#like an actual feather dipped in actual ink

[blood-injections]

Sketches

[keeps-ache]

[curled into a ball on the floor] i am dealing with the failure in a healthy, rational way do not mind me

[madschiavelique]

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 7 - Five Of Wands

summary : you've been avoiding viktor, but as your next homework session comes around, he cannot help but be curious. oh and more tyler

content warnings : crude language (not much okay), reader is having thoughtsss

word count : 5,6k

author's note : FIRST OF ALL i was sick and on my periods writing this okay so this is much more of a transitionary chapter than anything for the shitstorm to come, SECOND OF ALL i KNOW it's another 5 of wands chapter i'm sorry i forgot that i had already used this card before THUS i will probably change the card in chapter 4 because i couldn't see any other card working for this one. but i still hope you all will like it <3 (i don't know how many times i wrote "sighed" in this chapter so BEAR WITH ME)

proofread by the lovely @yaffles-world

masterlist : here

taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch

Friday arrived for another study session between you and Viktor. The week had flown by, with one particularity: your stubborn avoidance of Viktor, and his stubborn search for you.

During classes, you always managed to find a seat as far away from his as possible. You avoided him in the corridors, ignored him when you crossed his path, and when you were in the library and you noticed him, you packed up your things as quickly as possible to leave.

Since the power cut, you'd been even more keen to avoid Viktor. Although you'd done it before, you'd simply decided you didn't want to interact with him. The last few weeks had been far too full of his presence, and you needed to get away from him both physically and mentally.

The trip to the museum, the lunch with him and Jayce, the hour of detention... Your days were far more filled with him than you would have preferred.

It had been a sudden, almost instinctive choice to get as far away from him as possible. 

There was something in the air of the evening of the blackout, and even today, a kind of disturbing truth was taking up more and more space in your mind: Viktor wanted to be your friend.

In your eyes, there was always a huge worry about making friends. Your circle was small, and most of your friendships were involuntary, and you were fine with it. You didn't need many friends, you simply kept the ones you trusted. But were you ready to place your trust in Viktor ?

Alas, Friday was here, and Viktor was inevitable.

You had arrived a little early at the library, dropping off your things and anticipating by picking up the tomes you would need during this session. The library was already busier than it had been the previous week, with your class mimicking you and Viktor as they set to work on their history topic to avoid working on it at the last minute.

You despised the very idea of doing this assignment, as it brought you too close to your years living in Zaun, to more nightmares every night to more Viktor. You wanted to get rid of this homework, and you knew full well that to do that you'd have to actually deal with it. 

But while he was away, you took the opportunity to take out a sheet of paper and dipped the tip of your quill in one of the pretty inks Eris had given you. You wanted to write to her. You hadn't received any correspondence from her for some time now, and you suspected that she too had other things to worry that were more important than taking the time to sit down and write a letter.

Dear Eris, you began.

The weeks are endless here, and I almost miss the times when the only thing we had to do all day was figure out what to do to avoid dying of boredom till night came. I've welcomed my new flatmate, Sky Young. She's nice, I could have had worse, I doubt I could have had better. Speaking of better.

You raised your feather above the paper for a moment, hesitating over the next part of your sentence. Viktor would be inevitable in this very letter, and the idea frustrated you. No matter what happened, his name was on your mind, always at the corner of your lips, ready to rub against your teeth and sound out like a finger pressing on a trigger before shooting.

Were you going to tell her about your concerns? Were you going to feign disinterest, pretend it was just some guy Jayce had introduced you to?

I'm getting a bit more used to tarot. You write as your sign of progress. This morning I drew the five of wands. From what I gather though, it doesn't look very positive. I should expect it, five guys hitting each other with sticks seems an unlikely interpretation of a general hug.

According to the little booklet, the five of sticks represented: Incendiary events. Protests. Angry people. Drama. Exciting conflicts.

You'd raised your eyebrows as your eyes roamed the rest of the descriptions: New ideas are born of passionate debate. Energy is scattered but if forces work together, powerful results occur. There's a need for unity. You're bothered by people who don't act as you'd hoped. Free yourself by surrendering to the present moment.

Well, that looks promising, you thought. The card was obviously pushing you towards Viktor, and that was bothering you.

You were clinging to what you had, to the past, to the only thing you knew: survival. Viktor was turning your finely constructed ecosystem upside down, as if he were treading on a sandcastle you'd spent hours building on a windy beach.

But something inside you was beginning to creep in, an idea that seemed dangerous, and which a few weeks ago would have seemed quite simply impossible to think of. 

What if you tried?

What if you tried not to be so uptight about working with him? What if, for once, you accepted the possibility that this wasn't a competition for your life?

The idea was bitter, weighing you down with anxiety. You went back to writing your letter.

I think I know what the card is leading me to, you confessed, but it is deeply unpleasant. What more can I say... I don't think this letter is going to be very long. I don't have much to tell you, and if I do, I'd rather say it to your face than on a sheet of the Glorious Academy of Piltover. You added useless curls in your writing for the title of the Academy to emphasize the ridicule of its prestigious status. You knew Eris would laugh. Did you get any new exotic payments? Here I'm drowning in copies and bolts, but your inks and herbs keep me company.

You smile for a moment, but the thought of mentioning Viktor keeps running through your mind. You looked around for a moment, as if he would miraculously appear and snatch the letter out of your hand to read it. But nothing, just the serene calm of the library, only the sound of flipped pages as students tried finding some information were keeping you compagny.

You were right about the Emperor. Of course you were. You confessed. A new pupil has arrived and, to top it all, he's beaten me in the league table. I suppose you can imagine how I felt about the situation. Every day is a tooth-and-nail battle with him. To crown it all, we've both been assigned to a collaborative project. Isn't that great? Anyway. I miss you a lot. I can't wait to hear from you. Say hi to Ekko for me.

