#smudged ink/chicken scratch

[snickiebear]

for @nosebleedclub's september twenty-first's prompt: healing lamb

[galeorderbride]

Intimacy Prompt: #43!

43: falling asleep with their head in your lap

Thank you sm for the prompt request!!

I like the idea of post game Professor!Gale when he first starts teaching. Maybe full of self doubt over whether he’s a good teacher, feeling frustrated that his pupils aren’t understanding concepts right away (mostly blaming himself). And Tav just comforting him at their home. 

A shortie ft. Gale x tav (uses she/her pronouns but no physical descriptions). Fluffy cuteness, comfort and nothing more 😊 

Rating: T

Count: 1337 

…

Gale was always a man to pour over documents with immense detail, but tonight, he seemed to be studying the same page on repeat. Pen scratching against the paper to the point of tearing, the sound of him mumbling to himself. Gale usually took so much pleasure in hours of research, absorbed in the material, but not this time. He mumbled, perturbed by his own work as he’d scold himself under his breath. 

For the first few hours, Tav left him to his work, knowing he wouldn’t feel better until he completed the task. Until he missed dinner, even when she called for him. No matter how much work he had to do, he’d made a habit of joining Tav at the table. She watched the clock tick, waiting for his steps down the stairs as the plate of chicken and vegetable stew grew colder. She should’ve checked on him already, but ever the people pleaser, she didn’t wish to bother him while in focus. 

Finally, she got up from the table and took his bowl in hand, travelling up the narrow stairwell. If he didn’t come out to eat, she would go to him. 

The wooden door was closed tight, but unlocked. Tav knocked a few times before entering, saying, “Gale, my love, are you alright? Your soup is getting cold. I know my cooking isn’t quite as good as yours, but it can’t be that scary.” 

He replied through the door, voice muffled but obviously exhausted, “Sorry, Tav, would you mind putting it away for me and I can reheat it later? Forgive me, dear, I have more to do than I anticipated.” 

Unsatisfied with his response, Tav sighed and entered his study. His back faced her, seated at his desk by a large window, fresh snow tapping against the glass as the evening turned to night. Candlelight illuminated piles of parchment around him, dotted with ink smudges and overlapping line edits. A mug of green tea sat on the end, untouched and cold. At the centre of it all was Gale, her loving fiance, slumped over the cherrywood surface with his head in his hands. 

Tav approached him, standing behind his chair as she placed the bowl on the desk and brought her hands to his shoulders. Velveteen fabric softened against her touch, lowering herself down to kiss the crane of his neck. The tension in his muscles was palpable, yielding even to the lightest rub. His tired eyes met hers, nothing but tenderness in those dark, chestnut eyes in desperate need of nutrients. 

“Gale, what’s wrong? You look as though you’ve just discovered the darkest secret of Nessus,” Tav asked. 

“Perhaps I’d feel a little better if I did,” he said, voice husky from tiredness. “At least then I’d provide a bit of value somewhere.” 

Tav looked over at his work, deciphering the multiple revisions to see he wasn’t doing research, he was strategizing classroom discussion. Private tutoring sessions, patterns of abbreviations for illusory spells, even planned workshops focusing on specific incantations. All the ideas were scratched out, or little comments written on them like ‘stupid’, ‘no’ and ‘absolutely not’.

“Are you doing lesson plans?” She asked, unable to conceal the confusion in her voice. 

“Failing lesson plans,” he said. “My students aren’t responding well to my current teaching style. They aren’t understanding concepts, their spell performance is mediocre at best, and I can see their eyes glazing over when I give my lectures on the ethics of phantasmal casting.” 

Riveting stuff, truly. His fixations on magical concepts that could get him going for hours if one wasn’t careful. Part of why Tav fell so deeply in love with him, rare to find such passion for subjects. She remembered nights at camp, taking peace in listening to his current fascination at the time. The only solace to such a deadly adventure. But perhaps a bunch of young apprentices weren’t as rose-coloured. 

“Well, you’ve only just begun teaching, love. Maybe you just need to get to know your students a little more, see what they want to get out of the class before you write the next manual on workshopping,” Tav said. 

“Perhaps I’m just not as good a teacher as I thought,” he said, voice lowering into a sombre tone as he sighed, throwing the quill pen across the desk. 

Tav ran her hands from his shoulders up to the nape of his neck, beginning to play with his hair. She gave a cheeky grin,“Last time we talked about students, I recall you thinking it was all their fault for not understanding.” 

He chuckled, “I blame you. Showing me love and humility. Now all I can do is think I’m the problem.” 

“I’ll venture to feed your ego more,” she joked, “Come, let’s take a rest for a moment.” 

Hand-in-hand, Gale followed her to their shared bedroom. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, the scent of balsam and mint enlivening the room from a scented candle on the mantle. Snow fell harder now, forming into a windy current that would surely become a blizzard by bedtime. A perfect environment for calming comfort, as Tav helped Gale remove his shirt, leaving him in nothing but lounge pants. After Tav put her own nightgown on, they crawled into bed. 

Gale rested his head on Tav’s lap, tracing his fingertips across the bare skin of her legs. Meanwhile, her hands ran through his hair again, brushing through the fine strands of beautiful, brown hair speckled with streaks of grey. Tav nestled in the pleasant bliss of hearing his even breath, calming with every stroke across the side of his head. The beat of his heart against her skin, so gloriously alive. There was once a time when he was willing to let that human beat expire, and how far he’d come, now absorbed in her embrace, filled with endless love and compassion. Even if that meant there wasn’t much power. There was no need for it in a caring household like this. 

Little kisses tickled the top of her thighs, mixed with the graze of his beard sending her into a sleepy comfort. She could play with his hair all night if he asked, such a simple, delicate pastime that reminded her of just how much she adored him. 

“Hmm, if you keep doing that, I may just fall asleep, my love,” he said, voice already trailing. His words slowed every time he was fighting sleep, mind always on overdrive but his body couldn’t always keep up. 

“Rest on me, Gale. I don’t mind,” she said, in a gentle whisper. 

He adjusted his position, wrapping his arms around the leg he rested on as if her thigh was a teddy bear. Her other leg crossed over his bare back, their bodies tangled within each other. Tav hummed a light lullaby, her voice like medicine to Gale’s ears as all his stress washed away. All that remained was the sensation of smooth skin, her nurturing voice, and the peace of being enveloped in the embrace of his greatest, most cherished love. 

As she sang, his eyes grew heavy, muscles loosening to the magic of her compassionate hands. That irresistible weightlessness began to overtake him, every thought of self doubt beginning to fade to a tiny smile. The lure of her song was so strong, she might’ve been one of the harpies they encountered back at the Emerald Grove. Their life had changed so much since then. His personal songstress caressing him in their queen sized bed, downy sheets and feather pillows as their shelter rather than tents and rocky ground.  

“Tav…I love you,” he said, lulling slowly into a peaceful sleep. The tapping of snow against the window, the snap of flame, her voice, all sending him into a comforting slumber. 

“I love you Gale Dekarios,” she said, moving a final piece of hair behind his ears before he fell into a deep sleep, making her laugh as he let out a small, adorable snore.

[orchidshow]

Credit| @im4yeons tysm for the divider its sososo pretty!!!  A/N | cheese strings also why does it take so long to get an ao3 account what da fwick also if u read this at like 2am ish I’m editing my fucks ups shhhh it stays between us Wordcount: around 1.3k last time i checked

TW| dr*g use, slut shaming, misogyny 

Chapter 1!

Frat boy! Hasan x Trad goth! reader

Chapter two: Wannabe Sherlock

He was losing himself. Hasan had totalled up two hours trying to remove her smudged lipstick from his lips. 

He tried everything, ranging from scrubbing his face red with a washcloth to his mind spiralling at the memory of her, her platforms glinting in the light, her winged eyes meeting his, long, almost talon-like nails scratching against his neck as she leaned in. As a last resort, an embarrassed and hooded Hasan entered a CVS in the middle of the night.

Hasan gripped the iridescent bottle of makeup remover, standing shyly at the checkout counter as the woman behind the counter stifled a giggle at the sheer embarrassment displayed.

“I would've never expected this is how my night would end,” he huffs, his head tilted towards the woman as she began swiping away at the stain.

“So how'd you end up looking like this?” she asks, pouring more remover onto the cotton pad. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

“No, more like a goth girl kissed me and then fled my car like it was on fire—I mean, one minute we are just talking in my car, and the next she's slammed the door in my face, running into her apartment—not walking, running.” Hasan rambles, shaking his head in confusion. 

She pulls away from him, eyes squinting while checking for any remnants before standing straight. “I think we’re done here—I mean, I can't help you with your yearning thing right now, but the makeup is gone at least,” she explains, handing him a mirror.

Sitting on the hood of his car, Hasan makes a choice—the choice that any lovesick junior would resort to; he starts investigating.

He had become a modern Sherlock, if that Sherlock had an innate skill for beer pong and tailgates. Over the course of two weeks, he found himself asking questions about her—who was she? Where could she be? Why does his throat hitch at the memory of her? 

