#like an actual feather dipped in actual ink

[notlongtolove]

your star next to mine

nobody loves the earth for spinning, not really. it's been turning for 4.6 billion years with no applause. the sun rises then sets, and the moon follows suit. the stars flicker in their wake and the earth spins regardless. spencer thinks you’re more than the sun, moon, and stars combined.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: established relationshippp ugh waking up to spencer reid <3 actually more like spencer reid waking up to bau!reader (spoiler: hes out of this world in love with her)

word count: 1k

note: writing this made me SICKKKK with longing and yearning (they r so in love and i hate them for it ugh) sorry sorry writing ab stars and spencer reid in bed AGAIN im sorry i just want to romanticise small moments in life (theyre coming for me with a strait jacket as we speak)

a line: It’s hard to tell where you end and where he begins—Spencer hopes he never has to find out.

When The Big met The Bang and science happened before eyes that did not exist yet, collided and made love to each other was your star next to mine? Tell me, my love; did someone ever wish upon the star we are made from? - m. chase

There are roughly 7100 languages spoken and signed on earth. Spencer himself is familiar with at least seven of them. Russian, Latin, Middle English, to name a few. You remember him explaining the intricacies of medieval typography during your third date—You think you fell in love with him somewhere between his comparison of Gothic and Carolingian scripts. 

Before there were text messages made up of abbreviations and emojis, there were letters. Love letters of thoughts born from lovelorn minds that made their way into granite, pressed against the grain of paper. Before that, feathered quills dipped in ink, sometimes splattering on parchment. A testament to words too heavy to get out right, but a need to get them out all the same. 

But the earth has been spinning for 4.6 billion years. And before that, there were cavemen that carved primitive symbols into stone—etches and notches that archaeologists still devote their lives to deciphering. Spencer sometimes thinks that had he not joined the FBI, he might’ve found himself in their shoes, decoding ancient scribbles, a circle with four notches, stick figures huddling around it. 

Now, he thinks, there’s not much left to figure out after all.

You turn in your sleep, hand searching for him in the mess of sheets. No words needed. I missed you, even in sleep. I miss you. Spencer shuffles a little closer to appease you, the small crease in your brow softens, almost vanishes, content when you find the curve of his hip. When Spencer places his hand over waist, he knows you know what he’s saying. I missed you too. I miss you, even in sleep.

Your hand shifts to accommodate his, intertwining with his in a way that makes his chest squeeze. It’s a dance you’ve both perfected, your fingers settling into the spaces between his. His hands are far from soft. The callus on his left palm is rough and worn, a result of years in the field with his gun. Yours aren’t perfect either—nails a little less neat than you'd like, a few nicks from the hurried days of recent weeks. His thumb traces the back of your hand. You give a small squeeze in return. And then two more. It’s instinctual—fingers find fingers. Spencer gives three squeezes back. 

But then your hand pushes past his, brushing lightly over the scab on the small of his back—A close call with a bullet during last week’s case. Even in sleep, you frown at the reminder. Not a big deal, baby, he’d winced through the burning pain in an effort to reassure you. You’d cried anyway. Later, you’d marched straight to Hotch, demanding better bulletproof vests—I don’t care if they have a bigger budget, I want the kind they use down in D.C.

Spencer gently takes your hand and places it on his chest. The tension in your brow visibly eases. For a moment, it rests there, still and quiet, before it stirs again, sleepily travelling up to settle on the curve of his neck. The birthmark on your shoulder makes a quiet appearance when his shirt slides off you a little. A lover’s kiss from a past life. Spencer hopes it was him in your life before this. And the one before that. And all the other ones before that. 

He breathes you in as you nuzzle into his neck, the motion guided by how tightly he pulls you to him. The only thing he loves more than falling asleep to you is waking up to you. It’s hard to tell where you end and where he begins—Spencer hopes he never has to find out. You pull back slightly humming lightly into his skin, a good morning before the good morning. A hi again, i’m glad it’s you i’m waking up to. 

The strands of hair falling into your face can’t hide the explosion of color in your eyes when they sleepily blink open. Once, then twice, before you’re closing them again—It’s woefully insufficient. Spencer thinks of how constellations were once used for navigation. They guided sailors across vast oceans, helping them find their way home. 

Then you’re leaning in to kiss him, eyes still closed. When the big met the bang all those years ago. His hand moves from your waist, tracing the curve of your spine, down your arm, and back up. You catch his bottom lip lightly between your teeth and Spencer sees stars. He thinks it’s a wonder you still have this effect on him after 439 days—206 of those being nights spent together. His fingers graze along your jaw before resting gently on your lips. A journey from waist to lips—one Spencer would gladly make a thousand times and more.

As someone with a PhD in Mathematics and who prides himself in his comprehension of logic and reason, Spencer knows infinity is an abstract idea. It’s an unreachable concept through mere arithmetic. But for you, he’d solve for it a million times over just so he doesn’t have to spend a single day without you. Honest to god, he doesn’t think he can. Truthfully, he doesn’t know how he’s managed to go so long without you in the first place.

When you pull away breathless, grinning, it’s almost a little wicked. You're definitely fully awake now. Cheeks flushed, lips red and rosy and you’re both leaning in again.

No words said. Lips to lips. A universal love letter through the ages. Pieces of parchment, folded and sealed, wax stamps guarding tenderness in ink. Hairs tucked inside lockets. Pictures in weathered wallets. From the sea to the shore, from the granite to the quills, from the stone to the paper. No words needed. 

Nobody loves the Earth for spinning, not really. It's been turning for 4.6 billion years with no applause. The sun rises then sets, and the moon follows suit. The stars flicker in their wake and the earth spins regardless. Spencer thinks you’re more than the sun, moon, and stars combined. 

There’s nothing else to decipher. A fact, pure and simple. An absolute consistency through and through. 

Lips to lips, over and over. The big meets the bang, again and again. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: sidelines by phoebe bridgers sailor song by gigi perez

[trombonechurchill]

Quiet Light

BuckTommy, episode 8x11 coda, 1k words. Spoilers for the episode

The light falls languid and sharp into the dips and valleys of Evan's body, still boneless and sated where he's spread out next to Tommy. He traces it with a finger, touch-feather light even when he knows how deep a sleeper Evan is; something sharp in his chest that's only just beginning to thaw that's still scared that this thing between them is still fragile as to shatter if Tommy presses in too hard. --- Episode code for 8x11. Tommy wakes up the morning after.

Sometimes it's funny how few things can change. The thing in Tommy's chest feels bright and new but it's wrapped in familiar threads as he rouses himself, sweat still cooling on his skin and a warm body pressed into his side.

It's early, Tommy can tell by the dull, blue light coming in from the blinds neither of them had had the where-withal to close last night, hands and mouths far too occupied. It falls languid and sharp into the dips and valleys of Evan's body, still boneless and sated where he's spread out next to Tommy.

He traces it with a finger, touch-feather light even when he knows how deep a sleeper Evan is; something sharp in his chest that's only just beginning to thaw that's still scared that this thing between them is still fragile as to shatter if Tommy presses in too hard.

Tommy had managed to argue them both back into shirts and boxers last night when Evan had been unable or unwilling to locate a set of sheets for his bare mattress, pressing trailing kisses up sweat slick skin as he pulled Evan's briefs back over his calves, his thighs… A reverse pantomime of their frantic dance earlier but no less intimate.

Now, Tommy traces the collar of Evan's shirt, the hem of his sleeve, the line of ink poking out of it. Evan sleeps with his mouth open, breath heavy and hot on the back of Tommy's neck, loud in his ears in a way that took some getting used to.

Tommy can barely sleep without it now.