Ekko was a childhood friend who you spent a lot of time with. It was undoubtedly through his demonstrations of repairs and your afternoons spent working on tinkering projects that your interest in science and engineering was born. 

You dipped your quill in your inkwell one last time.

P.S: The name of the Emperor is-

"How long have you been here?"

You almost spilled the inkwell on the table as your eyes rose to Viktor, standing in front of you with his satchel slung over one shoulder.

You sighed. He could at least have made his presence known by clearing his throat, not by standing still and watching you like a cat under his amber eyes. You took your letter, writing his cursed name, followed by yours before blowing on the paper to hasten the drying of the ink.

"Long enough for either of us to fall asleep in Devid's classes," you huffed as you finally folded the sheet in half and tucked it into your notebook to send it later.

He wore a small smirk, gracefully relieving himself of his satchel by pulling it off his shoulder and letting it fall gently to the floor. He sat down opposite you, taking out his things.

"Was Demacian never one of your fortes for you to sleep during his classes?" he asked about Devid, your language teacher. "I thought you'd understand with your wide panel of knowledge."

"I do, understand." You corrected him as you picked up a tome to begin your work session. "I'm fluent, I don't need more of what's being said in these classes."

"Why ?" he asked, placing his inkwell and notebook on the table. "Ever travelled there ?"

"I never travelled outside of here and Zaun," you informed him.

He sighed, looking down at his notes. "Then you don't speak Demacian."

You frowned, raising your head. He met your gaze, waiting for your next remark.

"Why ?" you questioned. "Has his royal highness, all full of Runeterrian knowledge, been on a sweet trip to the Great City?"

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes drifting over the small pile of tome to grab one.

"Any idiot knows that learning a language in classes and putting it to practice in the actual region where said language is spoken is a completely different thing."

You remained silent, trying to contain and prevent yourself from giving him the pleasure of answering. You went back to your notes, pressing the binding of your notebook to the table as you jotted down a few more bits of information you managed to find in the new tome you'd selected.

A full minute passed, after which Viktor couldn't help breaking the silence.

"Why are you ignoring me?"

You sighed, was he a puppy in need of constant attention?

"I'm not ignoring you." You confirmed, not looking up from your notes.

"Fine." He said, searching for a way to continue the conversation, to find the keyword to unlock you. "Why are you avoiding me?"

This time he'd hit the nail on the head. Obviously he hadn't been blind to your dodges, but how could he? He was observant, always making the perfect deductions, and was smart enough to get on your nerves.

"Can we focus and work?" you tried to extricate yourself from the situation.

He sank back in his chair, staring at you for a moment. "Not until you answer my questions."

This time you won his gaze. "Too bad there's no candle for you to bargain information with."

"I can find other ways," he remarked, "Miss."

You tensed at the nickname, your lips pressing together as you leaned on the desk, resting your elbows on it.

"Oh yeah?" you replied almost amused, "I hope these ways will be as promising as you and Jayce's attempt at cooking on a heater."

He smiled, approaching you in turn. "You seem to have forgotten that I seem to know more about you than you know about me."

"And then I thought I was supposed to be the obsessed one," you brows knit as a curious little smile tried to stretch your lips. "You're not stalking me, are you ?"

Your eyes crinkled, scanning his continuously. The days were receding further and further into the night, and the sky outside was gradually turning from cyan to indigo. Under the subdued lights of the library, Viktor's eyes stood out, ever more piercingly under his long brown lashes.

"From what I have heard," he continued as you both leant on your elbows against the table as if playing chess, "Madam Selene is truly open when it comes to questions asked by her students."

He had just put your king in danger, your lips parting in surprise for a moment before closing again, jaw clenched.

"Surely she won't mind exchanging on the pride that her legal daughter is to her?"

You inhaled heavily, chewing your cheek as his insufferable sneer spread to the corners of his lips again, raising his mole slightly.

You picked up your quill again, avoiding his gaze and letting yours return to your notebook. You dipped it in with a half-open, hesitant mouth as you considered what you were going to say, both to him and on paper.

"I'm avoiding you because I can't get to be friends with my only rival."

He seemed amused by your sentence, as if you were just a child trying to impress an adult by saying something serious and threatening with the latest big word you had learned. He rested his chin on his palm, watching you write, and for an instant you thought of the paper he'd never passed you back during detention. What was he about to say ?

"Isn't there an old saying about being close to your opponents ?"

"Isn't there this old thing called ‘free will’ that allows me to do whatever I want ?"

He shrugged. "Your free will hasn't decided to make you leave this room so far."

You regained his eyes this time, the latter looking through you, trying to peek through the cracks in your facade for a chance to see the lights that resided there.

"Are you challenging my free will? Because I can give it some physical attributes in the scientifically accurate name of 'clenched fists'."

"I'll pass." He sneered. "I'm sure Tyler has had enough lessons on this concept."

Silence fell again, you scanning the lines of another novel where too little information about Zaun was catalogued, while Viktor had not touched his pen. You could feel him in your peripheral vision, watching you, following you relentlessly.

"Am I truly your rival?" He finally asked.

"What else would you be?"

Viktor pouted, straightening slightly. "Being your rival implies having the same goal and fighting for it. I am uncertain if that definition applies to us in this case."

Admittedly, he didn't seem to have the same devotion to his academic results as you did, which frustrated you deeply. But what about the second option he cited?

"In the Academy, we all have the same goal." You replied, watching him for a moment before returning to your notes.

There was another pause on the table, and you thought that perhaps this time he would start working. But he didn't.

"I want a truce."

You looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"...Okay," you finally say, picking up another book, "good for you."

"I mean it, miss." He insisted. "I think you've had it wrong on me-" But you cut him off.

“What are you implying ?” You asked, annoyed at beating around the bush when you seemed to be the only one working right now.