That's when he saw her—well, not her but one of her friends. Teased red hair, toned inked arms, and handed out flyers. The flyers were varied in colour and shape but there was one thing.

One thing had stayed consistent. Her face. She looked enigmatic. Shouting into a megaphone as her body as bolts of electricity surrounded her body. 

"Can I help you?” She deadpans, her hand already stretching out to Hasan, eager to shove a flyer into him. His finger taps against her printed face as he he stammers, almost feverish over his discovery.

“Her—yes, do you know her?” He asks, his voice sounding almost desperate. 

Her friend smirks, almost knowingly, “Y/N? She's in our band. We will play tonight. If you want to see her, you should come." She explains, politely jabbing the flyer into Hasan’s hand.

That night Hasan spent his time before the show swallowed in a pile of his own clothes. Button ups? Too formal. Sneakers? Too casual. His anxiety is made worse by the alarm he set, giving him an hour before the show started. He needed to find something—something that made him look cool, something that made him look like he didn't order chicken nuggets at a restaurant, something unique.

"Bro, you look like you deal ayahuasca; what the fuck have you got on?“ a voice said from the doorway. Hasan turned to see his friend Zach, smirking at his situation. “Are you trying out a new look before your little gig thing you're doing?”

Hasan huffed, “I'm not doing it, okay? I'm just going to support a friend.” By the time Hasan had found a somewhat respectable outfit, a gaggle of his fraternity brothers had gathered around his room. Most were relaxed, sprawled against the floor or the bed, fingers tracing the cotton sheets. 

Derek stood against the door frame upright.

“Is this the other bitch you've been talking about?” He asks, presenting a shit-eating grin. "Dude, trust me, girls like that need a rabies shot or something—seriously, I've been there before; what's best is to treat her like a fuck and chuck,” he explains casually, staring at Hasan before being met with a book thrown against his face.

“Don't talk about her like that. At least I'm going somewhere tonight, and I'm not sitting here with my dick in my hand, unlike you,” he sighs, pushing past Derrick as he had to the door, leaving to a cacophony of poorly sung panic at the disco songs in his direction.

When he found himself at the bar, he was mesmerised. The energy erupted around him, and the feedback from the mic felt so raw—so real. She stood there in the middle of it all, the crowd's eyes bore into her with amazement as she sang. Her voice was hoarse and jagged in a way that was beautiful and its own. How her body swayed against the beat of the drums, thick velvet skirt following her hips at every move. Hasan found himself so immersed he hadn't raised the set; the crowd had burst into cheers as her bandmates began coming off stage and dispersing while she took a seat at the bar.

“You're here,” Hasan states, words caught in his throat as she turned around. She was divine. Her hair was high, covered in a thin glaze of sweat; the violet lights overhead made her outfit shine; silver buttons twinkled in the low light. 

“You're the last person I expected to see here." She laughs, a drawl of amusement in her voice. Her eyes fixed on how closed in he looked—for such a broad man, he almost halved in size the way he shrunk into himself talking to her.

“You didn't tell me you were in a band.”

“You never asked.” She replies, a wide smile growing across her face.

They spent the next hours talking. Time drifted so freely that the hours faded into minutes, which faded into seconds. Hasan had hastily given her his number, poorly written and barely legible across the stained bar napkin he bought her a drink off of. By the end of the night, Hasan had driven her home again; only she had accepted warmer than the weeks before.

Somehow it felt as if time hadn't moved. Here they were, stuck in the same car, outside her apartment building, but something felt different; the air felt less cold, as if something had opened between the pair. Maybe it was the weed.

They sat in the backseat of his car, whispering to each other as if they weren’t alone, giggling quietly. Hasan’s features were hard to discern through the smoke-filled car. His tousled hair looked almost grey through the smoke, and his tanned arm looked almost pale as it rested against the back of her shoulder.

Her eyes hooded, blinking slowly as she grabs his arm and whispers, “I want to try something. Is that okay?” And before he could stop nodding, she leans in gently, closing the gap between the pair as she blows the smoke into his mouth, her eyes now alight with mischief. Her fingers trail against his chest, fingers feeling the rapid pounding of his heart as she pulls away from his lips. 

As they leave, the autumn chill sobers the pair as they make their way to her apartment. It's painfully quiet as she reaches her apartment. The only sound that erupts is the shifting of clothes as they walk, the gentle clink of her jewellery against her skin, and the jingle of her keys as she opens the door. As the door opens widely, Hasan gawks in silence.

It's pink. Like nauseatingly pink. Pepto-bismol walls surrounded a heart-shaped loveseat, adorned with silky throw pillows and stuffed animals. Hasan’s eyes darted between the woman and the room before snorting loudly.

"Har-dee-Har, laugh it up; my roommate is an interior designer; I had no say in this,” she defends lightheartedly. She takes a tentative step towards Hasan. “I’m sorry about that night—I was—I don't know what I was doing—I should have stayed,” she muses, her eyes staring into Hasans intimately. “I mean, if you want, we could maybe have a nightcap? Watch a movie?” she offers gently, pushing the door wider, exposing more of her pastel kingdom.

He gulps heavily, brushing his clammy palms against his jeans discreetly. “I-I cant midterms, y’know,” he blurts out apologetically, slightly stepping back from the door.

“Next time then?”

“Next time”

[h0rr0rsaxo]

𑁍 A LETTER FROM MAMMON 𑁍

As you approach the trash bin in your room, a glint of curiosity sparks within you. You notice a crumpled piece of paper lying haphazardly on the ground, just beside the trash. It seems as though someone had hurriedly tried to discard it, but fate had different plans for you. With a mix of intrigue and caution, you reach down and pick up the crumpled letter, its edges slightly torn and ink smudged.

Unfolding the paper, you find yourself staring at a chaotic jumble of words scrawled in an almost illegible chicken-scratch handwriting. The initial impression is that of a rushed note, scribbled in haste. The ink has bled through the thin paper, creating darkened smudges that obscure some of the words. The note read —

Hmph! Don't go around thinkin' that I, Mammon, would waste my precious time penning some cheesy love letter! But, uh, I guess if you really want one, I guess I could, uh, try... or whatever. Just remember, this ain't no big deal! Got it?

You know, you're not completely useless. I mean, you've got some decent qualities... I guess. Your eyes are pretty, they're not completely hideous. They're like... okay, I guess. Don't let it get to your head, though! It's not like I'm saying they're amazing or anything. Definitely not. Nope. Uh-uh.

And, uh, your hair smells good, I guess it's... tolerable. It's not as messy as it could be, I suppose. I mean, I've seen worse. But, hey, don't let it go to your head, got it? It's not like I'm saying your hair is nice or anything. It's just, you know, fine. Just fine.

Oh, and your laugh, it's... well, I guess it's kinda cute okay. But don't let it go to your head! It's not like it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside or anything. Definitely not! I'm just stating a fact. A small, insignificant fact, that's all.

And, uh, your, uh, personality... I guess it's not the worst. I mean, you're not completely annoying. Sometimes. Occasionally. But don't think I'm saying I actually like you or anything! It's just... tolerable. Barely.

So, uh, I guess what I'm trying to say is... you're not the absolute worst. I mean, I've seen worse, you know? But don't think for a second that this means I actually care about you or anything! I'm just stating the obvious, that's all. So, uh, yeah. That's it, I guess.

Your first,

Mammon

[ww2yaoi]

joe probably has atrocious handwriting… web can barely even read it like joe dgaf he never learned proper penmanship who the hell cares. like web’s isn’t good either (we see that he’s left handed in the show so he probably struggles with smudging his pencil and ink) but it’s legible at least. but joe’s is total chicken scratch like the shit you see on a prescription from your doctor. if joe wrote web letters he would barely be able to read them anyway

[leftnotright]

PROOF APOLLO WEARS HAWAIIAN SHIRTS

“The Tri-Ni-Sette machine is failing. The world will die.” “We can’t do anything going forward. Going backwards, however, is another matter.” Ryohei had his mission: To go back. To before the most recent Arcobaleno Curse, to before the slaughter of the Simone. To before the Tri-Ni-Sette System finally gave out. Ryohei was used to loss, in the ring and in life. But this time, he promises, he’ll win. Reborn had his mission: Get in this man’s pants, or die trying. After all, Reborn was nothing if not an Icarus. (Or: The ‘size matters’ fic)

Parings: Reborn/Sasagawa Ryohei

Characters: Reborn (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Ten Years Later Sasagawa Ryouhei, Sasagawa Ryouhei, Vindice (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Arcobaleno (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Checker Face | Kawahira

Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ryouhei Time Travels

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

CHAPTER 10: DO YOU GOT ROOM FOR ONE MORE TROUBLED SOUL

The Vindice was the culmination of parts. The chewed-up, spat out parts of what remained of the Best the world had to offer. The Giants of their time, whose shoulders now act as the stairs of success, steep and treacherous. In the same manner, the Vindice was the culmination of broken, dazzling minds. 