Read the rest here or on AO3

His thumb crests Evan's parted lips, imagines they're still tender and swollen from Tommy's teeth last night. There's the barest creak of mattress springs as he leans forward, pressing his own lips to Evan's birthmark, letting his fingers twist and pet through sleep mussed curls.

He missed this, Evan undone, creased and messy and unwound under Tommy, inside him, surrounding him.

Thinks he could probably stay in this bed forever, image of Evan next to him frozen under glass in the soft gray of morning.

But Tommy's also in his 40's and a bare mattress on the floor is a hard place to doze back off, no matter the company.

Evan's place is a minefield, boxes and furniture seemingly placed at random as Tommy does his best to weave his way into the kitchen. Their shirts are still in the hallway. Tommy found one of his shoes inside Evan's closet.

The kitchen is, against odds, worse somehow. Tommy has no idea how Evan maintained a minimalist modern nightmare that was his loft before. He's going to need coffee if he's going to survive here without stress unpacking Evan's silverware drawer.

A quick survey of the pantry reveals what actual dire straits the kitchen situation is and Tommy spares a moment to wonder what Evan's spent the last several months doing.

Thankfully, a quick google search is enough for Tommy to form a game plan, stopping in the hallway to rescue his abandoned shirt from last night before pausing and scooping up Evan's as well.

The collar of it is soft under his fingers and Tommy tries not to think of it pressed against Evan's neck the way his own spanned across it hours before, Evan's pulse hot and alive and thrumming like a feedback loop into his own body, keeping Tommy's heart beating, keeping him alive.

He stepped back into the bedroom, wastes more precious moments just standing, leant against the doorjamb just watching Evan breathe before laying the shirt gently across some nearby boxes. It's second nature to lean down, press his lips to Evan's forehead. Whisper a gentle assurance he'll be right back. He'll be right back this time.

He's learned enough walking out the door last time. Enough to know he wants things to be different this time.

Different door. Different Tommy.

The corner store is barely open, security grate still partly down. Inside the shelves are packed in tightly, aisles barely wide enough to navigate but the selection is decent enough to make up for Tommy nearly taking out a stack of cat food trying to get past to the coolers in the back.

What would Evan want for breakfast… The hopeful, shuddering thing uncoiling in Tommy's chest would buy him a whole bakery right now, Tommy thinks, but he settles at least for some bacon and eggs, tries not pay too much mind to the eye watering price tag on the egg carton as he slips it into his basket.

Evan's worth it.

There's fresh bagels and Tommy snags a bag too, twirling the plastic between his fingers for a moment as he smiles. He'd brought Evan bagels one morning, months back, another life time and laughed as he watched him pick off all the poppy seeds. Said Maddie had told him once he'd grow plants in his stomach when he was a kid and he'd never quite kicked the way they irked him. Smiles more as he sets the bagels (half plain) in with the rest.

There's pre-cut fruit near the coolers too and Tommy can't help but grab it too, spinning the plastic container in his hand. Evan eats like a horse and Tommy hates the idea of him in the house later, going hungry.

Hates to think of Evan alone and empty inside. Tommy can relate.

There's oranges too and for a wild moment Tommy imagines fresh juice, mimosas and Evan's smile in the morning sunlight, bright and effervescent. His foot pressed and sliding against Tommy's ankle. It's an old memory. Tommy wouldn't mind remaking it again. And again.

But it's already 7 and while Evan might sleep like the dead Tommy doesn't want him to wake up before Tommy's back. He sets the oranges back down.

He keeps the champagne.

Maybe he just feels like celebrating.

The walk back to Eddie's- Evan's should be enough to clear his head but Tommy can barely contain the skip in his step as the gray clouds brighten and turn pink. Makes him think of the pink of Evan's lips. The blush of his chest. Feels like his whole world is newly awashed with the warmth of it all. Sun-kissed and blossoming.

Sometimes it's funny how few things can change, but as the day fully breaks and Tommy quietly let's himself back inside, back into Evan's life, he hopes the important things have.

Makes sure this time the door is closing with Tommy on the right side of it.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Can I request some Winged!Reader x CRPs HCs? The Creepys are helping preen Reader's feathers

If not that's A-ok!

Also, if you do see this may I request to be ☄️ anon (shooting star anon)

Various crps x winged!reader

Not sure if I've written for winged readers, not for crp at least- not including angel readers.. ponders

And you may be ☄ anon!

Characters: slenderman, laughing Jack, bloody painter

Notes: reader is GN, admin knows next to nothing about birds or preening so there may be some mistakes here and there so uhuhuhuh!

CWs: none

SLENDERMAN

has never helped anyone or any creature preen before but hes a natural once he knows what hes meant to do! takes his time to avoid any potential hurt or discomfort

sometimes keeps your fallen feathers but hes more likely to give them to birds in the woods so they can add them to their nests

oh he has definitely noted how your wings kind of emote- they fluff up when youre embarrassed or surprised, or they rise and unfold if youre angry- or maybe even flap if youre happy

he thinks its... endearing, actually... its akin to how his tendrils sometimes change their movements depending on how hes feeling, your body parts give away how the other is feeling in that moment

LAUGHING JACK

loooooves keeping your feathers, collects them as they fall and keeps them stashed away somewhere- so dont be alarmed if you randomly find his stash somewhere! he just thinks theyre pretty!

sometimes puts your feathers on his shoulder fuzz things, actually kind of sweet... like hes keeping a part of you on him!

likes taking your wings in his hands and stretching them to the sides just to look at your wingspan- vaguely impressed at how large your wings actually are... with them folded up they seem much smaller!

sometimes accidentally nicks you with his claws when hes helping you preen :( he doesnt mean it!

BLOODY PAINTER

he sometimes like to keep your feathers that have fallen off- i can definitely see him occasionally using them in his art... whether its just them to draw by dipping them in ink, or incorporating them onto the canvas

slow and calculated as he helps you preen- smoothing out your feathers and ridding the sheaths of new feathers

sometimes runs his hands over your wings to smooth out any soreness you may or may not from general day to day life

actually, sometimes you ask him for help to get him up and moving after he's been working on his art for a long time- sometimes preening snowballs into asking him what he wants to eat and so on and so forth- tricking him into tending to his own needs after tending to yours

[opal-owl-flight]

Agents agents agents + a couple of ocs! I remembered that my cephalopods come in many patterns so I decided to explore that!

Notes abt patterns below-

Cap3: has many scars, most have healed. Though some of the sanitation effects remain around their wrists and hands, as well as their tentacles... their left eye is almost blind.

Agent4: Naturally glittery skin and tentacles, kind of accents the metallic patterns acquired from getting partially washed out by Order. Those arent metal fingers, those are patterns!

Additional design note -- she used to be way more sparkly, but the loss of her faith in herself made her colors fade. Easier for Order to wash her out then, no?

Neo3: fucking beaste. Kept trying to eat falling into the fuzzy ooze during her mission and now has a part of it in her dna. Sometimes gets more mammalian features (fur, hair, claws...on one occasion she sprouted a tail!)

Agent8: Same as the first design I made, now with added jelleton inspired patterns due to Side Order! Maybe bc she destroyed a bunch of em wkdndk

The rings have been with her awhile, she had decided to show em off once she got out of the Deep Sea Metro.

Agent5: Patterns reflect his time in the labyrinth -- rain, the sea, the rings reminiscent of the foam kicked up by changing tides.

Agent6: ...this is just Mags! His hair shimmers like crow feathers dipped in gold. His ink is actually yellow, but he really doesnt like his hair being that shade -- so he changes it manually to reflect his preferences. His magic circles are the one set of tattoos he allows to show through in this inkling disguise.

His stripe pattern is referencing his patterns in his original form! He looks like hes always wreathed in golden flame.

