut in hurriedly, seeming to note the distress written across Arthur’s handsome face. 

Despite Alfred’s obvious enthusiasm, Arthur was incredibly confused and more than a little angry. How could he act so excited and happy as if he hadn’t left Arthur alone and thinking he didn’t have a soulmate for most of his life? Rage was burning hot within him, forcing its way out of his body in the form of hot tears that gathered in the corner of his virescent eyes. Arthur finally gathered the courage to raise his head and look into his soulmate’s face for the first time, fixing him with a heated glare. 

Alfred was grinning widely, his smile by far the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever seen. His eyes were a gorgeous, striking blue with flecks of gold and his thick lashes made them look even larger than they were. Excitement was clear in his expression, and yet there was something slightly off. Alfred wasn’t looking into Arthur’s face and rather at the top of his head, perhaps a little past him. 

“Why did you never write back?” Arthur demanded, ignoring his soulmate’s confusing behavior. “I spent all this time thinking I had no one! I wrote to you every single night for years, begging you to respond to me! I-I thought I was destined to be alone forever, and you let me! How could you?!” He asked, immediately turning on his heel and making to run. 

“Wait!” Matthew cried, pushing past Alfred to grab Arthur by the wrist. Arthur stopped, astonished, and whipped around to glare at him. 

“Why the hell are you defending him?! Let go of me!” Arthur yanked his wrist out of Matthew’s strong hand, punctuating his action with a string of loud curse words.

“I’m blind!” Alfred suddenly shouted over Arthur, taking a few steps forward until his shoulder bumped against Matthew’s. “I’m so sorry, I-I know I must have hurt you, but I swear I didn’t mean to! Sometimes Mattie read them to me, but I could never respond because I don’t write very well. Please, please don’t go,” he begged, and Arthur noted with rapidly growing horror that tears had appeared in the corners of Alfred’s eyes too. 

“You’re blind,” Arthur said, a stab of guilt cutting through him as he spoke. “Oh my god, you’re blind.” 

Alfred’s cheeks were flushed red from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I promise I didn’t mean to make you feel alone, and I understand if you’re still angry, but… Please don’t go.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Arthur asked, shaking his head rapidly. Tears were springing to his eyes again, but this time they were from relief. “Oh my god, I’m such an arse. I can’t believe I just yelled at you for being blind.”

“It’s okay,” Alfred said, a bit of laughter escaping him, “you’re kind of a hothead, aren’t you?” 

Arthur’s cheeks flooded with heat, still feeling extremely guilty for his outburst. “Again, I apologize. If you’d give me a chance, I’d love to make a better second impression,” he said, and flashed a sheepishly apologetic smile at Matthew, who was watching the scene unfold.

Alfred beamed, his eyes still looking a little past Arthur. “Dude, I’m just glad you still want me,” he laughed. “You sounded pretty angry there for a second.”

Arthur couldn’t help but to laugh a little, years of hurt seeming to melt away within seconds when faced with Alfred’s carefree smile. “Of course I do.” 

“In that case, would you mind if I felt your face? Nothing creepy, it’s just to get a sense of what you look like.” 

“Of course,” Arthur said. Alfred raised his hands and Arthur took them gently in his own, guiding them to his face. 

“You’re short,” Alfred said with a startled laugh. “Have I been looking past you this whole time?” 

“It’s alright,” Arthur said, flushing when the American’s warm palms came to rest on his cheeks. Slowly, gently, Alfred’s hands moved across his face; when his thumb brushed along Arthur’s lips, he let out a little hum of appreciation that had Arthur going cherry red. 

“You have soft skin,” Alfred mused. “What color?”

Arthur was half-tempted to lie, if only to make himself seem more attractive, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. “Pale as a ghost and covered in freckles,” he sighed, resigned to his fate. 

“Cute,” Alfred replied. “What color are your eyes?” He asked as he brushed his thumb gently along Arthur’s thick lashes.

“Green,” Arthur supplied. 

“You’re really handsome.”