Bermuda Von Vichtenstein was no stranger to eccentrics, in a past life he had dabbled his fair share, and his kin were cut from the same cloth. 

But these men. These men that Ryohei Sasagawa had dragged in, sopping with an untimely downpour, were unbearable.

Verde, the supposed hidden trump card, all but crawled over the metal skeletons, getting shoe-marks on the fresh weld and jostling the delicate wiring. On his knees, Verde turned components around and upside down, inspecting everything like some sort of uncouth child would a shiny seashell. Only it was the very fragile, very important pieces of the Machine.

Water splashed Bermuda’s cheek and he bristled. 

Reborn, the pest, slicked his wet hair back from his face with all the pomp and flamboyance of a preening peacock. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over his arm, exposing his dress shirt that had turned tastefully transparent. He was dripping water on the floor. He hadn’t even wiped his sandy shoes.

Ryohei Sasagawa, the instigator, grinned at the two things he had brought upon Bermuda, joyous in his ‘progress’.

“Do you know where we have more copper solder?”

“Storage 3.”

“Ah, good. I’m so glad we’re labelling the rooms now.”

“Truly, it makes life so much simpler.”

Bermuda didn’t react.

Instead, Bermuda gritted his teeth against the loud clapping that came from Verde as he sat upon the floor, his glasses still rain-dotted and shoes crunchy with gravel and sand.

“Give me my design!” He called out, fisting a pen out of his pocket as his socks squelched. “Blueprints! Notes, surely you have them, I would never create something without the relevant calculations.”

“You’ll have to ask their code breakers, Verde. It seems even the Vindice cannot distinguish your chicken scratch,” Reborn chimed idly, then he stopped, blinked, and looked at his watch. “Ah, right on time. Pardon me, dear Ryohei, I hate to leave you in such lacking company, but I’ve something to pick up.” 

“Sure! Oh, dude, while you’re up there, could you swing by nonna Hellena’s shop? She’s got that dinner I ordered waiting for us,” Ryohei said, and rubbed his hands together eagerly. 

“Will do,” Reborn inclined his head before he disappeared through a swirling mass, courtesy of a Vindice ghoul. 

Ryohei bounced on his feet as he watched Verde all but wrestle a stack of notebooks and folded papers from inside a well-stuffed folder. The Vindice codebreakers floated around him, tattered bandages stained with ink, spectacles and monicals smudged and the frames rusty.

Verde, ghastly pale, looked right at home as he adjusted his glasses and scratched the stubble on his chin. He leant the notebook up against that massive metal base and spread out the folded blueprints. Eyes, quick as lightning and just as bright, flitted across between crooked penmanship and the strict ruled lines of diagrams, ratios exact, footnotes copious. 

Ryohei looked utterly elated as Verde called for paper, and — to Ryohei’s delight, and Jaeger's gripe — began making more notes in that same, abhorrent handwriting. 

“Astonishing,” said a ghoul that loomed over Verde’s shoulder, spectacles glinted red from the fresh solder burnt overhead. “Who taught you to write?”

“No one. I taught myself,” Verde uttered, and started a new page.

“Shame. I would’ve much liked to have them shot.”

Ryohei grinned.

☀

For three days, Verde didn’t leave that amphitheatre of metal skeletons and solder for anything short of a bathroom break. He poured over those documents, reverse engineering his own future-thought to find exactly what the Vindice were missing. 

Because that was their issue. There was something missing. 

The composition and procedure for the glass walls of the Machine. It wasn’t illegible, or convoluted, or coded— it was missing.

…Or, more specifically: Excluded. 

Verde stared, cross-legged on the uneven stone floor of the amphitheatre. In front of him, the pages were spread out in an array. He blinked and moved a page, unfurled another large sheet with the Machine drawn in bright white ink. 

Still, he found no indication of a method, or even an allusion. He was baffled. Verde would never forget to include something so important. He had seen the original package, every paper and file crammed into the small, beige bundle. He, and whoever he had worked with, had been adroit in ensuring every necessary detail fit in place. 

Verde frowned. 

The air in the amphitheatre was moist, perpetually chilled-wet, the walls sparkled with condensation. Verde was pretty sure his pants were damp, his shirt had long become that specific kind of uncomfortable that came from the lack of dedicated moisture sensors.

It was night, then. It got colder in the Vindice caves when the sun went down. 

He was close, Verde could feel it. It was like lightning in his lungs, the smell of ozone on his hands. In a few days, maybe a few hours, Verde would make a breakthrough.

A vibration in his pocket. 

Instantly, Verde was irked. That livewire in his veins died to a low buzz. His focus was broken. This would add another hour to his discovery.

His pocket vibrated again and, with no less than great reluctance, Verde put his future-notebook down. Verde grimaced as he read the notification that blipped across his PDA.

☀

Deep within the catacombs of the Vindice’s Simone Base, the quarters of the only Suns for miles glowed with warmth and the soft scent of cardamom. 

Reborn reclined comfortable across his pile of plush pillows, silken pyjama shirt unbuttoned just right and just a touch too tight around the chest. A tasteful flash of the edge of a nipple. The waist of his pants rode low, teasing his Adonis belt and the strap of Calvin Klein. 

Ryohei grinned as he watered the potted tree in the corner of their quarters, the UV lamp that hung overtop almost eye-searing when compared to the soft, amber bulbs Reborn had selected for the space. The nonna from Ryohei’s favourite restaurant had given the small tree to them as a ‘housewarming’ present, some kind of Simone-style magnolia that boasted red-green-orange leaves all at once. 

“Wow! Look, there’s a bud! It’s gonna flower to the extreme!” Ryohei cheered and poured more seaweed fertiliser into the soil. 

Reborn drummed his fingers on his knee, impatient. Snubbed.

Because Ryohei wasn’t talking to Reborn. No, not this time. Ryohei had seemed to be utterly rapt with another man recently, someone else in his heart and in his hands—

Leon the Chameleon reached out from Ryohei’s arm to gently grab a green-gold leaf in his three-fingered foot, investigative. Then, Leon slowly plodded his way to bask beneath the UV bulb.

“Look at you go, little dude! Self-care!” Ryohei boomed, gassing Leon up as he sat there, tail curled in content.

Under the pile of pillows, Reborn’s pager vibrated once. Reborn stopped drumming.

He frowned as he read the message, thumb running across the black, metal shell. Reborn looked over to Ryohei who bustled about the room, never one to settle easy even so late at night.

Ryohei rinsed out the watering can and set it aside before he proceeded to wipe down every surface to an inch of its life, getting between nooks and crannies for dirt that wasn’t there. He paced, steps light and springy. Then Ryohei dropped to the floor and started counting as he alternated between push-ups and sit-ups.

Reborn rested his cheek on his fist and watched. Ryohei had been restless since Verde had arrived. Ryohei wanted progress and Verde was taking his sweet time down in the dome. 

The pager beeped again. Reborn was tempted to let the damned thing slip between the bed and the wall. 

“Who’s trying to call you? Is it important? You haven’t taken any jobs in a while, is that what it’s about?” Ryohei asked, peering over the edge of the bed.

Reborn blinked at him. Ryohei disappeared, then he popped up again, then dipped, then returned. Still doing push-ups. Still burning with energy. 

Reborn huffed affectionately and rolled onto his belly, a throw pillow hugged to his chest in a way that squished his pectorals into cleavage. 

Ryohei’s eyes flicked; up, down, up. Then he disappeared again.

Reborn grinned.

“I take on jobs exactly when I wish to, my dear Ryohei,” he said slowly, and Ryohei smiled when he came back up as if to say ‘of course’. “But it does seem like something has come up. Otherwise, I doubt I’d be called upon.”

“Is it something cool?”

“Unlikely. At most, it’ll be mildly interesting. Nothing like I get from you, my Ryohei.”

Ryohei snorted, “Not everyone has a Machine to save the world! Give ‘em a chance, Reborn!”

Reborn hummed, “I suppose. And not everyone is from the future.”

Ryohei didn’t pause, biceps working to take his weight, shoulders flexed, back muscles taut. His posture was perfect, flat enough to eat a meal off of.

“Ah, I guess you wanna talk about that now, huh?” Ryohei laughed awkwardly. “I said I was sorry! I forgot!”

“And then you forgot for three days more,” Reborn all but purred, and Ryohei pouted. 

“We got busy.”

“Oh yes, so busy. Running around, showing Leon the whole of Simone Island.”

Ryohei gave a loud whine and flopped on his back. Reborn let out a laugh and peered down at the man below, splayed out with arms wide, warm skin flushed with the workout. Underneath him, Reborn could see the cold tiles mist, the heat of Ryohei’s skin leaving a shadow in his wake. 

“So, Ryohei Sasagawa. Who were you, before you were mine?” 

Ryohei stared up at Reborn, at the way the amber lights played on the edge of pale, silken pyjamas. Ryohei knew those pyjamas were smooth against skin, cool to the touch until early in the morning, just at dawn, then that silk had taken on the heat of two Suns under the same sheets.