"I'm not implying," Viktor nuanced, "I am saying."

"Saying ?" you shook your head, waiting for the next part.

"Yes. You know, that thing that one can do with the possession of a mouth and vocal cords ? You've become an expert at it just through this conversation,” he remarked as he straightened up and grabbed his pencil, twirling it between his fingers, "as it is the most we have spoken together in a week."

"Well then, conversation doesn't seem to be such a dying art anymore now does it ?" you remarked.

Viktor smiled. "You seem to like quoting me." 

You stared at him, raising your eyebrows and sighing. "I'm going to use unparalleled verbal condescension: shush." Your eyes returned to the tome you were working on. "This is a library, not a café."

"You've never spat in mine, by the way, reassure me?"

"After wasting my spit talking to you, I doubt I'd waste any more in your coffee."

He didn't say a word, but you knew he was smiling. Facing you, painfully fiddling with his pen as if this whole thing was some meagre task he could afford to procrastinate on.

You hated this attitude, the simple fact that he didn't seem to work to achieve his goals, that it was innate when you had struggled to rise so high for so long.

"I mean it," he said, straightening up, putting aside his teasing tone for a moment, "for the truce."

You looked up at him, his expression unfamiliar to you. There was something gentle in his piercing gaze, as if he saw something in you that was worth seeing. You sighed, thinking for a moment.

Would this childish quarrel last until the end of the year? Would you still consider him an enemy when you could have made a new friend? Friendships didn't come your way every day, and you were well aware of that. But were you ready to put aside your stubbornness after the various humiliations he had put you through?

“What would a truce even mean?” you finally asked, somehow intent on hearing more.

His lips stretched slightly as his eyes widened. He shrugged.

“I don't know,” he admitted, ”I never thought I'd go this far with you, on this topic.”

Your shoulders slumped.

“Then think of something to say next time after we finish working on this.” You returned to your page, rereading your notes. “I'll take the subjects of Boundary Markets, Cultivairs, and Hope House Orphanage. One location for each level. You should pick three too.”

“Hope House Orphanage?” He repeated, mind finally concentrating on the exposé. “That's the only good thing that can be talked about in such a level.”

You turned a few pages of your notes, running through the lines of your research. 

“There's always Old Hungry,” you remarked, voice lower.

The Old Hungry was a gigantic mechanized clock tower that grew from the very depth of Zaun and built itself up till levels that could reach some of Piltover's buildings. It was too imposing to avoid, and too full of history to be left aside in the presentation.

“Old Hungry ? This old scrap doesn't even give time anymo-”

“It's the Heart of Zaun.” You cut. “It's unavoidable to talk about it anyway.”

“Why don't you take it if you're so adamant about it being on our work?”

You remembered its size, the dark wingspan and the wind blowing through the dusty gears of the Old Hungry. 

“I'd rather you be the one to take it.” you confirmed.

“Why ?”

“Because. Don't you want to take it ?”

“Do you want to get rid of it ?”

You exchanged a look with him, urging him not to be picky.

“Why are you being so mysterious about all of this?” he questioned, eyebrows furrowed.

“You seem to have forgotten that you seem to know more about me than I know about you.” you repeated, annoyed.

“Shall I ask Selene?” he said ironically.

“I fear asking her this would be a limit placed both in her knowledge about this as well as your questions for her.” 

He gazed at you for a moment, clearly frustrated by the secrets, the things left unsaid. You stood up, returning the tomes you'd already read to their shelves. Viktor stood up, following you.

“Acting tough will not make it hurt any less.” He said as you climbed the steps of the ladder and he reached its base. “You know this, yes?”

You suppressed a sigh as you placed one of the tomes on the shelf, arranging it perfectly in line.

“I don't need any of your life lessons,” you remarked, placing the extra tomes. “Can you move the ladder to the left?”

“You know the magic word,” he almost crooned.

You scoffed, not intending to give it to him so easily. You leaned to the side, watching, tiptoeing to reach one of the too few tomes on Zaun in the entire library.

Viktor seemed amazed at how stubborn you could prove to be, especially about him.

“Don't tell me your leitmotif resides in what doesn't kill you makes you stronger?” he questioned as you leaned dangerously toward the books.

“My leitmotif,” you pointed out as you almost reached the binding of the tome you were after, “resides in what doesn't kill you disappoints me-”

You'd reached the book, but your sentence was cut off at the end by your sharp gasp of breath. You'd just lost your balance, your feet slipping off the ladder step as you felt the air rush beneath you and expected to slam heavily into the ground.

The sound of something falling to the floor echoed, the sensation of hands on your back and waist catching you off the ground. Your heart pounding with the shock of sudden fear, you realized what had just happened in the blink of an eye: Viktor had caught you in your fall.

You could feel his thin fingers, warm and tentative, resting on the vest of your uniform around your waist. He held you there, firmly, and you felt your back brush against his chest, his breath landing on the nape of your neck and raising the hairs on it.

You released yourself from his grip and turned to face him, suddenly backing away, heart still pounding, but unable to differentiate whether this was due to the suddenness of the fall, or something else.

He seemed just as surprised as you were, lips parted. He didn't seem to be about to make a condescending remark, a joke about your lack of balance that could be matched by his, nothing.

You leaned back against the shelf, trying to calm yourself as your muscles relaxed from the apprehension of your fall.

There was a moment of quiet, a moment when, for once, neither of you knew what to say to the other. Your eyes fell to the ground, where Viktor's cane had fallen. You swallowed on a dry throat, inhaling to try and grain back your thoughts.

You knelt down to pick it up, straightening up to hand it back to him. He studied you for a moment, his eyes fixed on yours. He brought his hand tentatively up to the handle of his cane, stretched out towards him.