(His size meanwhile befits his fighting style -- dual wielding splatana stampers)

The last two are Croissant and Melon, the first owned by @pastille-pain!

Melon: her ink is naturally pale. The powdery patterns are reminiscent of snowfall and moonlight simply bc I like that aijdje. Theyre pearlescent/opalescent, shimmering as she moves. When she gets emotional, she starts to glow with colored spots!

[takami-takami]

Cut To The Chase.

kinktober day 2: knife play

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut.

warnings— afab!reader. heavy knife play. discussions of piercing, but no actual cuts. still, this is a knife play fic. be warned. gags. bullying/kinkshaming. praise kink. aftercare.

"You're shaking, dove," Keigo whispers above you. "Relax a little for me, yeah?" 

The rhythmic beat of your heart pounds in your ears. The heady bass of it hammers behind your ribs. A single drop of perspiration crawls its way down your neck like a snake might slither down a tree, hissing sharp against the searing heat of your skin. It bobs with the swallow in your throat. It glistens with your tremors as you writhe so subtly against the silken sheets.

And there’s something about the way your life rests in your partner’s steady hand that surges the adrenaline screaming within your veins. It sings a chorus through your chilling blood.

The quirk of his lips is practically audible when he speaks— infuriating, even; but his appraisal of the situation is undeniably on point.

Of course you’re staring. Twisting and gliding along the edge of your skin, just the lightest squirm away from piercing through your flesh, is the tip of something sharp, icy, and unfathomably lethal— had Keigo been in a more dangerous mood and blindfolded you, the object would feel indiscernible from the steel of a curved dagger, the crescent point pressing the slightest divot into the skin of your navel. 

Even the light reflects with a glint off his feather as if it were metal when it’s sharpened like this.

“You actually like this sort of thing?” Keigo interrogates you, raising his brows. A scoff of disbelief follows quickly behind the inquiry, the heat of his breath fogging against your neck when he noses your jaw. Achingly slow, the scarlet weapon drags up your core, crawling its way toward your utterly exposed chest. 

He could pierce you at any moment. One flick and the skin could burst, one breath and your body would become a canvas to his liking. It's a dance of trust, of control, when he plucks that velvet red feather between his thumb and forefinger as if it were merely a pen to be dipped into ink.

“Your heart rate's pickin' up. It's gonna give you away, dove,” he observes, skimming the skin at the exact spot where he can sense the beat. He drags the feather in circles, a melody in his voice when he sings, low, taunting, and dangerous: "You like this."

“Don’t even care that I could just slip it a little deeper, do you," he realizes, increasing the pressure of the feather against your hammering chest. He can barely hold the click of disappointment from his tongue when you whimper in response. 

"Nah. That’d just get you wet, wouldn’t it?”

You see the flash of reflected light under your chin before you can feel the feather against your neck— the metallic sound of the blade cutting through the air rings in your ears, louder than the hitch of your breath from the whirlwind speed of his actions.

“Oh, you like that?” 

Keigo doesn't bother to suppress the laughter that builds and erupts. Why would he? He'd place a hefty bet that someone like you would hear a condescending sound like that and feel it like electricity instead, jolting down to crackle between your poor, trembling legs.

You're so fucking predictable. You like a bit of danger, and Keigo is more than willing to indulge your little fantasies in the only way he knows how: famished, unreserved, and entirely committed to every intricacy of his role.

Besides, he'd be lying if he said this little image of you wasn't absolutely gorgeous; you, the picture of prey spread beneath him under the shadow cast by his wings, blubbering and unsure if you want to beg to be pierced by his feather or his cock.

When he slips two slicked fingers inside to scissor them, it's entirely unsurprising that your body opens easily to accept them; so unsurprising, in fact, that his eyes roll almost as immediately as yours do, though he wears a smirk rather than a slack jaw. 

The heel of his palm graciously grinds against you each time he bottoms out, the motion made with each rocking thrust expertly positioning his curled fingers upwards. Ever intentional, the heel presses firm against your throbbing core.

When he speaks, you get the impression he's moreso musing to himself than addressing you. 

"And what if I fucked you like this, huh? A cock in your pussy and a knife at your throat… Sounds like your own personal heaven, doesn't it, angel?" Keigo punctuates the last word with a mocking lilt, pouting in bastardized sympathy to match your wobbling bottom lip.

"Aww, not gonna bother answering that?" He smiles and pulls at the fabric stuffing your drooling mouth. "C'mon, speak. Wanna hear you when you break for me, 'kay?"

You swallow dry before you attempt to catch your voice, gasping in a bit of air as you arch your chest and whine some garbled words Keigo can only assume are supposed to resemble a beg. 

"Oh you're close to close," he posits through a smile, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of his drenched fingers that pump knuckle deep and curl up. "It's okay, baby. Let it out. I've got you. Cum on my fingers, c'mon baby, cum f'me, you're such a good—"

Your back bows when your world shatters. His sweet words never cease, pouring praises over your body like the heat that envelops you, over and over in trembling waves.

The first thing you feel when you float down from your high, catching you like a feather landing slowly in his palm, is a methodical barrage of kisses against your cheeks. Feather discarded, Keigo holds your face in place with cradling palms, crooning at the far-gone smile that remains etched in your expression.

"Hi, baby," he whispers, lopsided smile wide as he pulls back and thumbs the apples of your cheeks, smooshing them in little clockwise circles. "Still with me?"

"Hi, Kei'," you simply mumble, words as sluggish and limp as you are; and just like that, your partner is solid and stable once more above you. 

When words elude you, your body begins to speak instead. Your fingers crawl down his biceps and up his neck, nestling in the thickets of his hair and clutching at the scalp as if to settle your own roots there for stability; and on the inside, Keigo's heart trips over itself. Your very center is open to him, pawing at his body and swallowing everything he gives you— and he'll give it all.

Clear eyes attempt to catch your bleary ones, searching for signs of discomfort as you continue to cling to the haziness that envelops your mind. Once he's thoroughly checked for any nicks or scratches, your body is laid back against the sheets.

"C'mon, pretty bird," Keigo whispers, rubbing the highest points of your cheekbones. "Gimme a smile, yeah?" 

When you do, it's with a glaze in your eyes, gazing up at him like he's a newfound city of gold.

"That good, huh," he teases, and you yawn. There's a rich, golden butter in his voice when he speaks. It's warm like the sheets he rolls you both up in, hot like his bare chest against your back when he lays you down to cuddle. 

"I wasn't too mean, was I?" 

"You were perfect for me," you sigh.

The plush of his feathers shudders once in the corner of your vision. He rests his chin along your bare shoulder, clutching your body as close to his chest as it can go.

"You're perfect for me, too."

[petvampire]

1 and 9 with TCK, Monty, and Charles? I love love love your work btw I reread in the cards all the time

awwwh you’re so sweet! I’m really glad you enjoyed it!

also clearly a person of taste <3 double penetration + breath control, charles x monty x cat king (what do we call this threesome?) NSFW

~

Monty is well aware that he is a lucky, lucky bird.

The fact that he’s able to regain a human form at all is proof of that. He’s got far more than that, though; a home, a job, and…

Well. A few very, very hot partners.

It’s not only each of them individually, though that would be amazing on its own. When they work together, though… shit, he’s pretty sure he’s the luckiest person alive.

Perhaps especially when it’s Thomas and Charles.

They both dote on him in their own ways, often soft and sweet with the crow in a way he certainly appreciates. He’s seen them together, though, and it’s all fire and sparks. So when the two of them are with him, things definitely get interesting.

Like now. He’d expected the usual competitive spark between the two, the typical drive they have to show each other up. Instead, however, they’ve decided to work together for the first time in… well, Monty thinks it might actually be the first time. Ever. And being the focus of their combined attention is a good bit more daunting than he ever would have imagined.