“Well,” Ryohei uttered, pondering on where to begin. “I was born in this town called Namimori. My dad ran a gym, my mum worked for the local newspaper. I have a sister— but you knew that.”

“What is her name?” Reborn asked, his cheek rested on his arm.

“Kyoko! She’s the sweetest thing, you’d like her!”

Would like her. Does like her. Will like her. 

“I was the captain of my boxing club in middle and high school. Did a few semesters of university and then dropped out, I’m just not built for studying,” Ryohei continued, trampling that panging thought. “But that was fine! Boss was too scared to go to Italy alone anyway, no way was I leaving my little bro stranded!”

Reborn’s fingers played with the decorative embroidery stitch of their sheets, soft threat against his fingertips. Ryohei watches his fingers move as he talks, eyes bright with an edge as soft as the thread as he reminisces. He’s eager, he’s jovial. Everything he’s kept bottled up pouring forth.

But still, no names. So careful, his Ryohei. Like a hammer in the hands of a stonemason.

“How old were you when you joined your Family?” Reborn asked, hearing ‘middle school’ so many times. 

“Fifteen! There was this big inheritance issue between Boss and his adopted cousin and, wow, they nearly levelled the school! Had a bunch of Mists around to hide everything.” Ryohei laughed, his belly jumping. “My fight— I was in this big cage. Real cool set-up with a bunch of really bright, hot lights, I couldn’t see! So I went and shattered them using the salt crystals from my sweat!”

Reborn blinked, and let his eyes drift to the dip in Ryohei’s clavicle. The UV light in the corner glowed a soft white light which pressed against Ryohei’s skin. Then his eyes snapped back to Ryohei’s face, the quiet prolonged. 

Ryohei laid there, arms spread like a crucifixion, breath slow. He looked dazed, distant. The sacrificial lamb of his Set.

Reborn didn’t utter a word. Not of encouragement, intrigue or comfort. 

The UV light snapped off with a click. The timer run down.

“Let’s go to bed, Ryohei,” Reborn said finally.

Ryohei’s fist clenched. Left-hand side. Sometimes he complained about it aching. ‘Early-onset arthritis’ a doctor had told him once upon a time, because that was what happened when you shattered your fist. 

“Let’s go to bed, my dear Ryohei.”

Ryohei took a breath through his lips, tasting cardamom and smoke and summertime air even so deep in the caves. 

“I’m still their big brother,” he said. “I’m still their big brother. Even if I never will be again.”

When Ryohei settled into bed, it was to the cool touch of a silken pyjama shirt and the scalding brand of skin. And as he closed his eyes and drifted, Ryohei felt warmth lay over his still-clenched fist. Felt that heat seep into his skin and soothe the ache in the joints. 

Ryohei hoped if he didn't say anything, Reborn wouldn't let go. 

Ryohei didn't know if he could do it. Again.

☀

A line of townhouses made of cut stone and limewash paint. Old, but well kept, their windows aglow with a warm, yellow light as a summer’s night took the town. Shadows cut the yellow glass, children and adults, families in silhouette as they set their tables for dinner and toasted to another good day gone.

Taste the air. Count the doors. 

Reborn’s shoes clacked against the uneven cobblestone as he walked the street. He took a breath and tasted fog, tasted lilacs. There was one door too many. 

“This is entirely unnecessary,” Verde grumbled, scratching at a notebook with a pen running low on ink. 

Reborn didn’t deign to answer him. For the past two hours of travel, he had been making a fine effort in ignoring the fact that Verde existed. Reborn reached for the doorknob and swung it open.

Verde’s shoes scuffed the stone stairs loudly as they entered the foyer, and Reborn heard the moment those footsteps all but disappeared. The smell of lilacs and damp came stronger. It seeped into their clothes— Reborn had to remind himself to let it happen, let it breathe into his lungs.

They were meeting in Viper’s territory. They were easily the most skittish of the group, the ‘team’, so it was no surprise that Reborn and Verde were met with thorough investigation.

Reborn stepped over a tentacle that slithered across the floor. It made way for Verde who walked on blindly.

The door at the end of the hall seemed to fade in and out of sight, like eyes adjusting in flickering light. The hall tilted, flexed like a gulping throat, the carpet squelched underfoot thick with saliva—

“I see you made it,” Viper grumbled as Reborn and Verde entered the room. 

Viper was slumped a bit in their chair, seven seats wrapped around a large circular table. Their hood was up, eyes obscured, hands out of sight. 

“You never call unless it’s important,” Reborn said and pulled himself a chair. He sat, one knee crossed over the other. “I hope this holds true. I have places I’d much rather be.”

Verde dropped himself into another seat and immediately started using the table space, pulling out more notebooks and scraps of paper from his pockets and spreading them around. He muttered something, before grabbing a blank paper and proceeded to fill it with symbols and code.

Reborn glazed around quickly. It seemed he had been fashionably late. 

Every one of the other seats, save two, had been occupied by the rest of their company. Fon sat comfortably as he waited for the meeting to begin, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his eyes closed lightly. Under the table, Reborn could see his foot just barely bounce with restlessness. 

Beside him was Lal Mirch, arms crossed over her chest and chin raised to show severe, steady eyes. Her uniform was tight to her, hair pinned back and sleek. There was a thin chain around her neck, barely peeking out from beneath her collar. 

Reborn quirked his brow. That was new.

On Fon’s other side, Skull rocked in his chair. The young man balanced precariously on the back legs, arms raised to disperse weight as boredom crawled into his bones. 

And, in the last seat, sat Luce. Always early, always eager to welcome everyone personally. Luce smiled at them as they all got comfortable. In the centre of the table sat a plate of sugar-dusted scones, cream and jam supplied with spoons embellished with the Giglio Nero coat of arms. You could feel it on your tongue, rich with cream and sweet with jam. 

The basket sat untouched. Reborn could smell her perfume, some kind of tangerine blend. Bright and citrusy. 

“It’s so good to see you all again,” Luce beamed as everyone settled and Skull’s chair clattered as he rightened himself to attention. “Viper, would you like to begin?”

At her bay, Viper cleared their throat. 

“We’ve been posed a new request,” Viper began and a scroll unfurled along the centre of the table. “A set of artefacts. Somewhere in Brazil. The amount they are willing to spend is exorbitant.”

Reborn relaxed into his chair with little regard for the crusty parchment and flamboyant script. Rich eccentrics with a hankering for traditionalism were in no short supply. 

“This is something that can be done solo?” Fon pondered, reading the curling cursive seemingly cast by a quill. 

“Unfortunately no,” Viper murmured and indicated a map as four points took a purple glow of their influence. “The four artefacts are connected and react in tandem when touched. As soon as one is displaced, the others will alert the guards. All four will have to be taken at once.”

“Several kilometres apart,” Lal Mirch said and traced the map's key to get an idea of scale. “Too far for your illusions then?”

Viper pointedly did not respond. 

“So it’s a smash and grab! Easy money!” Skull crowed and crossed his arms behind his head. 

“Read the stipulations, newbie,” Reborn sighed. 

Skull leant over and squinted at the page. It was times like these Reborn wondered if the youngest of their merry band had ever taken an eye test. 

The words ‘covert’ were emphasised. Whoever wanted these artefacts didn’t want the original custodians to know they were gone until it was too late.

Reborn read the payment statement and wondered if it was worth it. An 11-12 hour flight to Brazil and then whacking around in the mosquito-infested, South American jungle when he could be enjoying a night in with Ryohei, prying stories and whines from smiling lips. 

After all, Reborn had yet to hear about himself. Where would Reborn be in thirty years, pushing fifty-five? And how he had played a role in Ryohei’s young life, a role so large he had whispered “Reborn” while kneeling on a church’s floor. How he had made him look happy.

Reborn tried to imagine it himself, older, mature, greying at the temples. Tried to imagine how he had entangled with Ryohei, young and eager to impress, to break out into the world like nothing short of a big bang.

Cute as it was, recalling those young eyes from the photos in Ryohei’s suitcase, Reborn was glad he had met this Ryohei. His Ryohei. Tall and loud and muscled and eye-searingly bright.

Reborn liked looking up.

Skull made a loud noise at something Lal Mirch said and threw his hands up in the air, nearly knocking Viper’s candelabra. The shift in lighting brought Reborn back to present, and with him, a low lying…dissatisfaction. 

Reborn tilted his head forward and let the brim of his hat cover his eyes. He observed. Skull laughed as Lal Mirch half-heartedly attempted to organise a strategy with Viper whose face was lemon-pinched at the concept of cooperation. Fon breathed in deep as Verde’s pages kept piling up and crawled to encroach into his space. And overwatching it all with a smile and a warm, motherly gleam in her eye, was Luce.

Ah. That was it. 

They were lacking. No drive, no fire under their heels. He had been spoilt recently.

Reborn frowned, his Flame stirred. 

Luce looked at him. Eyes wide and alert. 

“Is something the matter, Reborn?” She asked.

There was something in her tone, but Reborn was glad for the invitation. 