“Did you mean it?” you asked in a low voice as his hand reached the pommel, his thin, long fingers a minute ago resting on your waist wrapping elegantly and slowly around his cane.

“The truce?” he questioned, his voice almost reaching the whisper, as if he feared any higher volume would burst the delicacy of this bubble you were both in.

You let go of the cane, leaning back against the bookcase again, like a prop, like your crutch.

“The other night,” you began, eyes lowered to your feet on the floor, ”you said that it seemed impossible to me that you wanted to learn more about me, out of genuine curiosity. And now, you said you wanted a truce.” You raised your head, straightening to look at him. “Did you mean it, all of this?”

You felt very small, as if you were walking and, in the middle of the nettles, had found a patch of grass where you could put your feet without stinging yourself.

He seemed touched, but this emotion seemed to give way to confusion.

“Why wouldn't I mean it ?

Why would you mean it? you wondered. You'd had enough examples of how trust was doomed to fail you. You pulled yourself upright, drawing your armour back over you, closing your heart before it went beyond the confines of your chest.

“Oh sorry.” you resumed sarcastically. “I forgot how through your many gallantries in our discussions you have evidently shown to be the most agreeable young man in the world.”

He smiled, his cheerful attitude back in place in the blink of an eye. “I cannot deny that exchanging with someone like you bring out the more playful part of me.”

“Someone like me?” you stressed, almost offended.

“Yes.” he confirmed. “Your morals are like a legend - rumoured to exist, but no proof to back it up.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes as you started walking back to your table. “My expectations for you were low when asking this, but somehow you still failed to meet them...”

But your sentence had died on its end, as not far from your table, an unfortunately familiar, tall figure with blond curls stood.

Fuck. Tyler.

Seeing you reappear from between the shelves, he noticed you both, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as he strode towards you.

“Ah,” he smiled as he approached you, ”my tormentors.”

You sighed, standing by your table as he reached the height of your chair. “You again.”

“What?” He chuckled, feigning offense as he rested his hand on his chest. “Aren't you pleased to see me?” He arched an eyebrow. “I'm sure you've got another one of these filthy Zaunite, barbaric lessons to give me.”

“You wish you were worth the effort.” You huffed, moving closer to your chair, but he came between you and it. 

You glared at him, who seemed satisfied with your reaction. He turned to Viktor.

“Your dog's got quite the bite, Moravec.” His eyes settled on you again, watching you up and down until they returned to yours. “Where did you get one of those?”

You breathed heavily, the annoyance of his remarks demeaning you to a supposedly docile and pliable being making your blood boil.

“Turns out she has a mouth and proper aligned thoughts that you could not fathom reaching, Tyler.” Pointed Viktor, coming to sit in his respective place.

The blond watched you, not letting go of your eyes for a moment as he took a step back and took his place in your chair. “How noisy insects are this time of year.”

And he was proud, of his insolence, of his overflowing egotism, which he displayed like the most expensive and chic jacket he owned in his priceless wardrobe.

“Tyler,” you began, inhaling as you tried to calm yourself, “‘piss off.’”

“Such a soft language.” He sneered, lounging in your chair as if he'd ordered its manufacture himself. Who knows, maybe all the academy's furniture rested on his family's finances. “Do they all speak like that in Zaun?”

“Why ? Wanna go visit ?” You inquired, crossing your arms over your chest. “I wonder what'll get taken first, your pretty blonde locks, or your tongue.”

You played on his unfamiliarity with the city, his prejudices ingrained in his mind, unfolding a terrain of fictitious threats that could be very useful to you.

It had its effect. For a slight moment, you noticed the concern in his eyes, a very silent ‘... is that true?’ that didn't cross the boundary between his mind and lips.

“My patron came to me.” He confessed, looking away as if ignoring you. “Seems like your detention ran a bit short, didn't it?”

You heard Viktor chuckle, but didn't even turn around. “It's just like you said, Miss.” he remarked, leaning forward on the table. “Looks like he is obsessed with us."

“You're not worth a thought.” Tyler spat, obviously insulted by Viktor's remark. He turned to you, grabbing one of your pencils to play with like it was his. “Didn't know you had your own patron, though.”

“Let me guess.” You sighed, placing your weight on one of your hips as you stood. “Your little clever mind aligned two dots and thought that Zaun and Patron together was an impossible combination of words here in the Academy.”

He was amused, but obviously annoyed. You must have touched a reality in his reasoning that he didn't like you to know.

“This one was a second thought.” He admitted all the same. “The first was,” he leaned in slightly, “how the hell does a girl as irascible as you can manage to pull any social strings to get yourself a patron?”

You giggled, he was trying to push your buttons. Perhaps he was simply a masochist, you considered, perhaps he had a pronounced desire for humiliation. Or perhaps he was just profoundly stupid.

“Funny, I thought the same thing about you when I met you.” You offered him a smile that possessed no warmth. “But I guess walking around with a golden spoon in your mouth and shitting in silk sheets during your childhood up until now must have its advantages. Right, Hoskel ?"

Tyler frowned, hemming his lower lip in anger. His eyes shifted from yours to Viktor's. “She truly is-”

But you cut him off, placing both hands on the table and leaning towards him. “She is in front of you. And she,” your voice darkened, ”can add some new marks on your face to match the blue of your eyes.”

Tyler tensed, the seriousness in your stare convincing him for a moment that your threats weren't empty words, but promises that would come true if necessary.

He let out a nervous laugh, nodding as if you'd just given him a most satisfying demonstration. He was probably thinking, right then and there, that he was safe. That on the floor of the Academy, you wouldn't repeat the violent acts that had earned you an hour's detention.

“You, are a tough one, my friend.” he laughed. “You still have the essence of your hometown so far, you as well as he.” He turned to Viktor. “Paint stripes on a toad, it'll never make it a tiger.