Thomas has him pinned to the bed already, has spent an extensive amount of time teasing him by licking over the feathered wings tattooed on Monty’s shoulders. He knows the magically-inked marks are more sensitive than they should be, and he exploits that at every opportunity. What Monty hadn’t expected was Charles sitting back and watching, every so often making a wryly amused comment, a “You missed a spot,” or “Oh, he moans so pretty when you do that.” He knows the ghost can be a bit of a voyeur, but he’s never been the subject of it until now.

He’s not sure if it’s better or worse when the Cat King slides two fingers easily into him, stretching him open, while Charles watches with a gleam of clear interest and amusement in his eyes.

Monty lets out a low, ragged moan when those fingers are replaced with the head of his lover’s cock, dipping teasingly into him, making him squirm. He presses back, and Thomas laughs, one hand gripping hard at his hip, the other tangling in his hair, dragging his head back. “Easy, little bird,” he purrs into his ear. “Take it slow.”

Yeah, right.

He thrusts his hips back, and he hears Thomas curse as his cock slides deeper into the crow, though it’s hardly a sound of discontent. “Greedy,” he chides softly, and his hand slips out of Monty’s hair, curves around the pale column of his throat. “Can’t have that. Charles, darling?”

The ghost seems only to have been waiting for his cue; he grins, one hand cupping Monty’s jaw, the other working his trousers open. It takes barely five seconds before he’s slipping his cock into the crow’s mouth, giving a short, sharp thrust that has him buried deep, Monty almost choking as that hard length presses down his throat. Thomas’ hand tightens just slightly, and he definitely can’t breathe for a moment, even if he could remember how to.

Between the two of them, he doesn’t get a full breath for - hours, it seems like. Charles’ hands bury in his hair, moving Monty’s mouth over his dick; Thomas fucks him in slow, teasing thrusts, grinding against his prostate and then pulling back, slipping a hand around his cock and stroking him to the edge, then leaving him whimpering and desperate. And all the while, one of the Cat King’s hands remains around his neck, a soft pressure, threatening but not cutting off his air again, not like that first moment.

And Monty can’t help it - he fucking loves that edge of danger, knows he can trust these two, of all people, not to actually hurt him.

So he pulls back off Charles’ cock for just a moment, panting, desperate. “Please,” he murmurs, and Thomas knows him so well; the way he leans into the other’s hand is enough.

He can almost feel the beautiful, vicious grin. “I think our darling crow wants us to stop holding back,” he drawls, and he slams himself into Monty, forcing a low moan from the bird.

Charles’ grin is less cruel, simply because of who he is, but he wastes no time shoving his cock back down Monty’s throat. His thrusts are rougher now, harsher, and the crow whimpers around him, even as he feels Thomas’ grip tighten.

He can’t breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe - he just needs to open up and be fucked from both ends, doesn’t need anything else. Black spots dance before his eyes, and he doesn’t fucking care, he just needs—

Monty is pretty sure he doesn’t entirely black out, but he comes hard enough that he might as well have, and he hears Charles swear as if from a great distance, tastes the other as he spills down his throat. Thomas’ fingers clench once more, and yeah, the crow is completely gone, body tensing and spasming around him. He’s somewhere else, Mercury maybe, fucking floating.

The Cat King’s touch turns soothing, fingers tracing softly along his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders. He pulls the bird against him, Charles nestling comfortably on the other side, both of them murmuring soft words of appreciation and praise. Monty hears them, he does, but he’s still drifting a little, can only make a low murmur of response, nestling back against Thomas and burying his face against Charles’ chest.

He really is a lucky, lucky bird.

[gingermintpepper]

🌩️

For the ask game please :D

Thank you so much for the ask hehe!! I'm actually quite a bad measure of what's funny in my writing but most things involving Hermes tend to make me chuckle. Have something from my ongoing Hermapollo document!

"C'mon, you really tellin' me you never -" Apollo shakes his head once, the motion measured and elegant and so entirely not Artemis that Hermes is really thinking that whole twin thing is just a bit they feed the new kids for their own sick satisfaction. "But you love wide hips!" 

Surprisingly, the young sun god doesn't freak out and struggle to cover Hermes' mouth with an embarrassed hand like he was expecting. He doesn’t darken with anger or flush with irritation. There’s not even a little trace of the burning beast of wrath that threatened to damn him to Tartarus for stealing a few cows. It’s kind of creepy, honestly. Hermes ought to take him mortal watching on his next day out, maybe he just acts different when he’s on the mountain. 

Apollo's gaze is fixed on the delicate metalwork wrapped around the fountain's base. Hermes still feels as though he's looking at him with entirely too much intensity. It must be the crow nestled on his shoulder. "I also appreciate a wide back but you've never caught me pining after Ares." 

Hermes shrugs easily, "Not yet at least." 

Finally, Apollo's fingers stall, his brush blotting ink where it's still connected to the paper. "That's disgusting." 

A bright laugh erupts from Hermes, genuine enough that Apollo doesn't notice his now ruined study aa he marvels at this novel variation of Hermes' usual mischievous snicker. When he turns his attention back to his painting, a caustic frown sours his once dignified expression and Hermes nods internally around another fit of laughter. There's the Apollo he knows.

Disappointingly, his hair doesn't even flare, he simply rips the page out of the weighty sketchbook and washes the brush clean. Dips it in the empty black ink and begins anew. His crow doesn’t even ruffle its feathers. "Besides, it would be rude to Lady Cyprus" 

Hermes blinks. Stops for a fraction of a moment as he processes the information Apollo let slip with this new, blasé tone of his. A vicious smile bisects his face. "You're kiddin'."

Apollo doesn't grant him so much as a glance, "I wonder."

He immediately attaches himself to Apollo's side, mildly annoyed that the blond's stroke doesn't even waver - what a prick - but this bit of gossip takes hard precedence. "How'd you even find out?!"

Dispassionate gold eyes look down on him from behind too long and equally gold eyelashes. Actually, if Hermes really looks, there’s a sparkle in there, the same sort their father gets in his eyes before he issues a particularly troublesome task to some unfortunate servant. A soft wetness lands solidly on his forehead and when he catches himself, he realises its ink and Apollo's dumb lips are actually smiling now. He holds his brush out with elegant fingers and his crow hops atop it. "'Everything that happens beneath the sun', remember?" 

[pretendcottagelady]

February Prototype

I actually got this done Jan 1st, because I am trying harder to start set ups in bits and pieces earlier.

The flowers in this set up will be different from what the prototype has, but it's the same colour and shape.

Interestingly enough are the cats, the cats came on a PET tape that was matted. While you can still see a bit of gloss when moving the journal, the glossy look is greatly reduced. If you don't like the look of glossy PET tape you might be interested in this type.

Unfortunately it's not common. The Mindwave brand kind of does this but their tapes tend to be thicker. It's also not always listed, I didn't know until this tape came in that it would be matted.

Also, the purple ink feathered quite a bit, which I find interesting. I used a metal nib dip pen that is supposed to be like writing with a glass pen. It could be the Tombow behind it that is causing it, as I have written with the glass dip pen and not had this problem.

[paintedkinzy-88]

I had a mental image and it won't let me go. Basically, Stretch sees how stressed out Blue is because he is constantly having to out his life on pause to play out some random role in a Reset over and over, and while it's comforting to know Stretch isn't the only one dealing with Resets and he has someone he can not only trust but go to for comfort (strange as it is to imagine with it being Sans, whom he hates having to burden especially now that he knows just how cool his brother actually is, he always knew Sans was the most magnificent monster but learning he's an interdimentional hero working alongside literal gods does soemthign to a guy).