Arthur flushed. “Thank you. You are, too.”

Alfred’s smile widened. “Really?”

“Of course,” Arthur said, and there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his voice. “You’re gorgeous.”

Alfred’s cheeks went delightfully red and he opened his mouth to say something back, only to stall when his fingers ran across Arthur’s thick eyebrows. “Holy shit, your eyebrows are huge!” He exclaimed loudly, still with a happy smile stuck upon his face.

Arthur was so lovestruck, he couldn’t even find it in him to be mad.

[artboitrash]

His Bloody Rose (Stefano Valentini fanfiction) Chapter 9 - Morning After

I woke up wrapped in soft sheets. I felt my eyes flutter open, completely covered by the blankets.

Was it all a dream?

I begin to stretch, then clench up in pain. My entire body is sore, something I'm not used to. Something I don't think I've ever felt.

I felt my face heat up, pulling an aching arm to my face. Oh christ, it wasn't a dream. God, and I made such a fool of myself.

When I stopped stewing in my own embarrassment, I grasped the bed cover and pulled it down from my head. I blinked at the light streaming in from a window. I sighed to myself, realizing I was completely alone. I don't think I could face Stefano if I tried now. I looked around the bedroom, taking in what it looked like in the morning.

I sat up slightly, each of my limbs protesting as I moved.

I looked to the edge of the bed, seeing a glass of water and a card sitting on a bedside table. I leaned over and grabbed the card, bringing it to my sitting position. It was a handwritten note, elegant cursive writing on a blank piece from a note pad. I felt myself smile. Of course he would have such beautiful handwriting.

"Cara mia, good morning. I'm afraid I have to go out this morning because I got a call. Stay at my home as long as you need, I'll come back in a few hours. We will talk about my art when I come home. Please make sure you stay hydrated. There is some food in the kitchen if you can make it there. If not, I will care for you when I get back."

I giggled a little. I lay back, letting my eyes flutter back closed and my body rest some more. My face heated a little again, and I thought about last night.

--P.O.V. Shift--

_This damnable woman. _I thought to myself, walking down the hallway. She is making everything more difficult for me.

I knocked on the door to the office I had been walking to. My mind was elsewhere, keeping my eye out for inspiration, and perhaps some new materials if need be, for my work.

My mind constantly replayed how I met my current interest, how easy it seemed to make her enamoured and ensure she would trust me. She seemed entranced by me the moment we met, and it was simple to get her to open about her thoughts and get under her skin.

The office door opened, and I smiled at the woman standing before me. She smiled back, muttering an apology and gesturing for me to come in.

"I was quite grateful to receive your call this morning." I said, still thinking to myself. "I was worried we would never be able to speak again."

The head of the art department laughed slightly. Perhaps it was too early for jokes.

Rose. My mind couldn't slip away from her. She found out I was the one killing the models that I had made into art. More than anything, I wanted to know how.

She wasn't that of easy woman to get under the skin of, though I will admit our "relationship" progressed faster than any I recall being in. Most took me a long time to build, and I was surprised to hear her utter the phrase "I love you" in tandem with her understanding I was a murderer.

I was especially surprised to know she was willing to let me bed her after making that knowledge clear.

I shook the hand of both the head of the art department and the head of gallery planning. I sat down across from them, then I slid my portfolio to them again.

My newest creation, a play on Cinderella, was now in there. After Rose had fallen asleep, I processed the work. She hadn't noticed me slipping out of bed and going to develop the film. I wished for her to see it first, but she was still fast asleep in my bed.

Her dress fell to her knees, arms in a waltz without a partner. A single bit of hair extended over her mask, and a single rose sat in her fingers that pierced the skin, extending out as though to run away. Her blood spilled over her neck and over the necklace I had her wear, as though to soil the fine things she wore, turning them back to the tattered objects she wore before. Her hips were turned slightly away from the camera, feet turned in the step of the dance, body turned in the middle of a spin - something I was impressed she had managed to hold for so long. Her face - masked to hide her identity initially - was turned towards a soft light from above her. I didn't have time, and almost forgot to add, a clock face to the background of the picture, implying she had been caught at midnight during her dance, about to be revealed as nothing more than a common woman rather than an elegant creature. I had added in cascading rose petals and flowers in post, my personal favorite addition to my pieces. Perhaps it would read like a stage play to others, but to me it read a woman encased in a fairytale or story. Perhaps she has a happy ending yet.