“I’d much like to bring someone along,” he said, airy and casual. Like he wasn’t offering to add another person to their already precarious balance. Like his Flame wasn’t flickering and sweeping, licking at the underside of his ribs with the scent of Dual Guardianship.

Like she could smell it, Lal Mirch turned her head first. Everyone else was slow to follow. 

Reborn regarded the woman out of the corner of his eye. Lal Mirch was interested. Her Flame hissed like the white noise of rainfall.

Verde glanced at Reborn with a raised brow.

Reborn remembered how Ryohei had laid out on the floor with arms wide like Icarus after a fall. His voice sad-happy-nostalgic and heavy as he spoke of a Family of a future long past. How he spoke gently of his Sky, too immature and inexperienced. Of his Mists, always willing to enshroud him. Of his Rain, Storm, Cloud and little Lightning. A Set too small for him, that he still wanted to cradle in his hands and protect from the world— 

Reborn looked upon those Flames before him. Purities of the highest degree, size almost colossal, and with an individual drive near unmatched. And a vast Sky who welcomes even Reborn with open arms. 

He could imagine Ryohei at the table, another chair at his right-hand side. Almost seamlessly in place, warming the Set from the inside and setting them on fire in just the right way to send them running for greatness. 

“Well—” 

Luce’s voice broke through. It cracked unpleasantly, caught off guard. 

“It is…certainly something to think about!” Luce smiled. Reborn watched her slide her hands off the table, hidden clenched in her lap. “I’m so glad you’ve found someone you like so much Reborn!”

The ‘but’ hung in the air. 

No one said a word.

Reborn saw Lal Mirch fix her collar, that little chain around her throat now completely out of sight. 

[cyanpoetry]

The Fountain Pen

Only use me, fill up my ink when the situation regards it It must be a special time when my nib, pliant and sharp, touches the blank, white page and the words flow like a river, a stream

But it's mere shaky, messy chicken scratch I can't write pretty for you when your hands tremble and your tears, salty and wet, they fall in drops and smudge the half-dried ink

[hotchs-big-hands]

💝 no bc i feel like aaron would write u cute (dirty) notes in your lunch but his handwriting is SO BAD so when he texts you if you liked his note and ur like i literally can’t read ur chicken scratch

AKXKSKFKSKFKKFI bonus points for the ink smudging cuz hes left handed too 💔💔💔 it's the thought that counts tho KSKSKSSKSK

[snickiebear]

for @nosebleedclub's october ninth's prompt, are you okay?

[familylightfox]

Now there was a fair point. Having both Kintobor and Nicole work together on documents would be a much better idea than asking just one. Not only because the holo-lynx also enjoyed speaking with the scientist, but also because this meant they could design it to better blend his information to fit with the Zone. Two heads were better than one in this instance.

“We can ask once we’re done with our tea and I’ll message Nicole t’ at least give her a heads up t’ expect a call.” That was at least one application most of the way completed. A few steps and photocopies were the least of his worries but Volt reached over to take his partner’s hand and set a few kisses to the scarred knuckles.

He also carefully took the pen for himself.

Despite his best efforts, the application was just going to have to deal with his chicken scratch of a signature for what it was. He called it a win that he hadn’t smudged the ink for once.

“Al’ight. We’ll get the rest o’ this done and sent out, then wait.” As much as he was excited, there was a lingering thought that he wasn’t sure he had seen listed on the pamphlet when he was looking at it. “Do they call… if they reject it too? Or only if ‘s accepted?”

   {➹} – THERE WAS ONLY a small warning, but ever playful look, aimed at his partner at that response. No other comment followed it as the papers were filled out as much as they could be at that moment, and at no point did the hero attempt to keep his partner from looking things over. One, because there was no need, and two a second eye never hurt on those sorts of things. Especially something as important as this.

And suddenly the hero was glad he kept copies of just about everything in some way, thus easily nodded to Volt's question. It had been a habit he picked up around the time he had come into his wealth, and it hadn't been one he ever regretted. Not that it solved the problem of what to do in his partner's situation, but he was glad Volt had an idea regarding that too.

"Could ask them both, can't hurt. Plus I think Dad will jump at any chance t' talk t' Nicole. Especially when it comes t' helping us." Nevermind that the man never missed a chance to help his son and their family, but it was apparent they were close to Nicole for obvious reasons. Plus, Kintobor may have been slightly biased about the whole thing, given that he also would be getting a new grandchild when all was said and done.

One more thing he and Rosie could and would bond over. One more thing to bring the whole family closer. Though speaking of the woodchuck made the hero smile, even if he was pondering the last question.

"Maybe after the call...just in case?"

[kyanitegemverse]

Its AU idea writing time today. But like also working on the art for Jessi’s bio

[a-libra-writes]

Game of Thrones - Love Letter and Handwriting Headcanons

In this preference, you'll be writing to: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Eddison Tollett, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Arianne Martell

my own silly fanfic made me think of this bc there’s letter writing later on in that. whee!

Ned Stark

His handwriting is neat, evenly spaced and fairly plain. It’s easily readable, which is the point - he knows not everyone is well-versed in letters and he tries to make it easier. Ned typical sends ravens, only writing a full letter for when he has to give instructions or relay something important. He has a formal Stark wax seal for this… and yes, he uses that same formal seal when he sends something to you. The more you exchange letters, the more relaxed he clearly becomes in writing. He knows he isn’t romantic or poetic by any means, but he hopes his affection for you comes across.

Robb Stark

Goodness knows he’s had endless lessons on writing properly and expressing the right words, but Robb just has no interest in it. His handwriting is perfectly legible but obviously hastily written, and he doesn’t care if there’s a few smudges or the paper gets dirty. When he’s writing to you, he’ll try to be neater… but sometimes he’s just got so much to say, and he’s so eager to send it, he doesn’t even notice the mess. Robb never thought he’d anticipate letters, especially romantic ones, but he loves receiving things from you. If you live far away, he feels the distance strongly and starts to rely on your letters to feel more connected to you.

Sansa Stark

As expected, her penmanship is pretty and neat. If she's in a good mood she'll add little flourishes here and there, but normally she's a bit embarrassed to do it. It feels childish to do that now. When she finds a nice stationary, she saves it until she writes to you. Her envelopes have the usual Stark direwolf with some wildflowers along the border. Honest and romantic words used to come easy to her, but now she’s more subdued. She’ll include pretty poetry she heard and wanted to share with you.

Jon Snow

His writing would be neater if he just slowed down, but he’s often in haste, especially once he becomes Lord Commander. He never cared about the proper penmanship or address because who would a bastard write to? Really, it’s lucky he was taught letters at all. He’d do his best to write neater for you, but the words keep escaping him - It’s hard enough to express how he feels in person, writing it isn’t any easier, no matter what Sam says. Jon always responds if you write to him, even if he’s blushing and feeling stupid the whole time.

Benjen Stark

He’s perfectly capable of writing neatly, but Benjen rarely bothers to. He jots down what he needs, though he at least has to make it legible - there’s only so many men that know their letters at the Wall, and Benjen has to keep his orders neat. When you pass him a secret letter, he’s grinning like a boy. He thinks it’s adorable that you went through the effort of finding supplies and writing something so sweet. He’ll ask to read it in front of you, but if you make him do it in secret, he’ll want to run and find you as soon as he’s done. He’d fold it up tight and keep it in a safe pouch tied to his belt. 

Jory Cassel

His handwriting is pretty messy. Jory was never bothered by it until he had to write you something. Oh no. Wasn't there a proper way to address you? What if it was too personal, or too standoffish? Poor Jory overthinks his letters unless you two write with frequency. His handwriting won't get better, but he's more comfortable writing sweet things. He likes to keep his envelopes and papers plain so no one suspects anything, which is a good habit if you’re dating in secret, but a silly once if you’re married. 

Eddison Tollett

He jokes it’s a small miracle that he knows his letters, poor as his family was. He likes to pretend he doesn’t, just so the higher ups on the Wall won’t give him extra duties like they did Sam. Reading never interested him, and he had no one to write to, so it’s just not something he thinks about. When you slip him a letter, he just stares at it dumbly for a minute. Once Edd has a chance to open it up, he’s a little taken aback. What… should he do? Should he talk to you? Respond to it? He’s never had such a nice gesture given to him, never had anyone write such nice things to him (has he even received a letter before??). So the next time to meet him, he still has a stupefied look on his face. And here he was thinking nothing on the Wall could surprise him anymore.. 

Yara Greyjoy

She was taught writing and reading by her nuncle - because the Gods know her father hardly bothered - so she actually has fond memories of both, even if she hardly does it. Yara would be very curious by anything you sent. Was something wrong? If it smelled of perfume or had a pretty stationary, she’d snort… but once she read the contents, she’d just grin and laugh. If the letter is more romantic, she finds it silly, but so like you. Very endearing. If it’s more saucy and risque, well … she’s going to read this in private and take her time.