So basically, Papyrus works double time to stop the Resets. And eventually he succeeds! So Sans is now clear to live his life and, like you said, finally tell everyone about his true self and his real job!

Problem is... multiverse shenanigans keep interrupting him every time he tries so while everyone knows something weird is up and it involves Sans, there is no context for the suddenly appearing skeletons that constantly interrupted their day and Sans somehow knows them all and is slowly getting more and more frustrated by the day because he very clearly wants to tell them something.

It blows down to Sans literally sitting everyone down and just saying it outright that the multiverse exists and when Killer comes running in on a supply run, Sans bodily tackles him, sits on him, and forces him to help him explain because,

"So help me if I get interrupted while explaining what the multiverse is one more time I'm gonna spike all of your favorite foods with laxatives!!"

"That'd be funny, actually..."

"DAMNIT KILLER!!!"

Idk jsut funny shenanigans with Blueberry getting more and more frustrated because he wants to tell people and finally is allowed to tell people but apparently the multiverse decided that moment to be the biggest nuisance

(He find out later it was Ink's fault)

Saving this saving this sAVING THIS—

Everything and everyone is just constantly against him in the most unfortunately comedic ways. And it starts out small! Little inconveniences, maybe not even at the fault of outside influences. He’s trying to tell Chara and Frisk, but no, Asgore says it’s their bed time, it’ll have to wait. Tries to explain it to Undyne and Alphys, hoping Undyne would maybe be help in explaining it to everyone else, but oops something in her lab exploded, they have to deal with that real quick.

Then it’s the Stars needing his help in another world, so he has to dip for a day or too, leaving Paps to be like “uh he’ll explain later.” Later comes, and a very apologetic Dream needs his help pulling Noots and Error apart cuz Ink’s no help, he’s just watching their argument and eating popcorn. So he has to leave again, far more frustrated than before, which baffles all his friends and family.

Then it’s like actual trouble; a world is falling apart and they need to evacuate it. There’s a council meeting and they’re introducing a new Sans. The Gang’s on an LV spree and needs someone to spare with so they don’t rip apart more Underfell copies. Just, every time he comes in saying he has an announcement to make, planning around his schedule and everyone else’s to get a family night together and finally come clean, SOMETHING has to get in the way and ruffle his feathers.

Meanwhile his family is so concerned. They’ve never seen Sans so tired and annoyed before. The dude just is done with the innocent bean performance pretty much as soon as they’d stopped the resets and is, to them, acting strangely. He clearly wants to talk but just can never get the chance. And who are these other skeletons that are popping up to talk to him?? To whisk him away with stern, worried looks?? Does he have long lost relatives they never talked about? Is he involved in something bad? Is he safe, is he trying to escape something he doesn’t wanna be a part of??

(Paps takes a bit of pity on him and asks if Blue just wants him to explain it, but Blue really really wants to be the one to tell them of his adventures and his job and all of his progress and achievements. He’s waited SO LONG for this he wants it so badly!!)

Eventually he manages to get Lust to just cover for him for a single day, a DAY that’s all he needs, but NO. Killer’s just gotta swoop in last second and Blue’s SO at the end of his patience why is this so DIFFICULT—

[nuwonuwo]

VilEpe short fic, in which appleboy writes with a quill

Fandom: Twisted-Wonderland

Pairing: Vil Schoenheit/Epel Felmier

Warning: Some suggestive imagery

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Each tick of the clock was another iron weight pressing down on his nerves. The ink was scented with a veneer of lavender just thin enough to feel like a slow strangling by silk gauze. Epel did not dare look up from the parchment, or to his right at his dorm leader intently watching him from the bed. He focused with penetrating intensity on the strokes of fresh ink shimmering in the warm golden light, the peacock feather that made up the quill pen in his hand.

One more dip into the inkwell, one more line of spells learned in class intermingled with complete nonsense.

Earlier, Vil had asked him to come to his room for a photoshoot. That night, he was to don a white ruffled shirt with a cravat and sit at Vil's desk, writing absolutely anything (short of profanities and other such inelegances) with a peacock feather quill. The usual magical pen would produce the same penmanship for less work, he was about to argue, but he held back for fear of being subject to worse — perhaps actually having to wear a fancy brocade waistcoat and a knee-length jacket on top of the shirt.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The photoshoot was done, Rook with his camera and his endless supply of flowery praises was sent away, but Epel wasn't yet allowed to leave. It was thus just he and Vil together in suffocating silence, the former's composure teetering on the brink of shattering.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Go on, keep writing. Fill the page," Vil said, a low, silky hiss that shook Epel to his bones. He could not afford to even let out a whimper, much less allow any falter in his quill strokes; to do so would be to let Vil win yet again.

His stiff hand reached up for another dip, but he was held back.

Hot breath lusciously caressed his neck, elegant fingers softly stroked his quill-holding hand. Epel's body gave a very visible shudder; Vil had already risen from the bed and was right behind him. "That'll do for today. You did better than I expected," Vil whispered into Epel's ear, dangerous, smooth, dark like the scented liquid filling the inkwell. "Your hands are born for classical writing implements. To hold a quill, touch parchment, wear a signet ring. Can't have those elegant hands do nothing but farm apples and roll around in dirt, can we? You can go now... but your quillmanship still needs work."

Epel's sleep was certain to be anything but peaceful that night.

[synthetickitsune]

Angel!San (Ateez) | Caged angst | 0.7k | gn!reader A/N: i saw this prompt somewhere but i can't find it now T-T

A sharp, high-pitched scream resonates through your room. The sound is aided by rattling of chains, flurry of wings beating against their bindings and pained whimpers. It’s music to your ears. A balm to your tortured soul. Alas, you can’t afford him to be this loud.

“Shhh,” you click your tongue. He’s so quick to obey - try to obey to the best of his ability - that it’s pathetic and almost cute. You twirl the lone feather between your fingers. You bring it to your nose and inhale deeply. They always smell of Heaven when they’re freshly plucked. “Quiet, angel. Or do you wanna go back to your cage?”

“No, no, no, please, I’ll be good,” he whimpers, and you look past the feather at his trembling, kneeling figure. He’s chained so that he keeps still, so he can’t flinch away from you. No more free here than in his cage. You watch him as he takes in deep breaths and slowly calms down until only the large white wings sprouting from his back are shaking. They’re just too tempting.

You reach a hand towards them and see all the muscles on his back tensing. The scent of blood reaches your nose as he bites his tongue to keep quiet. You smirk.

“Relax, San,” you coo, “I’m just going to reward you for listening so well.”

This time you’re nice - so nice, actually, that it almost makes you nauseous. This time, you don’t wait for him to actually relax before you touch his wings as gently as you know how to. You run your hands over the soft white feathers and smooth them out, fix them until they’re nice and neat. Then you keep petting them, mindful of how sensitive the wings of the angels are. San’s body can’t help but react, melting under your touch until he’s putty in your hands. And maybe, just maybe, you like it that way. Sometimes it’s nice to see him happy. As much as you love to see him in tears, this is also good. The small smile tugging at his lips and his wings fluttering, betraying his happiness this time. It’s all about balance.

The magic is lost for a second while you turn back to the scroll on your table and dip the feather in your hand into the blood-like ink, making him tense once more. You chuckle and scratch the space between his shoulder blades just to make a chill run down his spine. Oh how well you know his body.

“Let me work, hm? If you keep being helpful, you’ll get a proper reward,” you hum. You both know it might be a trap, depending on your mood, but to be fair - you’re actually feeling great and you think San knows that as well.

He makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement and shifts his weight on his knees. Perhaps you should get a mat that would be more comfortable, seeing as he spends so much time on his knees by your desk. But that’s for later, now you need to focus on the task at hand. The glyphs need to be drawn precisely, without a mistake, to do what they’re supposed to do. Just one look at them should be enough to burn the angel’s eyes. (And that’s why they’ll be safely locked away once you’re finished with them - which he doesn’t need to know about.)

You must admit it’s easier to focus while playing with the feathers of his wings and San’s occasional involuntary happy hum, followed by a deep, anxious silence full of expectation of a punishment that doesn’t come. As you said - you’re in a great mood today. The white plumage feels just like a cloud. It makes you think of flying, of the sky and sun, of spring and freedom. It’s addictive, really. It’s all his fault that you can’t let him go.

Your mood doesn’t sour, but there’s a bitter leftover in your mind as you think of everything Heaven. You can’t stand it.

“Oh no,” you sigh in mock-surprise, “This one’s dull already.”

It’s not. You know it, and he must know it too. But he doesn’t protest, he doesn’t beg. He only braces himself and screams as you pluck another feather from his wings.

Much better.

[headlightsforever]

Poem after poem, book after book, the ante is upped. I think this could be why it takes most of us so long between books. The poet is working harder each time to go deeper, further, layering on or stripping away to find the exact color or texture, the core or the root, the frail light or the watery dark. I write to work things out. I write to concentrate, to feel a sense of purpose rise up in me. I enjoy the struggle of making a new object to present to the world, a gift made from scratch, whole, unique, edible, speakable. And I want that gift to travel well, packed into an old boat on calm water or hidden inside a greased body diving into a blue pool, a sleek arrow that leaves a feathered silence and wonder in its wake. I like moving, word by word, toward a sense of discovery, toward an awareness of self, a curious, energetic, intelligent, humorous, sacred, baffling, heartful self. I work to find my subject, something I can sink my teeth into. I live for that flaring up of language, when the words actually carry me, envelop me, grip me. And all of the above comprise the reason why I read poetry, to hear the truth, spoken harshly or whispered into my ear, to see more clearly the world’s beauty and sadness, its tragedy and comedy, to be lifted up and torn down, to be remade, by language, to become larger, swollen with life. I write to add my voice to the sum of voices, to be part of the choir. I write to be one sequin among the shimmering others, hanging by a thread from the evening gown of the world. I write to remember. I write to forget myself, to be so completely immersed in the will of the poem that when I look up from the page I can still smell the smoke from the house burning in my brain. I write to destroy the blank page, unravel the ink, use up what I’ve been given, make something new of it, and give it away. I write to make the trees shiver at the sliver of sun slipping down the lip of the axe blade. I write to hurt myself again, to dip my fingertip into the encrusted pool of the wound. I write to become someone else, that better, smarter self that lives inside my dumbstruck twin.

Dorianne Laux, Finger Exercises for Poets, W.W. Norton, 2024

[flockrest]

wow. finally here to talk about my take on forms of rito languages!! it's a doozy, folks. there will be four i'll be exploring: rito script, rito shorthand, rito key, and birdsong. all under the cut, so here we go!

RITO SCRIPT

i believe this would most likely be cuneiform in nature, if only due to the constraints of rito morphology. i doubt they have any innate, very fine motor control in their wings ( "hands" ) given how big their feathers ( "fingers"? ) are, so impressions and/or inked signs that can be made with wedge-tipped styluses seem a little more logical than the more motion-heavy strokes needed for, say, something like hylian script — which they still use around the village for the sake of non-rito visitors ( notably carved into wood ), but many rito are better readers than they are writers of hylian script! not all, but that's the general trend!

okay, now...i am not a linguist. but i'm thinking the old system ( like. prior to, during, and a little after dineli's time ) was more logographic, and was used way, WAY less than rito was spoken. over the millennia, through language contact ( especially applicable to the rito, who were traditionally nomads and a bulk of whom are still travellers by nature ) and the natural evolution of their spoken analogue, rito script has developed into more of a logosyllabary! still used notably less than its verbal equivalent, but not to the extent of back then; all fledglings in rito village are taught to a decent level of literacy now.

i don't have a physical demonstration in mind because i don't have the brain juices for creating a whole conlang...but i want to emphasise that this script is reflective of spoken rito, which is a tonal language ( THIS IS IMPORTANT ) and not alphabetical.

RITO SHORTHAND

rito stenography of rito script! finds even rarer cases of use than its longhand, but that's just how it is with most shorthands, isn't it? penn is especially proficient in this — his draft notes for reporting are exclusively in this shorthand. makes it harder for those who might want information when he isn't willing to give it to read, and speed is a critical thing when you're on the field! also his notebook is tiny. his pen when it's in his "hand"? tiny. he is not writing longhand in that thing.

i have a more concrete image in my head about this system! it's primarily informed by and based on modern musical notation!! it would still vaguely resemble rito script ofc, but i think this would be neat given how music-entrenched rito culture is...and it's fun to think about possible uses for it as a code! is it sheet music or a message? it will be obvious to rito ( even to those unfamiliar with shorthand, if only in that "huh, this does not read like music" sense ), but to most non-rito? a mystery they don't even realise is a mystery slkfjkdf

RITO KEY

separate from any scripts; this is nonverbal rito communication! misleading title, i know ( <- weak for connecting music to the birdies in any way i can ). their signed language, so to speak, in that words and meanings are conveyed through manual/physical articulation rather than verbal — but there are still some vocal aspects to it as well? very little, and less defined in that it's just like...whistles, trills, warbles, and other actual bird noises ( almost dipping into birdsong ). these aren't necessary most of the time; they're used to accentuate or clarify signs, not outright replace them.

i like to think that their signs, when grounded, place heavy emphasis on wings, shoulders, head positions, etc. there's not a lot of individually bending wingtips/"fingers" — "hand" movements are mostly ( but not all ) fully splayed or fully clenched, if that makes sense? and facial expressions would be very important too, as it is with most signed languages.

and signs when flying...i'm thinking maybe flight patterns? possibly whole flight motions? this is where the vocal side of rito key might really come into play, but again isn't strictly necessary — especially if you're a good flier. does convey less specifics than its grounded form though.

most grown travellers and warriors know rito key. it's a useful language to learn! can offer the advantage of subtle but active coordination on the battlefield and such.

BIRDSONG

this is, essentially, "birdspeak". natural language of birds, including rito! penn proved that rito can speak to birds to such a depth that they are his primary informants, and even though literally nothing in the game indicates this is a universal thing, i am RUNNING with this tidbit and saying yeah. this is an inherent thing for the rito. not in that they're born with an automatic understanding of it, but in that it's the easiest thing for them to learn. like their first language! do you see my vision? do you see it! i get to decide this, it's my sleepover!! ( affectionate )

this is much more simplistic than any other language a rito would know; there are no specific words that would equate to specific meaning. it's all ( bird ) sounds! no nuance to this language. it's very direct, straightforward, and in-the-moment. a major case of interpretation =/= translation, which is why an actual rito language naturally arose sdlfsjdfk

[themetalvirus]

fountain pens intimidate me a little bit, i remember when i tried it for the first time and made a fucking mess lmfao, it looks like the type of pen you want fast strokes with and at least im used to writing fast since i primarily use liner pens at school so uhhhh well we'll see if i get one!

if you use fountain pen friendly paper, you can write as fast or slow as you'd like =) even on printer paper, but they do use water-based inks so there is usually feathering depending on the ink you use.

also i've noticed some folks confuse fountain pens with dip pens - a fountain pen has an ink reservoir it pulls from like a ballpoint/gel pen, while dip pens are used by dipping them repeatedly into ink. i'm way more into fountain pens because they're less messy and more convenient to actually use

honestly, if you're afraid of making a mess, try cartridges! no bottles to mess with. if you're a lefty, it can be challenging not smearing ink as you write, but there are several fast-drying inks made specifically for lefties with that issue.