Rose had hidden beauty that she wouldn't show. Not unless someone pushed her, of course. I was ready to completely kill her last night when I realized it wouldn't be ideal. I had to get out of her how she realized I was a serial killer, and if she had mentioned it at all to anyone, it would be bad if I were the last person she was seen with.

"This is new." said the gallery head, I believe her name was Carolinn. She pointed at the picture that held Rose in it.

I smiled. The most perfect image from the several I had taken. It was difficult to decide which one was better, as with each piece I created I always outdid myself, but this time I had changed the narrative and let her live. She wasn't the first model I let go, but she certainly was the closest I had come to killing that I allowed survive.

"Yes. A new model came to me yesterday, and we did some experimental shots." I chuckled. "I do not usually add new models to my portfolio unless they are complete professionals, but this one outdid herself."

"Do you mind telling us who she is?" The head of the art department interjected.

"Not at all. She is Rose Olian. She and I have been speaking to each other and bonding over art since the first day I came here." I kept smiling, shifting my face to read fond and almost nostalgic. "I had gotten lost while looking for your office, and she guided me via one of the downstairs maps. When I learned you weren't here just yet, I went back to the gallery to observe the latest installation and get to know her."

"Do you know where she is? She didn't report to work today. She usually checks in with both of us before she clocks in."

I felt my face fall slightly. "Ah, yes. Poor thing, she fell sick during our photo session. I had found her completely soaked in the rain before we returned to my studio. She stayed with me during the night because she was too sick to return home. She almost immediately fell asleep when I took her to my couch, so I decided she should stay the night to become well."

My mind cut to the image I had seared into my imagination. The look she had on her face as I stared down at her during sex the night before. She was scared of her emotions as I seduced her, and of whatever had occurred to her during other times she had sex. She was scared of how fast she had fallen in love with me, and I wasn't about to compromise the strange amount of trust she had given me.

Her reddened face, barely strong enough to look at me, tired arms laying above her head played in my head. The softness of her breasts pressed into me as I placed her chest against mine. Her skin, so so soft, pulling me to her as her fingertips caressed me as I made love to her.

The near melodic sound of her voice calling out my name.

If I was lucky, I would be able to seduce her again. I had almost forgotten how nice it was with someone else, how satisfying. It had been at least over a year since I had last slept with someone.

"I will make sure she calls you when I see her next." Then I made a face as though I had just realized a predicament. "I do believe I accidentally stranded her at my home. Oh dear. I will go straight there after our meeting to make sure she's safe and not too frightened."

The two women smiled in relief as I sat before them, and continued talking about my work. They discussed how worried they were about how my work would be received by the students and public, but insisted they were willing to take risks.

I suggested some of my simpler photographs be in plain view to ease the audience into the full installment. As I knew how my work was often perceived, I said, I am sure it might be ideal to catch their interest for a smoother understanding.

They discussed with me how it would be shown, what the opening and closing would be like. I suggested hanging some photos from the ceiling, implying imaginary walls, for the sense of surrealism that my work demands. We came to a finished idea for the gallery set up and atmosphere.

They seemed to like that idea. The meeting came to a close, and initially we began to leave.

As I exited, portfolio in hand, the gallery organizer, Carolinn, stopped me.

"I'm sorry, but I'm still a little worried about Rose." She said as we stood in the hallway. "Would you mind proving she's okay?"

I raised my eyebrow at her. "I can certainly try. I'm not certain how, other than ensuring she calls you."

"Can you call her? Do you have her number?"