Daenerys Targaryen

Her handwriting wasn’t as neat as it could’ve been, given her upbringing. It’s a point of embarrassment, so Dany practices pretty lettering and uses interesting inks she’s found around the markets. It’s a bit relaxing, though when she’s writing something official as Khaleesi and Queen, she makes sure it’s perfect. She’s pleasantly surprised when you write her something - has she ever actually received something this sweet before? She’ll write you back with a smile on her face, and she likes any chance to use that fancy Targaryen seal. Dany will still love to receive and send letters even if you both are staying in a palace together. It’s just one of many romantic gestures she thought she’d never enjoy.

Jorah Mormont

Jorah's handwriting is nice, but he usually writes in haste, so several letters end up smudged. He doesn't like to waste paper and start over. Jorah really can’t believe that you’d send him something romantic and sweet; he tries to hide his grin and blush, but he’ll wear it the whole time he’s reading. When he's writing something really sweet to you, it gets him flustered and happy, so whole words end up smudged. He doesn't notice the ink on his hand until he's already put the letter in the envelope. He keeps whatever you’ve sent him in a protective leather book so they can’t get damaged.

Missandei

She has lovely handwriting in many languages, as she was taught. The neatness of the lines and letters really is impressive. When she's writing something sweet to you, she pauses and struggles with the words for a while. Missandei always has the sweetest, most thoughtful letters - more sentimental than romantic. Her letters are punctuated with citrus smelling paper and a modestly decorated envelope.

Grey Worm

He’s only recently learned to read, and writing is still a struggle - he’d be very intimidated at the idea of writing something to you. When you give him something to read for practice, it takes Grey Worm a few minutes before he realizes it’s something you wrote. And it’s for him! And about him! He’s very happy but also very flustered. It takes him longer to get through it, but he can’t stop smiling all day once he’s done. He aspires to write something just as nice, once he’s practiced more. He’d keep your letters in a safe place, and wouldn’t want anyone else to see them.

Tywin Lannister

His penmanship is near perfect, which you expected. It’s always written in a stark black ink on fine, almost marbled paper that has an equally officially looking gold Lannister seal on the envelope. People whisper it’s liquid gold that seals it, but you know better. Tywin’s letters are for business only, so he doesn’t expect you to send him anything romantic… He wouldn’t know what to do with it, besides read it with some amusement and tuck it away for later. You might think he never read it, until he’ll tease you by quoting it weeks later. 

Tyrion Lannister

His handwriting is elegant and flawless, as it was meant to be. When Tyrion’s tired he’ll smudge here and there, and depending on how important the letter is, he’ll start over entirely. When he receives your first letter, he’s surprised by the pretty stationary and envelope - this is for him? - and the contents are even better. Tyrion might have a small mental shutdown if you write him something romantic and kind. He’ll re-read it over and over and be distracted through much of the day. This is really for him? He has to respond, of course, and he’ll do it while his emotions are high. For once he doesn’t think on carefully crafted words, he writes what he feels and picks a more subtle stationary (no giant Lannister seals) so attention isn’t drawn to you.

Jaime Lannister

Gods, he hates writing. Just sitting down to write a report is bad enough, but when it's something important? When it's a response to something lovely you wrote? He struggles. The letters start moving around like they used to, he remembers those awful lessons with his father and he's just put off by the whole thing. Seeing you in person is far better. Jaime's handwriting is neat, because it had to be, though when he's upset he'll write a few letters backwards.

Sandor Clegane

It's a mess. Really, the fact his words are readable is a miracle. 'Chicken scratch' is a generous term, though his name is passable. If you wrote him a letter, he'd have no idea what to do with it, let alone how to respond. Sandor doesn't do sentiment like that; seeing you in person can be conflicting and confusing enough. He'd probably rip it up and burn it after drinking too much (and immediately regret that in the morning).

Bronn

He's barely literate, and not a man of flowery words anyway, so don't respect a response. If anything he'd hand the letter to Tyrion and ask him to read it - only for it to be handed back once Tyrion realized it was very personal and... revealing. Bronn doesn't worry about a response or consider you getting upset about it. If you are, he has ways to make up for it. 

Petyr Baelish

You expected him to have neat penmanship, but you didn't expect it to be this nice. And of course, his way with words shows in his letters, but it's even better. You might even blush and have to excuse yourself to read it in private. Petyr loves to write on fancy paper with fancier envelopes that have his sigil, but if they're meant to be secret, the only indicator is a little symbol on the envelope's seal. He delights in anything you send him, especially if he can smell your perfume on it.

Stannis Baratheon

Stannis writes very neat letters with equally impossibly neat rows. He has a habit of gripping his quill too tight, but his letters are concise so his hand doesn’t hurt. While he usually writes quickly because he knows what to say, when he writes to you, he pauses far too often. Sometimes ink drips on the paper while he’s thinking, sometimes he misspells a word he’s never gotten wrong before. It takes a long time, especially if he’s responding to something that was very sweet and romantic. His first letters were very awkward and halting, but they’ve steadily improved. Mostly. 

Davos Seaworth

You were the one who helped him with writing, after helping him read as well. Davos isn’t happy with his penmanship, but he didn’t think he’d make it this far, so he keeps trying when he has time. It’s messy but legible enough. Davos is always pleasantly surprised when you write to him; he loves that you took the time to send something so sweet. It’s hard for him to reply efficiently, or to put what he’s thinking into words, so sometimes he’ll wait for you to get back instead. He would use your letters to practice reading… but it gets him terribly flustered to read the same kind things over and over again.

Margaery Tyrell

She doesn't mind taking the extra time to make her letters extra beautiful, to press dried flower petals and put them in the envelope, to look through dozens of stationary to find one that's just right for her mood. For most people, they're lucky to get one of these little rituals - you get all of them. She'd be delighted if you took extra care in your letters, too, and naturally she keeps whatever you send her in a special box (that absolutely no one will find). 

Brynden Tully

It's no surprise that his handwriting is simple and gets the job done. His brother used to complain that he wrote like a soldier, not a lord, and Brynden is proud of that. He won't wax poetic to you, but he will plainly state that he misses you and he always writes back promptly. Brynden feels bad that his letters take so long to arrive, so he'll make them longer with funny anecdotes and things he's heard from travellers. He folds his letter a few times and wraps it in a protective parchment, just in case rain comes or some idiot drops it.

Edmure Tully

He writes well enough, with neat letters that are jotted down in haste. Edmure almost never stays and lingers on words and sentences, he just writes what comes to mind and moves on. He’s shocked in a good way when you write something to him - you missed him that much? Enough to write all this? He re-reads it several times, and keeps whatever you send him after that. He’ll eagerly write back, and even if it’s silly and awkwardly worded, you can feel the love in every letter. His letters are often a bit crumpled and are plain except for the Tully seal.

Brienne of Tarth

It might surprise some that she has a lady's penmanship. It was never something Brienne had trouble learning, though she often accidentally broke the quill by holding too hard. Though she cherishes the kind things you send her (and she blushes terribly as she reads them), she struggles to send something in return. Her words fail her and she feels embarrassed for trying, but she does try. Seeing you in person is so much easier, though. She likes to keep your letters in a safe place and read them when she's feeling down.

Ramsay Bolton

The letters are messy, but legible enough. The real issue is all the stains on the paper, usually a combination of mud, blood or water. He has little care for the proper way to write or address others; Roose may have given him the bare minimum and not expected him to actually use it. Ramsay is very surprised and amused by anything you send him, though. He considers writing something back, but decides to wait or just go and see you directly. That’s far more fun.

Roose Bolton

His handwriting is functional and his words are to the point. There's nothing outstanding about the letter or its contents, save for a blood-red Bolton seal on the envelope. Roose rarely sends full letters, though; it's a quick Raven or nothing. Though he won't mind anything you send… he'll be very pleased with how personal they become, and he still won't send anything back right away, if he does at all. Better to keep you in anticipation.

Oberyn Martell

Oberyn has a stylish flourish to his letters that’s unique to him. If that didn’t give it away, the pretty gold ink or embellished envelope will. Often it has the spear as a seal, sometimes it’s some interesting and strange stamp he picked up from his travels. There’s always a slight scent to his letters, and you can’t always place it. The actual words themselves are often scandalous and teasing, though he’s sent plenty of heartfelt things, especially if you enjoy it. He’s no poet, but he’s honest and romantic. Oberyn much prefers to see you in person, but he likes to receive sweet things and re-read them.

Arianne Martell

Her handwriting is beautifully elegant, and she loves getting ahold of pretty colored inks and papers. Her letters straddle a fine line between romantic and a little scandalous, and she likes to use pet names, as if you both are writing in secret. Her envelopes have a pleasant smell, and the official Martell seal. If she wants her letter to be sent especially fast, she’ll take her father’s seal. She keeps anything you send her in a pretty, hand carved wooden box with a lock and key.

[splend-42]

I never learned to hold a pen 'properly', so my handwriting is a scrawl and my hand smudges the ink and my fingers cramp up after less than a minute or so of writing.