Your blood ran hot, the sentence like an iron that had just burned your skin raw. You gripped his tie, pulling so hard that Tyler nearly stumbled and strangled on it as you pulled him towards your face, your face twisted with hatred. 

His eyes were filled with a new fear as you rumbled, your voice low. “Say that again, and I'll fucking kill you.”

His chest bulged and sagged rapidly as his shoulders were up to his ears in fear, stressing as your knuckles turned white under the tight grip you had on his tie.

He swallowed, staying that way until, in the blink of an eye, his gaze landed on your lips. 

The simple act brought you back to the reality of your proximity, of your two faces so close together that anyone could have considered this something intimate. You let go of his tie as if it carried an infection, as if it had suddenly become so hot that you had to let go of it at all costs. You frowned, stepping back, watching Tyler as he breathed just as heavily.

The great doors of the library opened, and the tiny silhouette of Heimerdinger poked his pink nose into the room. This was enough for you to put aside the previous event, same for Viktor and Tyler who both turned to the professor in surprise.

You eyes widened, straightening up as he strode contentedly towards the center of the room. What was Heimerdinger doing here?

It was unusual to find teachers in the library, and obviously all the students around you seemed just as confused about the situation. He trotted on, making his way to the very center of the room under the curious gazes of students.

“Young folks,” he called, “I have an announcement to make. Please gather around me, so that I don't have to see you all one by one in the immensity of this room."

The students exchanged surprised glances, approaching him. You looked at Viktor, who was frowning. He stood up, you approached Heimerdinger. When a small arc had formed around the professor, he cleared his throat.

“ I would have liked to have waited until our next class to tell you,” he admitted, “but with the news just in and the weekend coming up, I thought it wiser to tell you as soon as possible.”

Everyone was hanging on his every word.

“You see, we've been communicating for some time, the Academy members and myself, with The Great Demacia University.”

Murmurs began to rise in the tiny group of students, whispers about the white region running through the air.

“And we have concluded, after many very promising exchanges, that a few classes from the Piltover Academy will have the privilege of traveling to Demacia as part of a school trip.”

Surprise filled the room. A school trip? 

"The Academy and I,” continued Heimerdinger as he walked hands behind his back, the two elements of his sentence simply inseparable, ”consider it a real cultural benefit to be able to organize such a program to link our two schools. The trip will therefore take place in a month and a half's time.”

Some of the students laughed, the joy of the news filling them. The idea of a school trip puzzled you. You'd never left Piltover or Zaun. You'd always clung on to those two towns, and upsetting that perspective was something you hadn't quite figured out yet. But it would undoubtedly be a good way of discovering new horizons, of not having to confine yourself to the same landscape of two cities you didn't like for different reasons. 

However, your thoughts paused for a moment, as you sensed that Heimerdinger hadn't finished with his announcement. 

“Yes, I know.” He chirped. “The excitement of a new journey is not a small thing in young souls. However, an event such as this deserves an organizational rearrangement.”

And that's where things got complicated.

“First of all, your duet presentations that were due in two weeks' time have now been determined by myself into an overall assignment for your year.”

The majority of students rejoiced, but your heart fell into your stomach. An assignment, spread out over the whole year, that you were to do with none other than Viktor as your sole partner in this work?

You exchanged a glance with him, the latter seeming no more affected than that, neither hot nor cold.

“And...” The professor resumed. “The planning of this event alone will eat up a good two weeks of this year. Consequently,” silence fell, everyone waiting for the end of his sentence, "the exams in each subject for this semester have been brought closer together, and will therefore take place in two weeks’ time.”

Your lips parted, as if the apocalypse had just been added to your diary. 

Two weeks. You had two weeks to study everything. Two weeks to get to know everything. 

Two weeks to overtake Viktor and regain your place at the top of the ranking.

✦﹒ previous chapter

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[luxxid]

"why do you love me?"

characters : ayato, albedo, al haitham, kazuha, tartaglia, tighnari, venti, scaramouche, heizou.

warnings: tooth rotting, cotton candy fluff, gn!reader, kissing, teasing, reader being a bit too curious.

☆ ayato who gently smiles, his eyes avert to your orbs, holding intense gaze withing the depths of your pupils. "well darling, your the only one who made me feel a certain way, your the only one who showered me with the riches of love and the true meanings of life." his soft curve still drawn onto his youthful face. his hand reaches out, a gesture of warmth and comfort. he holds your warm hands in his, and you feel the love and passion between the both of you. he leers and speaks once more, "i'm glad i found you." his words linger in the air as if they were a sweet melody, and you can feel the intensity of his emotion seep into the depths of your soul. he looks deeply into your eyes and you can feel the warmth of his love reaching out to you and protecting you in his arms. so this is what true love felt like.

☆ albedo who looked up from his notes, his face showed no trace of doubt on why you were asking this question, but his mind was in question. he set the feather dipped in ink down on a piece of paper. he looked up and met your gaze, a thousand questions in his eyes. he opened his mouth to ask but no sound came out, just a faint exhale. he glanced away, his brow furrowed in thought. "what can i say? your like a white rose in a bundle of red roses." he stated, he was unsure on what to say. he paused, his eyes searching for understanding. "it's like you stand out from others," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. he cleared his throat and shifted back to his notes, a silent understanding between the two of you. his heart was thumping. oh god he loved you so much.

☆ al haitham furrows his eyebrows in response to your question. confusion runs wildly in his green spheres. "your more bearable than kaveh and anyone i've met." he responded calmly before diverting his gaze into the book he held. you were taken aback by his response, not expecting that answer from him. he seemed to sense your surprise and managed a small smile before he looked away again. you found yourself smiling in response as you realized he wasn't as bad as you thought he was. his finger tracing on lines of the pages, ocassionaly shifting his concentrated gaze to you.