"Ah, yes. She gave it to me on purely professional terms." I pulled my phone from my pocket. "I had almost forgotten, thank you."

The truth was I had found it in her bag, finding a number with her notebook and other supplies, in case she lost them. I'm not used to going through someone's things, but felt it was necessary to keep tabs on the woman that knows what I do.

I typed out her name and clicked the call button. I put it on speaker phone, hoping she would pick up.

After several rings, there was a click.

"Uh, hello?" Asked a very tired and struggling voice over the phone.

"Ah, good morning, bella." I said into the microphone. I watched Carolinn breathe a visible sigh of relief. "We were calling to make sure you were okay. I went off to my meeting with your boss and accidentally stranded you at my home."

"'We were calling'?" She echoed.

"Yes, miss Carolinn is here too."

"Hello, Rose!" She called out over the speaker. "Are you feeling better?"

"I... yeah, sorry. I forgot I had to come in to work today, since..."

"It is okay. Take the day off, we were just worried you hadn't come in or called. If you're sick you're sick. I'll hold Mr. Valentini accountable for your wellbeing if you don't get better soon."

I chuckled intentionally, then spoke towards the receiver again. "I'll come by shortly to pick you up and take you home. Please forgive me for leaving you there, I will certainly make it up to you in the future."

"I'm going to go back to work, make sure you get well!" Carolinn said aloud, then turned down the hallway.

I clicked speakerphone off, putting the phone to my ear.

"Dont worry, it's just me now." I said quietly, making my way to the stairs.

"Why did they ask you to call me? And how did you get my number?"

"I found it in your notebook. I wanted to make sure I could keep in touch with you."

I opened the door to the stairs in front of the main office.

"As for asking about you, I added your picture to my portfolio. They seemed to enjoy it, and I outdid myself in its perfection of course. Did you get a chance to see it?"

"No? Is it in your room?"

"Ah, no. I left it with the food I made for you this morning - it's in the kitchen."

"Oh, sorry. I've had a hard time getting out of bed."

I laughed, hearing the sound echo down the stairs. "I assumed; I know what I can do to the female body."

She went silent, and I couldn't help but imagine she was stewing in her own embarrassment, face filling with that lovely red as she was overcome with emotions.

"Now, I would like to discuss how we move forward from here, bella." I reached the bottom of the steps, freezing now that I knew the stairwell was empty, and seeing no cameras or sensors. "Obviously, I can't have you telling anyone about how I work, nor can I keep you there forever. If you disappear now, I'm afraid it would be the end of my artistic creations. So, I would love to hear your compromise."

She hesitated, only static emitting over the phone line.

I continued walking out the doors, leaving the stairwell and exiting the building. I saw the spot where she had kissed me, and I kissed her back in hope she would follow me back to my studio.

"I... I don't want anything from you, Stefano."

"Oh? I find that difficult to believe." A smile pursed my lips as I spoke. "Where's the drama, the tension of blackmail and waiting until one of us completely despises the other?"

She sighed. "I'm not that kind of person."

I smiled some more. "Of course not."

"Do you want me to ask you for something?"

"Perhaps. Maybe just to ensure you won't go and tell anyone too much."

She sighed over the phone. "Well... I guess the only thing I could ask for is for you to relieve me next time I'm feeling too emotional or suicidal."

"In what way?"

"... Be my boyfriend."

I stopped in my tracks. I laughed aloud, back arching as I let out the strongest belly laugh I'd had in years. I almost missed her next statement as I kept walking.

"--or friends with benefits."

"I'll tell you what, we can have a compromise." I smiled to myself as I walked up some stairs and to my car. "When you are feeling down, I'll comfort you. Perhaps act as your lover if you need. If you are feeling like hurting yourself, I shall use you as my model and create marvelous art with you in it. When I begin to lose interest, then I will turn you into a complete masterpiece. In turn, you stay by my side as my lover or girlfriend and don't tell anyone what you know. I can be affectionate to you when you need, but I'm not the stable relationship type, my dear."

"I... Okay. I'll do it."