My teachers used to call my writing 'chicken scratches' ('Kharabeesh ad'djaj' in Arabic!)

Keyboards are a lifesaver.

Y'know one of those things that's like mad ableist but good luck explaining that to an abled? Dissing people's messy handwriting.

This thought occurs to me as I try to plan a d&d campaign but my hand decides I'm not allowed to hold a pen right now

[electronikmilk]

Papa’s Punishment

alternative title: Accidentally Fucking Around and Finding Out

ive been working on this for so long and im sick of lookin at it

rating: explicit/nsfw

Copia x f reader 

contains: dom copia, possible abuse of power, spanking, and pet play. 

You had dozed, then awakened to find that you were still bound in Copia's ornate bed-chamber deep within the abbey walls. 

No, he wasn't Copia anymore. He was Papa now. And you had to address him as such when he wore the paint. That was what he said when he had his Ghouls drag you into his chamber after you had called him the silly little nickname that the other sisters called him behind his back as a joke. Ratman. It was innocent enough since he was fond of the small rodents, or so you thought. Copia's face had grown dark as soon as you uttered it, and it frightened you enough to fall silent after a fit of giggles. Then he reached out and gripped your chin tight before leaning close to address you. 

"Mm. Funny." He said in a way that sounded like he didn't find it funny at all and glared down at you, "It is bold of you to be disrespectful to your Papa when he wears the paint. And that is all I will be to you now. I'm not Copia, not Cardinal, and especially not Ratman. I am Papa, and I will not accept any other title, sister. Perhaps a little lesson is in order so you will remember this." 

Before you could say anything, Copia snapped his fingers, and that was when his two Ghouls surrounded you, grabbed you by the arms, and marched down the halls with you in tow. Everyone within the corridors stopped and watched as the Ghouls dragged you along. Two sisters from the convent whispered to each other and turned their gazes away as if they might be taken away at any second too. They knew where you were going, and it was sure as hell somewhere they didn't want to be, for it was a place of great shame and mystery. You let your head drop in humiliation before your peers, not standing the way they saw you. It was a relief when you finally arrived at Copia's chamber and were taken inside. You said nothing to the Ghouls as they fastened leather cuffs around your ankles, then bound your hands over your head with silk rope. 

"Sorry, sister," One of them had said. They removed the coif and veil of your habit, then pulled out the pins that held your hair in place so that it fell loose, "We're just following Papa's orders. I'm sure you understand."

All you gave them was a contemptuous look until they left. 

You had struggled against your restraints until you eventually gave up, falling asleep despite your buttocks pushing against the hard stone wall behind you. How long had that been? There was no clock or window in the room, so it was hard for you to tell. Perhaps a few hours. Long enough for you to wake up with a sore neck, anyway. The room itself lay in shadow and unbroken stillness. You winced as you turned your head to look around the room. The only illumination offered to you was from a small antique lamp on an ink-stained writing desk in the corner. The dim light threw long uneven shadows on the high arched ceiling above. A king-sized bed sat against the wall opposite you with a canopy bed frame draped with black cloth. It made it look like a dark, cavernous mouth that was ready to swallow you whole. A tall mahogany bookshelf containing several taxidermied rats positioned in various poses stood near the door. You made a face at the furry ornaments. It was definitely Copia's room. 

Your stomach growled, and the sound of it in the stillness of the room made it seem more like a lion's roar. How long Copia planned to keep you in here and what his intentions were, you didn't know for sure. You just hoped he wouldn't starve you. The thought sent a sudden jolt of panic through you; your mind flashed images of you left to rot in a cell in the abbey basement. You knew that the cells had been abandoned for centuries, just collecting dust and acting as storage for Yuletide decorations. But Copia had changed since he finally became Papa Emeritus IV. You had always thought him awkward as a Cardinal, sometimes even amusing in his antics, but he was always just that: awkward, no one to be scared of. It was a curious and abrupt transformation; He held his head high now, and his stride was no longer unsure or clumsy. When he wore the paint, he had an air of authority, of strength and pride no one knew he had. He wanted respect, and he demanded it among the clergy with an iron fist. Everyone was to address him as Papa only and woe unto anyone who didn't comply. At first, you had to admit his newfound confidence in his power was something to admire, covet even. That is until the sisters of the order were no longer safe from his wrath, then it became something to be feared. Copia had forgiven slips of the tongue and had given warnings that he said he would only offer once. If it happened again, however, there would be a severe punishment to follow.  

Sister Claire was the first to be punished. Claire had always been hotheaded and often butted heads with her superiors for the sake of her own amusement. She had been no different with Copia two months ago. On your way to your weekly duty to clean the chapel, you stumbled upon Copia, two Nameless Ghouls, and Claire in the middle of the empty hall. You seemed to go unnoticed by all four. Curious, you slipped into one of the corridor's alcoves and peeked around the corner, as not to be seen. As you listened closely, you caught the tail end of a heated argument over the state of the abbey's gardens. Claire was on a tirade, ranting about how Copia's lack of dedication to employing a proper gardener made the grounds look like it was in shambles. She had addressed the new Papa as Cardinal several times, much to Copia's irritation. The former Cardinal stood back with folded arms and a frown while the hot-blooded sister babbled on about how this needed attention and how that needed fixing. She addressed him incorrectly the entire time. It amazed you how bullheaded Claire could be. 

"Cara," Copia finally interrupted after Claire had called him Cardinal for the fifth time, his voice becoming stern. "I understand that you're upset, but I have made it more than clear that everyone within this church is to call me Papa. And frankly, I will not tolerate your blatant disregard for my rules." 

"Don't you 'Cara' me!" Sister Claire shot back, " And I'll call you Papa when I'm damn well good and ready. But until then, I think I'll keep calling you Cardinal, Cardinal." 

"Basta! Enough!" Copia shouted suddenly, grabbed Claire by the wrist, and dragged her behind him as he headed further down the hall, luckily away from your direction. "I have been patient with you, sister, with all of you. But no more!"

Claire resisted, trying to wrench from his grasp and yelling at him to let her go. Copia ignored this and tugged her along anyway. When she started cursing and slapping at him, Copia gestured for a Ghoul to take her about the waist and carry her. Claire shrieked like a banshee and kicked her legs in the air when she was lifted. Copia gave the Ghoul a sharp command for them to silence her, and the Ghoul clapped a hand over Claire's mouth, muffling the scream as they hauled her away. You watched the whole display in shock, unable to move or look away. When all four of them disappeared around a corner, you crept out from your hiding place on shaky legs. You quickly made your way to the chapel without encountering anyone else, and it was a relief to you. You tried to put what you saw out of your head, but as you tended to your regular duties, the sound of Claire's screams resonated in your head. 

You didn't see Sister Claire again until late into the evening. She seemed no worse for wear, having neither a bruise nor scratch on her. But she was timid, quiet, and obedient, you noticed when Sister Imperator asked her to sweep and wash the floor, which she almost scurried to do. When the other sisters asked her where she had been, Claire just shook her head frantically. Her pretty face grew red, and a look of shame and fear that concerned you twisted her features. 

"I can't tell you!" was all she said and nothing more. 

It wasn't too long until other insubordinate sisters fell victim to Copia's fury. Each one disappeared into his chambers for hours at a time, and when they were set free, none of them spoke of what they went through. You could only speculate, and what you brewed up in your head terrified you. All manner of dark medieval tortures often raced by: pears of anguish, iron chairs, Spanish donkeys, breast rippers, and thumbscrews. You knew all of that was impossible, however. None of the other sisters had a mark on them when they returned; they barely even a hair out of place, so what kind of punishment was wicked enough to force them all into silence? Whatever it was, you tried so hard to avoid it. You never spoke out of turn, tended to your duties without complaint, you even baked a cake for Copia on his birthday. But despite all your effort, misfortune still befell you over a joke that wasn't even that funny. Your throat tightened as tears began to prickle behind your eyes, and you dreaded what kind of torment waited for you in this dark room. 

You were almost lost in your contemplation of it all when you heard the heavy wooden door open. You saw the tall, lean figure of Copia enter the room and close the door behind him, a plate of food in one hand and a blood-red velvet bag in the other. He almost seemed like a specter, dressed in a figure-hugging black suit --the one that you said he looked handsome in to gain his favor. His face was bare of paint, save for his eyes. He had lined them with black, smudged eyeliner, making his mismatched gaze smoldering and intense. 

He made his way to you with both items in hand. He stayed back a few feet, the velvet bag swinging slightly at his side. The faint aroma of roasted chicken found your nose, and the delectable smell of it made your mouth water. Copia gazed at you with narrow eyes, his expression unreadable. You lowered your eyes and sucked in a breath, petrified of what was to come. You waited for yelling, cursing, for the food to be thrown at you, anything, but Copia just muttered something under his breath, went to place the plate and bag on the bed, then returned to undo all your restraints. You stood there free with stiff, aching arms. You wanted to stretch them but didn't dare make any movement that Copia might disapprove of. You kept your eyes down, only bringing them up once to see Copia sit on the edge of the bed with the plate in his lap, then darting them back to the floor. You felt the subtle pressure of his gaze on you for what seemed like a long time. 