☆ kazuha who gently takes your hand in his, his other hand brushing a strand of your hair to the side, "it's simple dear, i love you more than others." he speaks out like the wind, his words loitering in the air, a crimson hue powdered your cheeks, he emitted a gentle chuckle in return to your bashful form. he really loved you. really. a soft kiss was pressed onto the crook of your neck while he squeezed your hand, transporting pure love to you. his voice resonated with sincerity, pouring out love as sincere as it was deep, letting you know that his love was something one of a kind, something that would never be replaced.

☆ ajax feels as if he had stopped breathing. why would you ask him such a question? "i love you because..." he muttered anxiously, unable to end his statement. a warm hand folded against his cold ones, a forced smile returned to his spry face. "i don't know how to explain it love. did i ever tell you that true love can't be explained unless you actually experience it? it's like that." he stammered, his heart racing faster than light. only you could make him feel like this, only you. he felt his heart flutter as the realization of what true love meant sunk in, and he knew that only with you could he truly feel this way.

☆ tighnari stops in his tracks. the forest ranger was surprised by the numerous amount of questions you had up your sleeve. he turns around to meet your hypnotizing orbs. "i don't think now is the time to be asking such foolish questions y/n." he states without concern. yet, something in his guts were pulling him to give you a proper reply. he sighs, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "you taught me how to use a spade correctly, that's one reason maybe. his mind wanders off to collect words to reply your oh-so-curious question. "i love how you keep me entertained during forest ranges, just like how you did now." you blink once, twice, thrice. he slowly turns away, a small smile playing on his lips. you watch as he slowly walks away, each step growing further away from you. you really loved him, so did he.

☆ venti smirks like a madman, his soft giggles were soothing to say the least. "i love it when you lend me mora to buy wine!" he obviated loudly, "venti you still owe me 400 mora from last week-" your words were cut off by the bard himself. "uh-uh we don't talk about that windblume." a large grin present on his face. archons, he was so childish. "but i also love it when you listen to my lyre" you sighed, shaking your head. "venti, you really need to be more responsible." he chuckled, taking a step closer. "but I'm so much more fun when I'm not!" he winked, his smile widening. mhm, he was never meant to change.

☆ scaramouche appears agitated with your question, his purple optics staring daggers into yours. "i only love you because your the only one i can handle-!" he blurted out, his face was covered in a pink palette. "i don't love you because i have to," he added, the intensity of his gaze increasing, "i love you because i want to." his tone softened as he finished his statement, the intensity of his gaze fading away. he meant it, of that you were sure. his expression was sincere, he wasn't just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. a small smile tugged across his lips, of course he wouldn't allow you to know his soft facade that only appears for you.

☆ heizou smirks menacingly, almost as if he was amused by your question. "you've been a bit too influenced by me, hm? he jived, his slender fingers petted a branch of your hair, "well.. i love you because you're the only one who can understand me, even when i don't understand myself. you challenge me, never letting me remain the same and you make me feel stagnate." he spoke like a breeze flowing abundantly. his breath washed over you. "and that's why I love you," he concluded, a determined glint in his eye. "oh and i also love you for this," he added before grabbing your face towards his before moulding his warm lips against yours. oh well, seems like he's got his way.

[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?" 

[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—

[instarsandcrime]

Big Changes, Small Comforts

Hey so uh. I believe I haven't done care-taking yet and I hope this fixes that? I'm not well-versed in writing it, so I might as well give it a shot! I tried to make this as fluffy and silly as possible between Lu/ci/fer and Li/li/th, but uh. I could not imagine Lu/ci/fer being sick without being worse at handling emotions than Char/lie. So there will be much emotional hurt/comfort regarding Lu/ci/fer freaking out about his body and his first full demon transformation-- mixed with a few headcanons that come with being sick!

Enjoy!

---

Though it had only existed a month or two, The Morningstar castle was rarely silent. The hurried bustling of staff, the swirling melody of a fiddle, the scratching of ink-dipped feathers on parchment-- all of it traveling down the carpeted hallways. Despite the rulers' still-fresh Fall, life was abundant in every crack and crevice. Which made the empty silence and cold darkness no more concerning than it had the past few days. Still, Lilith kept her head held high as she crossed the west wing– and closed the gap where her fiancé waited.

"Lucifer? Are you awake? The staff prepared tea for you." 

"Occupied!" An unsteady voice called back. "J-just give me a moment and I'll be right with...wi-with...ISCHH'hhiew!"

A flash of light burst through the cracks in the bedroom doors, and a pang of worry guided Lilith's hand regardless. Pausing at the threshold to take in the sight before her.

Lucifer, the Demon King, was tangled in his own nightshirt. Limp on the floor like a discarded ragdoll, a mess of claws, horns, and wings. The struggling stopped the moment the hinges creaked, freezing like a cat caught in a jar of cream. And Lilith tried very, very, very hard not to laugh. Her fiancé should be proud.

"Well, I see you've been busy in my absence." She started, setting the silver breakfast tray on the dresser, porcelain tea set rattling as it went. 

"...Yes." From under his pajamas a faint glow lined the edges of fleece fabric, embarrassment overtaking fever as Lucifer forced his demonic limbs to retract-- to no avail.

"And I suppose," Lilith continued, bending down to meet his level. "I shall take a guess on what happened."

"Please don't."

"Let's see." Lithe fingers reached to unbutton her patient’s nightshirt. "I was gone for oh, let's say, two hours."

"Two and-- snfff! two and a half, actually."

"And you were concerned at my absence because I said I would be gone for one."

"That's still an hour over!"

"So your first thought was to help me with whatever I needed despite the fact that, for the moment, you've been given strict orders to stay in bed. You waffled over the idea for an unsettlingly short amount of time before your overheated brain decided that this was the best idea ever, actually, and you are very smart and good at resting."