for you, a platinum preppy might be a good choice! it only takes platinum cartridges, but it's still a good place to start for people unsure about FPs. another great choice is of course the jinhao shark, which takes a larger variety of cartridge refills due to it using standard internationals!

if you don't end up getting one, don't even worry about it broseph, it's ok to just stick with what you know you like. im just trying to spread the joy of fun writing utensils, but what's exciting for some people isn't exciting at all for other people! either way, making marks on paper is fun i think, no matter what youre using =)

[snzcaretaker]

Ambrose writes his journal with a giant plume that he has to dip in ink every 5 words like that one gag in family guy

Damn right he does. But it's actually very practical, you see, because then he has a feather to use on Edwin's nose whenever a sneeze is stuck <3

[seneon]

SKETCHING SPIDERS ──── rayne ames x fem! reader.

about. whatever you draw on your skin, the same drawing will appear on your soulmate as well. regency¡au. sfw with a pinch of suggestive, reader's surname is archer, mentions of alcohol. wc of 3200+

notes. i'm experimenting. also first week of exams done i have math, business & accounting next week 😭😭

overcast clouds and the grey shades engulf the vast sky. you're seated in the royal room of a class for the children of nobles, fidgeting with a clean feather quill that was played by your fingers.

as usual, it is another boring day as an academic victim of the noble standards. in a classroom full of the descendants or the next heir of royal and noble families, they were all academically intelligent. for the future of their family, of course. that is no surprise, considering you have to study hard to maintain a good status in your family of nobles.

as the tutor continued to speak his mind out about philosophy or the sort, you looked around the classroom. for a high-class classroom, there sure is quite some dust in the high ceilings that nobody could reach up to.

you see many concentric circles woven by threads at the far corner, all meeting at one common centre. a genius idea then sprouted in your mind like the multi-legged creatures that created those corner ceiling webs.

the quill that you were just fiddling with became an item to use as your teacher rambled on and on about the stars and how to read them astrologically. you used it in a wiser way rather than write a bunch of fancy words into sketching. an act that only the royal artists could carry out.

first, you dipped your quill into the ink and lightly flicked the access ink off. then you lifted the sleeves of your lace coral pink dress, turning your left arm the other way. your seatmate, nora martin, watched in silence as her eyebrows scrunched in anticipation of what you were about to do with your lifted sleeves.

“what are you attempting to execute now, lady archer?” nora asked as you shot her a tiny smile. “just a teensy bit bored from mr. valac’s lessons. m’ gonna entertain myself.”

your seatmate, nora of the martin house, does not bat her eyelash or blink in your direction. this is common for her, just like buying groceries to cook.. or waking up to brush your hair with a wooden hairbrush made out of the best wood in the kingdom. she is used to your shenanigans, even if it meant to be a little bit rebellious during the process, such as dirtying your arm in boredom.

well either way, nobody is going to lift your sleeves to inspect your arm, for it is a crime in the law. at least, to people of nobility.

the ink does not easily dry on the surface of your arm, tainting your skin in a hue of black. the feather quill was quite ticklish too, sometimes it occasionally burns mildly against your skin as the tip of the feather drags along to create a small design with the ink.

once it dried, you showed nora your masterpiece. she actually fancied the result, thus praising how good you actually are at painting. for all that you know, your drawn masterpiece will not come off as easily as staining the tip of the quill in black ink.

it is going to be hard to wash it off. to wash the ink off.

“a spider?” kaldo gehenna asked as he inspected the drawing on the left arm of his subordinate. subordinate because the gehenna and the person he speaks to is of the same ranking in the military.

“how'd that appear?”

“i have no answer for you,” rayne ames, captain level replied as he too, inspected the mark that appeared on his arm. “i believe it appeared during the day.”

“i believe so too. i mean, you didn't have it when you dressed up this morning, did you?” kaldo placed his fingers in his chin, trying to find possible solutions as to where a random marking of a spider and a few strands of web marks came from. the military isn't one to have such markings.

now that it is night and it is time to rest and let loose if the days’ happenings, the ames undressed with his most trusted subordinate and the both of them are greeted with a marking of a spider on rayne’s arms.

the knights are only glad that they wore long sleeves. if it had been exposed, rayne was sure that his arm would be sliced off for having such a marking in his arm.

“i heard there is a legend where whatever your soulmate draws on her skin, it will appear on your skin too. perhaps your soulmate drew a spider on her skin,” the other captain said as he shrugged.

“why in the world would my soulmate draw on her arm? is she a fool?”

once again, the gehenna shrugged and carefully kept his knightly gears back to where they belong. “perhaps she was feeling bored, just like you at today's assembly. two bored souls. you can try to draw something small on your arm to see if that does anything or not.”

left in a plain white button up t-shirt and his black pants, kaldo took his belongings and waved his subordinate good-bye. “well, i hope you find your soulmate soon. you really need some romance in your life, rayne.”

when the ames went home, all he could do was stare at the spider marking on his arms. the only explanation he could gather was that his soulmate clearly used the black ink for writing to draw the insect on her arm. she didn't even try to erase the parts where it went wrong, she just drew on it to create spider webs.

his stoic golden honey eyes that were locked onto the mere insect. fingers slowly tracing over the outlines of the spider legs and the webs behind it. he admits it, his soulmate is good at drawing. perhaps she is a painter, an artist. someone who comes from a lineage of working for the royal family in the line of art.

but if she is his soulmate, why has she drawn something now? why has she not been leaving any suspicious or interesting marks on his skin in his eighteen years of living? why only now, when he was just assigned to the role of a captain in the royal military?

whatever the case, rayne ames could only keep brushing his fingers against the mark that appeared out of mere thin air. he needed to find the cause of this random marking soon.

the fifteenth birthday of the royal prince, mash burnedead. of course his family of princes would host a royal birthday party for him. and of course, all nobles are to attend the young boy's birthday celebration.

so are you and your family. your parents, who stood among all the other noble adults as you stand beside them, their mouths never ending to boast about how well you do in your academics and how well you are in arts.

as if you were their little doll to ramble on and on, you simply stood there with a tiny smile, your fingers occasionally pulling up the elbow gloves so it wouldn't reveal a single speck of the spider drawing you drew just the day before the party.

you already knew it wasn't going to come off easily, considering the quality of the ink is strong enough to stain your white satin curtains for weeks before fully coming out. your parents had forgotten to inform you about the upcoming party of the prince too, making your arm more difficult to cover up since your silk elbow glove is on the shorter side.

“father, mother, if i may excuse myself to the restroom for a few moments?” you asked in a voice that sounded like it was a beg. you just wanted out from the ordeal of having to stand for hours and listen to your parents indirectly praising you while your mouth is kept shut with no place to allow your tongue to twist and turn.

“of course, dear! be back soon, alright?” your mother replied as you nodded and took your elegant bow at them and also at the other noblemen that were lending an ear to your parents.

it was all a simple lie to get you out of this pathetic situation and to escape to somewhere where you can have your own fun and enjoy your own time, whether it being alone or finding another fellow noble that you know off, preferably someone from your class.

your preferences led you outside the ballroom, where it is far from a huge crowd, but filled with people who prefer to be outside the ballroom.

“lady archer! over here!” the monotonous voice which you recognised called out to you as a hand fan waved in the air, signalling for you to journey your way through the hallways to where nora stood.

you made your way through the velvet carpet and curtsied at your friend, before doing so to the guests around her.

“this is noir martin, my idiotic brother of the military army and his friends of the military, lord kaldo gehenna and lord rayne ames,” nora introduced as you curtsied once again.