I chuckled. "Then I'll be by to come care for you, cara mia. Make sure you are ready for me."

[miitzwrites]

"Victor, come back to bed. What are you doing up too late?” asked Yuuri Katsuki, stepping out Victor's bedroom and into his living room.

No, strike that out. It was their bedroom now, and their living room, and as Victor had put it a couple of months ago, it was their home.

Victor looked up. He had a pad in his hand and a pencil, and he was writing down something. He didn't feel the need to hide it when Yuuri showed up, he only put it away to make room for Yuuri into his arms. Yuuri, still sleepy, sat on Victor's lap, resting his face in the crock of his neck.

“I was doing a little exercise, zolotse.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes, well you see, Yakov has always cared about his students, and he sends us to a therapist every once in a while. In my case, I started seeing her when I was 20,” Victor stopped mid sentence, and the abrupt silence caused Yuuri to look up at him, with slight concern. But Victor shook his head, and continued, “Oh, it's nothing. I forgot that I haven't called her since I returned to Russia for my nationals. She wants to meet you, if that's okay.”

“Yeah, Vitya, that sounds good. I guess it will do me some good to talk to her.”

“Yeah. She's one of the most trustworthy people I've ever known. You're going to love her.”

Yuuri shifted a bit on Victor's lap, moving his hand up so he could play with his hair at the base of his nape. Victor secured his hold on Yuuri's waist, while the other hand drew random figures with his fingers on his thigh.

“And what were you writing, Vitya?”

“In one of our first sessions, Dr. Petrova told me that if I couldn't express myself with words, I needed to write my thoughts down. Either as a letter or just as a journal. The letters sounded more romantic so I wrote letters when I feel like my head is a mess or about to combust.”

Yuuri got stilled after that. He looked at Victor on the eyes, with a small frown. “Are you feeling like that right now?” When Victor nodded, his frown got deeper. “I know it would stress you to have me over so soon, I'm sorry, Victor, I shouldn't have moved in just after our nationals, but I was so happy for you, and in misery because I missed you, and I didn't think about this thoroughly enough and I -.”

Victor silenced the rambling man on his lap with a sweet kiss. It was short, but efficient, and Yuuri didn't have enough time to savour it.

“Slow down, my Yuuri. Therapy not only helps me in the bad moments. Sometimes, I am so overwhelmed with positive feelings that I don't know what to do with them. So I write a letter for myself, and that helps me to have a more clear view of what's going on in my head.”

Yuuri exhaled, the frown disappearing slowly, but he wanted to know if, on this occasion, Victor was having positive emotions or not. So he ventured to ask him, “… and what are you feeling right now?”

“Oh, Yuuri, I feel that if I told you, I would explode,” the smile on his face got bigger, so Yuuri concluded he might be feeling good. “But here, I want you to read it.”

Victor passed him the piece of paper, and Yuuri hesitated for a second. That was something private, and he thought he would be crossing some boundaries if he read it. But Victor had asked, right?

“Go ahead, my Yuuri,” Victor murmured, kissing his cheek. And that was all the encouragement that Yuuri needed.

Line after line, word after word, Yuuri felt that his heart could get broken and get fixed by itself. Victor was a man full of love, he wished be could've met him sooner, so he wouldn't have gone through disappointments and sadness, by himself.

He turned to look at Victor, who offered him one of his heart-shaped smiles, the kind of smile that was private between them, and only Yuuri could see at its fullest. He wanted to say something, but Victor was faster. “Let's go to bed, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nodded and stood up. Victor extended both arms, and Yuuri got the clue, leaning down to carry him, bridal style, to their bedroom. Yuuri was happy that he could do these small details to Victor. He was relieved to know that, for the rest of their lives, he would be there for him, offering all the love and happiness that he had to give.

In the privacy of their room, Victor whispered how much he loved him, and how badly he wanted to call him “his husband". Their rings shone in the darkness, and Yuuri kissed Victor's. “And I love you, Vitya. Thank you for choosing me as your partner.”