"But-- but Lily dear, you’re recovering too! I couldn't just--"

"Then you looked down at yourself and said 'oh, golly gee, I'm a mess! I couldn't possibly dare to go out in nightwear!" Through her mock wailing, Lilith dramatically threw a hand to her forehead, "Why, whatever would their servants think! Lucifer Morningstar, leaving his Royal Bedchambers while appearing even slightly out of sorts! And with a cold, no less!"

"Liliiiith." Lucifer threw his head back with a whine and a sniffle.

"So instead of using magic to change clothes-- because fainting from a mere flick of the wrist isn't exactly a good look for you either-- you chose the boring route. Which, of course, you can’t handle at the moment  because you're too ill to dress yourself. And since you're getting used to your new body, your horns and wings popped out as an unfortunate side effect of your cold."

Final buttons undone and redone, she shot her fiancé an amused grin. "Well, darling? Was I correct?"

Lucifer pouted– flinching when Lilith raised the back of a hand to his forehead. She was sure that, if she were still human, the touch would have melted a few fingers off. She studied for any sign of improvement– not much better than before she left. His eyes were misty and glazed over with fever, fluttering closed as he leaned forward to rest against her cool skin. His rosy cheeks were dusted by a blush that flickered like firelight. His nose was an angry shade of gold, slightly swollen from his constant rubbing and blowing.

Face suddenly twisting, Lucifer pulled back to frantically summon something– stopping himself before he could dare to try. Lilith's mirth was quickly pushed aside, recognizing the all-too-familar flick of the wrist.

"T-tissues…!" He gasped out, grabbing blindly at the air. Pushing herself upright, Lilith snatched a cluster from the nightstand to press into desperate claws.

"Th-thaaahhHHHIT'SCHHH!" Flames licked between his fangs, crackling with every uncontrollable outburst. "IT'SCHHHH'hiew! IT'CHH'hiew! IT'CHHHH'HIEW! Oh-- IT'SCHHHHEW! oh st-stars, I-- IT'SCHHHHH'HIEW! I cahhh-cad't-- HAT'SCHHHIEW! cad't br-breahhhhthe…! hahhhhhHH-! AT'CHHH'HIEW! hhhHHH-"

Breath snagging, he grabbed the whole box before he could spiral into another fit, letting loose blow after heavy blow to rid himself of the stubborn itch. Wincing when each cluster shredded or burned. But with one last airy sniffle– surrounded by small piles of tissues– the fit slowed to a stop. Not without some protest as the ailing demon groaned miserably into yet another ruined bundle. “Ughhh...I was trying to say thank you. Guess that was a bust. Snff!” 

“It’s alright.” A soft, fluffy throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and all weariness of the fit melted to the touch. Pressing against Lilith’s nape like a moth to a flame as she scooped him up, nose still buried in a fistful of tissues to stall the streaming. “You’re ill, beloved. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

"Of course not." Lucifer said confidently-- before paling in alarm, "But. But what if there is? Just by being in your arms right now I could be leaking some-- snfff! some curse or spell that can hurt you, or worse! What if–! …I-if...It'shhh'hiu!"

A tired, squeaky sneeze forced his tail to grow, popping out from beneath the throw. Whipping to and fro as he fretted, the demon king’s last remaining scraps of tissues disintegrated in a puff of smoke. And without any other option as his nose threatened to drip, Lucifer blew heavily into the hem of the blanket. Pulling back with pure disgust when he realized what he'd done. "Oh– Oh gosh, that was embarrassing! Lilith, I-I amb so sorry–"

“Shhhh. Don’t apologize.” His other half purred softly, pushing a lock of hair out of his face to kiss it. Gingerly tucked back in bed, light throw traded for piles of soft wool bedsheets and thick, downy feather pillows. Humiliation vanished as Lilith took a shaking hand and, before it could retract, brought it to her lips to kiss its back. “I'm going to pour us some tea. I will leave your side for only a moment. Do you trust me?”

Lucifer blinked back surprise. “I…of course. Thank you.”

Slowly, he let his other half slip from his fingers and fell back into his hoard of pillows with a weak moan, pulling the covers over his head.

And as she went to discard the soiled blanket and reach for the teapot, Lilith embraced the quiet. It ached deeply, in a way, but she understood. Because not long ago she was her own worst nightmare. A human once cherished by God– now a disfigured, demonic abomination. Sometimes she would pass by a mirror and itch to smash it, disgusted by her reflection. Only seeing a skin that wasn't hers. The feeling still lingers, of course. Biding its time. But now the gaping wound is an occasional ache, a minor inconvenience.

Because when she cursed her horns, Lucifer would admire them as he had so many times before-- a mortal creation that an angel could never dream of. Because she would cry out in pain at nightmares of the Fall, and her partner would kiss her cheeks to wipe away overflowing tears, playing a soft lullaby on his fiddle until she drifted back to sleep. Because, despite his newly grown claws, her fallen angel wrapped every injury with a feather-light touch, whispering soft affections in between.

So she remained patient with no regrets. She accepted the fever that rattled his pride. The fear that came with an uncontrollable body. The shame of Heaven that rotted his resolve.

Because he loved her, and she loved him, Lilith patiently withstood the silence.

For about two seconds.

“Isshhhhh'hiew!” From behind the mattress rustled as Lucifer scrambled for another wad of paper much too thin. Ragged breathing quickening until– “‘Ishhhhh! ‘Ishhh! Ishh’SHHHIEW!” A final, desperate gasp. “Hhhhhiiiihhhh…hih! HET’SCHHHEW!”

A crackle filled the air, then a flash, then a pained whimper. Breakfast quickly abandoned, Lilith spun on her heel to face her ailing partner.

"Lucifer?!" She yelped, "Are you al–...right?"

Her patient's curled outline beneath the covers was larger than before, shimmering with a strange light.