“they are looking for women to cheer their champagne to,” a horrified expression formed on your friend's face as she pointed her fan towards her elder brother. “especially this man.”

noir held his hands in the air for defense. “hey hey, little sister. it is normal for men who want to find a beautiful wife, isn't it?”

“not if you're a captain leading an army of hundreds of soldiers! they usually perish in battle like the strong mighty soldier they are, honouring their kingdom.”

the martins conversed in an argumentative conversation, kaldo occasionally joining in. while you stood beside nora, covering your left arm. if not, you'd keep pulling your elbow glove up.

it was no surprise that the attentive ames was silently observing you, a gorgeous noblewoman who will soon benefit to the future of the kingdom. the ames is to, one day, serve you, since you are an honoured ally of the royal family.

“you seem to be anxious,” rayne said.

that voice. the honeyed, yet silky voice almost no one in the military dares to defy. it was an addictively dangerous voice to the hearts and souls of many women.

“oh uhm, i am quite anxious…” you averted his gaze, hands subconsciously moving to cover your arm as rayne's eyes followed your hands. “is there a problem with your arm? are you hurt?”

“no! i’m not!”

there it was. the little sneaky spider legs that peeked out from the edge of your satin piece, though unknown to the people around. there was one person that knew about it though. he just happened to blink before he could see the leg peeking out.

“if you insist…” the knight slowly nodded, his hands travelling to the same arm that the spider appeared.

how odd. he's technically doing the same thing you are doing. it's just a different direction to what other humans in the hallways perceive.

“my name is rayne ames, captain of the royal military army. my brother finn goes to the royal academy too,” he bowed.

you did your part to introduce yourself as a proper lady. like any other proper gentleman, rayne took your hands in his and gave your knuckles a chaste kiss.

something he did to your fingers made you flutter on the inside. it was as if he invited butterflies into your body just by his lips touching the silk of your glove. it was no different for the kiss. he kept it chaste, but there was an unexplainable reason that tells you it wasn't just a gentleman gesture he was showing you.

well, the night went past with your newly made friend from the military who shared a mutual amount of laughs and jokes with you throughout the night. what could possibly go wrong?

“sir! there's a spider on your hand!” the voice of a knight exclaimed as rayne glanced at his hands, his eyes widening a little before he attempted to slap it away.

but it does not go away.

it stays.

just like the spider drawing that randomly appeared out of nowhere, completely fading after a few days. but now, a new mark appears. and a new accusation arises.

“could it be his soulmate!?”

“lord ames, perhaps your soulmate is nearby!”

“you fancy spiders, captain?”

the male slapped his palms against his forehead at the words of his soldiers. surely the mark has to appear at a strategy meeting where he is specifically pointing at other nations. there couldn't be a better timing where his hands weren't in the view of other people.

now his darling soulmate has to draw on her hand, close to her thumb, the same silly spider drawing again that appears as a temporary marking to the ames.

as if one time wasn't enough for the rayne to embarrass him and allow his comrades to lose focus of their goals— the marks appear at many other times in situations where he couldn't control. all over his arm.

one night he sat down at his armchair, surrounded by the crackling sounds of the fire. rayne took kaldo’s idea, dipping his feather into washable ink and wrote a stop drawing on your arm with his quill.

a mere simple no formed. in response, rayne rolled his eyes, scoffing at how cocky the person on the other end is. he wanted to get this over with so his teammates would seal their mouth shut in the absence of a spider drawing randomly spawning on his skin.

it was hilarious, since it was only his left arm that received such a vulgar insect drawing. rayne gave up and put away his writing materials and went to slumber. he pray that the spider drawings would soon end and he would finally have peace in the army. and also to meet his soulmate who is so interested in spiders.

noir martin is officially wedded to a woman from the house of irvine, to a beautiful classmate of yours, lemon. and the world is to congratulate and celebrate the happiness of the newlywed.

“when am i be wedded to a handsome and strong man…” you muttered to yourself as you let out a sigh. “i could've sworn my soulmate wrote back to me.”

unfortunately your mutters were heard by rayne who stood beside you, serving as your escort for the day.

“oh? how do you already know your soulmate?”

“well. i draw. then he simply told me to stop drawing.”

rayne raised a brow. “if he's your soulmate, then why did he ask you to stop drawing?” in his mind, this soulmate of yours is an extremely selfish and rude man that doesn't deserve you at all.

“because i’m embarrassing him in front of his friends with my spiders.”

spiders.

“spiders?”

“spiders.”

his jaw slightly let loose. rayne couldn't focus on anything else other than to watch your lips move as you complained about your soulmate and spiders.

spiders are your new favourite thing to draw now ever since that boring day in your philosophy lesson.

rayne just happened to the extra canvas.

“my dearest lady y/n of the archer house,” the ames gently took your hand in his and bowed, remaining in his posture, he says, “may i commit a crime and steal you away for a few moment?”

a field of red roses tinted your cheeks red as you ceased the smile that threatened to surface.

“yes you may, lord ames.”

as you finished uttering your words, rayne took your hand to guide you through the huge and long halls of the martin estate. it was silent all the way and you felt nervous. as if there were thousands of spiders who slowly crawled up your back, giving you the chills yet the nervousness that embraced you.

he led you out the huge garden, never stopping until he reached the point where there were stone benches. being the gentleman he is, rayne told you to take a seat as he took off the white glove he wore on his left arm.

rayne took a seat himself, setting his gloves to the side. all while your eyes followed his actions, including the little mark that was just a bit above his pinky finger. you recognised that mark as you seemingly lit up upon seeing it.

“that's a—”

“spider.”

without hesitation, you took out your left arm’s glove. nobody is going to walk into the garden anyways, so it's safe to take off your glove. golden honey eyes immediately locking its gaze onto the same spider that was in the same exact position as the one on rayne's fingers.

“you’re my soulmate!” you exclaimed, gasping in the process.

the corner of rayne’ lips curved upwards a little as he nodded, his fingers tracing the spider that was imprinted on his fingers.

"so i am."

rayne ames is now tracing the undone spider sketches, smudging the ink all over your right thigh as you could feel his hot, ragged breath on your cheek. you faced the other way, your own breath heavy as you shifted in your position.

“trying to draw a spider on your thigh while i’m away on a mission by the king's orders tells me how much you miss me. how much you need me,” rayne said, his golden eyes staring into yours. “then you tried to sketch another in my presence, my lady. what are you trying to do?”

first of all, how did you get into this situation where both you are under the military captain as he cornered you?

long story short, you were out with your lady friends, and they were all drinking the night away. as your carriages came to pick you up and your lady-in-waiting cleaned you up after the night full of consuming the kingdom's finest alcohols, soberness left your mind.

the worst is the honoured son of the ames family arriving at your family's estate to give them an emergency visit. well you were not in a state to be speaking to guests, so you were kept in your room.

but rayne insisted on a visit to his beloved darling, and he too, ended up being drunk from the alcohol that you shoved into his mouth with the bottle that you sneaked in the house.

“i need you… and you need me too,” you muttered, lazy eyes scanning all over the white button up t-shirt that rayne wears. how it would be so easy to just tear them open right now.

“do i have you to myself?” rayne set his head at the crook of your neck, shifting up so his mouth comes in contact with your shoulders. the man slightly pulled down the lace sleeves, exposing your bare shoulders to him.

with rayne's lips on your shoulders, you hummed under your breath, resulting in a kiss.

“you are my woman. my soulmate, y/n.”

“forever yours,” you whispered into his ears as he continued to press chaste kisses onto your shoulder, his other hand leaving your sketched and messy thigh to snake it around your waist.

“i’m going to kiss you until those spiders all over your body are all messy. and you will do the same to me, darling.”

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