“But you chose me first, silly. Remember the drunk dance-off?”

“Shut up, Victor.” The russian let out a small laugh, and then, they both fell in silence. The silence was good, was comforting. For once, the voices in their heads weren't loud in the middle of a dark room. They have each other, and they would fight together.

“Vitya?”

“Huh?”

“I promise you, you will never be alone again. I'll be right by your side, with you and for you. And it doesn't matter if you don't believe it, but loving you is and will forever be the greatest pleasure in my life, and I will make sure to show you how much I love you every single day, for the rest of my life.”

If Yuuri felt the wetness of Victor's tears, clinging on his skin, he ignored it. He solely focused on the feeling on sweet kisses scattered over his face and chest, and his soothing weight on his side.

Victor, on his part, focused on the immense warmth that spread through his body, and the love that his Yuuri had for him.

Yes, he was 100% convinced that they would be okay.

Ooo

Forgotten on the coffee table, was a piece of paper, written with pink ink and cursive handwriting. Victor started with a “hello, old self,” and then he continued:

I haven't written you a letter in more than a year, because there was nothing really important to say. But I have some news for you: everything will be better

Yep, you will be sad by 15, because not everyone, not even your family or friends, will understand your passion for the ice.

You will be lonely by 17, because you will shine like a little star, and not everyone loves how bright the stars can shine.

You will be heartbroken by 19, because someone thought it would be easy to get into the pants of the Russian prodigy. And yes, it was easy because you wanted to feel loved, and wanted to give as much of yourself as you could. He will tell you that you're too hard to love, because who could love someone whose passion resides on the ice? You will believe him, you will believe that it's okay to spend your life alone, as long as you keep skating, nothing else would matter. And you would cut off your hair at 20, because you wanted to surprise your fans, while in truth, you hated to see your long hair that reminded you how unlovable you are.

You will have flings, random partners will share your bed, some of them will be nice and ask you out, and you will refuse them. And some will only want to fuck or get fucked by the famous Victor Nikiforov, the russian legend, 5 time GPF winner, owner of multiple gold medals and championships.

And then, the ice won't be enough anymore. You will feel how heavy loneliness really is. And you will refuse to change it, because Victor Nikiforov is there to please the public, not to be loved.

Remember, you are unlovable.

You will be about to give up, and not only your career, but life itself. You will be tired, and depressed, and you will wish to have something, someone to motivate you to keep going on. (Makka will stay with you, but even she will notice how your behaviour changes).

And then, by 27, you will meet someone who will turn your world upside down.

He's a fellow skater, and a fan, and you will meet him after your GPF, your 5th gold medal, to be more precise. He will be drunk, and will challenge Yuri to a dance-off, and guess what? He will win! So he will ask you to dance with him, and you will have the best night of your life. He will ask you to be his coach, remember, he's drunk, so he won't remember you, so please don't be sad when he doesn't call you back for sometime, trust me, he will, and you will meet him, because it's impossible not to when he performs your program, you know, the one that cries for love.

And by 28, you will be his coach, his ice rink mate, and his fiancé. I know, right? It's incredible, but it's true. You will find a lover and a best friend in this amazing man. He will teach you more about yourself that you thought lost. He will give you life and love, and will do everything in his power to make you feel loved.

His name is Katsuki Yuuri, and he's so cute! His brown eyes and black hair make him look so handsome, but be careful, you will want to take your pants off when he's on Eros mood.

He's a little anxious, he has good and bad days, but you will be there for him, and you will finally have someone to give everything you had locked up in your heart. Trust me, every time he smiles at you, you will see that all the pain, and all the suffering, had a reward in the end.

You will care for each other, because that's what partners do, and you won't want it any other way. Oh, by the way, he loves carrying you around, all you have to do is ask nicely! (And you will love his feet because he creates beauty with them, and because… well, you'll see).

Remember, Victor Nikiforov is hard to love, but Katsuki Yuuri never turns down a good challenge. He will love you just like you are, and you will love him with all you have.