"Yes! Fine! Everything's fine! Fine and– snff! very normal!" Lucifer's voice cracked through false cheerfulness.

“Lucifer, you’re glowing.” Lilith deadpanned.

A pause, “Glowing?” A shudder. “Yes! The glowing! Why would I lie about the glowing? It happens all the time! Glowing!” He laughed nervously between frantic babbling. She simply crossed the room, but the second she grasped the hem to lift it--

"Don't look, please!" He rushed to tug the opening closed.

"Lucifer..." 

"Y-you didn’t see anything right? No, no of course you didn’t! So there’s nothing to worry about!"

"Lucifer."

“We’ll just. Stay like this! Fine and normal and nothing will change and you won’t hate me–”

“Lucifer!” Shoving down her guilt, Lilith ripped away the curtain between them, met with an entirely new sight.

Skin that was once a plain porcelain white had grown iridescent scales that shined like opals, body bathed in holy light. Demonic eyes painted his cheeks like freckles, a deep scarlet to match his original two. Slit pupils like needles, eyes wide in alarm. His six tattered wings had grown to an enormous size, folding in on themselves from the weight alone. Black, bony spikes were jutting from the spine of his tail, just nearly breaking the skin.

A perfect patchwork body of demon and seraphim.

The fallen angel opened his mouth. Stunned. Before giving an embarrassed squeak, wrapping himself in his wings to hide again. The room grew silent, save for small, frustrated sniffles. 

“This is new.” Lucifer finally croaked out.

“I can see that.” Lilith breathed. “I would very much like to look again.”

“What? Why?!”

“Well, if you must know.” Lilith chuckled as she leaned shoulder to shoulder, sinking into large, plush wings. Feeling them echo her movement, leaning into her warmth. “You look…charming.”

“I-I do?” Lucifer lifted a wing, peeking cautiously through the crack.

“Well that's awfully rude. I’ve only seen you for a few seconds. That’s hardly a full viewing.”

“Y-you could be imagining it!”

“Hm. I suppose I may be.” Lilith hummed, “Then let me see it. Let me prove that you are a disgusting shell of your former self. As I have once tried to prove to myself.”

A small silence fell over the bedroom. Then, ever so slowly, the barrier between them finally unfurled. Lucifer was still huddled in a ball of course– arms wrapped around his chest and legs drawn up to his chin, making sure to cover as much as possible.

The reaction was immediate. Lilith gasped. “Gracious, it’s worse than I thought!”

And in return, the Sin of Pride immediately crafted a hand mirror from his new, untapped well of magic to examine himself, looking every which way at every which angle. “O-oh no. No no no nononono– which part? Some parts? A-all of it?”

“It’s horrible!” She brought her fingertips to her lips.

“Is it the eyes? The hair? The wings? I-it’s the wings, isn’t it?”

“Your nose is running.” Lilith suddenly hummed, as if she were predicting the weather. Plucking the final tissue from the box by his side.

“...Oh.” Lucifer wasn’t sure if he could blush any brighter, wincing as she dabbed at his sore nose. “I. You’re right. I’m being silly about all this–” he motioned to himself frantically, “--aren’t I? It’s just. I was made to create. To protect. To be a pure, shining beacon for everyone. For God. For you. But I’m none of that now. I-I didn’t want to ask before, but now– well, you know more about illnesses than me.” 

Tattered wings drooped with his shoulders, a mix of fear and shame fighting for control.

“So be honest. Am I. A-am I broken?” He muttered quietly.

At that, Lilith’s heart nearly shattered. Oh. Oh shit, she was doing this all wrong.

“...I apologize, beloved. Truthfully, I don’t see the point of asking me any of this. It’s silly to think I would love you any less than the day we first met just because you grew a few extra body parts.” She cupped his cheeks, tilting his face upwards to give him a soft smile. “But if you need me to confirm what I already know. If you want some honest praise,” His other half set aside the tissue and pulled him closer. “I’m more than happy to help.”

Lucifer waited with bated breath as she pulled him onto her lap, raising his chin to scan him up and down.

“Let’s see. We have…” She pecked his forehead, “Two horns.” then his neck. “Scaly skin.” just above each eyelid, earning a small chuckle. “Eight eyes.” then each knuckle, “Eight claws.” She pulled at his collar to kiss his shoulder blades– delighted at the shudder that followed. “Six well-groomed wings.” She threaded the tail through her fingers, kissing its tip, “A tail with spikes.” Her touch ran down to his thigh, “Two hooves.” And lastly, she turned him back around. Lovesick grin clear on his face, tail wagging gently. Wrapping his legs around her waist, he sheathed his wings around her like a feathery shield.

“And finally…” she kissed the tip of his snake-like nose, “An adorable nose.”

His nostrils flared at the sudden, inevitable itch that spread up to its bridge. He quickly turned away, summoning a fibreglass-woven handkerchief to press to his face. 

“H-heh…! Sorry, my nose is s-suhh…sensihhtive…damn cuhh…! C-cuhh…!” He snapped at the waist, wings fluffing and hellfire spitting with every wrenching outburst. “HUH’ATSHHHH’huh! HAT’SCHHHUH! AT’SCHHHUH! Hahh…hhhHHH-! HAT'SHHHHH’HOO!…Ghh…Snff! Ugh, damb cold.” He rasped out, scowling at the ground between gurgling nose blows, as if the seven rings themselves had interrupted their lovely moment.

“And more powerful fits. Bless you.” Lilith giggled, gently smoothing giant, shimmering feathers back into place.

Lucifer rubbed at his nose and sniffed sharply, wings leaning into the touch. “As long as nothing has changed.”

“Things have changed, dear. We both have.” Lilith decided, carding her fingers through his hair, “For the better, I think.”

“I hope so.”

“Then I’ll just have to know for the both of us. Until you’re ready.”

[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 =)