"Come here." Copia finally broke the silence.

You obeyed and took a tentative step forward. 

"No." He said sharply, making you freeze, "On your hands and knees. Crawl to me." 

Your head jerked up, eyes wide in shocked disbelief. Your breathing hitched, and your heart started to hammer. You hesitated, and Copia frowned at you. He raised his gloved hands and slapped them together once, hard. It sounded like the cracking of a whip in the quiet. "Now, sister." 

You let out a little yelp and dropped to your knees. You hurried as you crawled over to Copia, stopping just before his feet. He gave a hum of satisfaction.

"Ah, excellent. You're obedient. That is good, my dear. It will make your ordeal go more smoothly." 

Ordeal. The word made you shudder. 

"But first, you must be hungry, si? You've been waiting here a long time."

Your stomach let out another grumble. You said nothing. You kept your eyes fixed on the glossy leather of Copa's black shoes as your apprehension deepened. You didn't want to look up at him; all at once, he seemed large, mighty, and terrible, like he could crush you underneath those patent leather soles if he so desired. He could make you suffer, and no one would witness it. It was just you and Copia. You and Papa.

"Say 'yes, Papa' or 'no, Papa,'" Copia said. "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you to be respectful." 

"I...I-" You stammered, then you swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself, "Yes, Papa." 

"Good girl." He said. "Now, kneel up and look at me." 

You did as commanded, and you realized as you looked up at him that you were crying. Through the blur of tears, you saw Copia's hand reach for your face. You flinched a little, then relaxed when you only felt the fingers wipe away your tears and smooth your hair back almost affectionately.

"Oh, come now. I have not been mean just yet, my dear. Don't cry." He soothed, "There will be plenty of time for that later, but if you're well behaved and do what I say, Papa will be gentle with you. Do you understand?" 

You nodded, sniffling and letting Copia caress your face. It comforted you, if only a little bit.

"Answer me properly,"

"Yes, Papa. I understand." You said.

"Very good, very good," Copia said. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead before letting you eat the slices of succulent chicken breast on the plate with your hands. After you finished, he took a sprig of green grapes and fed them to you one at a time. He watched in obvious amusement when you spat the seeds into your hand and timidly discarded them onto the plate, careful of every move you made. When he got to the last three, he took one and held it up just out of your reach. He smiled when you blinked up at him, confused. 

"Up, cara," He said, "Show me a trick." 

You bit your lip, blushing, and again, you hesitated. You shook your head before you realized what a mistake it was. Immediately, Copia took the plate, set it aside, and then gathered you up to toss you over his lap so that your legs dangled over the floor. You gasped in surprise and fear when he flipped your skirt to expose your panties. When you felt the sting of his gloved hand spank you hard, you couldn't help but let out a cry. One great slap after another fell on your buttocks, sounding thunderous in your ears. You heard yourself taking in sharp gasps of pain with each strike. His hand seemed solid and heavy like a paddle as it spanked you, over and over, hitting you on the right cheek, then the left, and then covering your thighs with smacks while your ass stung and throbbed. You clenched your teeth to stifle your cries, and when you tried in vain to wiggle away, Copia held you in place and rewarded you with more vigorous blows, swift ones that whipped you like a strap. And soon, you realized you were becoming frantic, tears streaming down your cheeks. You tried to be still, but your body squirmed and writhed of its own accord. Now Copia worked only the backs of your thighs, where the punishing hand lingered and struck hard until you were sure that the flesh there was red and inflamed. 

"Papa, please!" You finally wailed and broke into choking sobs.

The blows stopped. You didn't move. You just shut your eyes and wept as Copia's hand now moved along your buttocks languidly. He stroked your thighs as if to soothe them.

"Now, do you see why I ask you to do as I say?" Copia crooned, "I can be cruel, sister. Much more than this, I assure you. The other sisters know what I can do, especially Sister Claire. She knows the worst of it. Lucifer's name, she was like a devil herself, all teeth and claws until I tamed her. The other Papas have spoilt her and the others rotten. Not just the sisters, but the brothers, too, and the priests, the bishops. They all have little to no manners, no respect. So I have to take it upon myself to teach them." 

You shook against his legs as he told you this. He rubbed little circles in the small of your back, then he squeezed your buttocks, sending a rush of sensation along your body that made you flush. You thought of poor Sister Claire and what she must have gone through that was enough to break her. Vivid images of whipping belts, heavy wooden paddles, and flesh crisscrossed with angry welts made your stomach sink, so you stopped. 

'I have to be good.' You thought. It was better to surrender than suffer the same fate as the others, better to leave with your good reputation with Copia intact. After all, he said he would be gentle if you obeyed, and you decided you would. You hoped he would keep his word, and you let your body slacken in resignation.   

"I like to play games with them." Copia continued, "I like to order them around the room, fetching whatever I throw for them because it pleases me or whatever else suits my mood. Sometimes I even strap them down and use the paddle. But I never hurt them, not severely. I happen to be a reasonable man, after all. Oh, but that would be too hard for you, wouldn't it? You're too sweet for the paddle, too soft. It's just a pity you disobey me, call me names. Do you think yourself too good to call me by my proper title, sister? Too good to follow my direction?" His hand tightened threateningly on your thigh, then you felt it leave your skin, and you were terrified he might spank you again. 

"No, Papa," You said in a panicked whisper. 

"Do I need to punish you like the others?" 

"No, Papa. I'll be good, I promise." 

"Yes," Copia sighed, his hand now playing with your hair instead of punishing you, "You will be perfect for me, won't you?"

"Yes, Papa." 

"Good."

Copia pulled you back up and set you on the floor. You had stopped crying, though your lips still trembled. You knelt there and awaited his command. Again, he took a grape and held it up for you. This time you didn't hesitate to take it from his fingers with your mouth. He held the next one high enough to make you raise yourself up on your heels to get it. He then tossed the last grape into the air, over your head so that it bounced and rolled a few feet away when it hit the floor. 

"Fetch, little puppy." He commanded, a smirk playing on his lips. 

You obeyed shyly. When you crawled back and dropped it into Copia's open hand, he let out a hearty laugh. 

"You're easy to train." He said and popped the fruit into your mouth, "Perhaps I should make you my little pet when we're finished here." 

You didn't really want to eat it, but you did anyway, seeds and all. Copia beamed at you, his smile genuinely kind. 

"Lovely, my dear." He whispered, his voice low and sweet. Then he gathered you in his arms once more and kissed you deeply. It sent a shock through you, settling into a knot in your stomach that made you shiver against your will. Copia kissed the smoothness of your forehead, kissed your soft hairline, your eyelids, and the tip of your nose. They were tender, gentle, like butterflies that brushed against your skin with their silky wings, and you lifted your head to receive them. He kissed your cheeks, then returned to your parted lips. You let out little sighs as he kissed you despite your fear, which now melted away a little bit as your body seemed to soften all over. Copia moved and rose to stand, pulling you up with him into his embrace. He pulled you closer to his body once you were steady on your feet; his kisses left your face to explore along your jaw and the line of your throat. His slim arms were surprisingly strong as they held you, and his lips were soft. They tickled against the sensitive skin of your neck as they trailed down. His hands started to roam your body, stroking your hips, groping at your ass and the backs of your thighs. It sent delightful shivers along your skin and down your spine. It made you feel weak, dissolving, aroused. Any fear you felt a minute ago faded into a haze of sudden lust. You couldn't stop yourself from throwing your arms around his neck and moaning. The action made the kisses harder, more fervent. When you felt Copia open his mouth to bite you here and there as if to taste you, you whimpered, and your body melted all the more. You felt your breasts against his chest, and you wanted to press them to him harder. You almost did when Copia pulled away, slipping out of your arms. The loss of sensation was nearly gutting.

You stood there dazed, swaying, and taking in uneven breaths. Copia's own breath came heavy and deep as he straightened his clothes to disengage himself. You could see his arousal through the tightness of his pants, and you bit your lip. If only your punishment could be just this, but you knew it wouldn't be. Copia appeared to be fighting to contain himself, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Once he was composed, he let out a quiet laugh. It was almost musical in its softness. Your body burned as you watched him, aroused but at the same time fearful of punishment. You would do anything to please him, to keep him gentle like this, so you waited.  

"Pardon me, cara. You gave in much faster than I anticipated, and I almost lost myself." Copia said, catching you in his gaze again. His lips spread slowly into a grin when he observed you flushed with desire. "And still, you wait for my command. I admit I didn't quite expect you to be as obedient as you are, and I would reward you, but I want to play one of my games with you first." 

Before you could protest, he took the velvet bag off the bed, opened it, and plunged his hand inside. He pulled out a spiked leather collar that looked like it was meant for a large dog. A black leash was affixed to it. You felt your breath leave you when Copia undid the collar and eyed you with a deliberate leer. You swallowed, then lifted your head so that Copia could fasten it onto you. He shook his head.

"Not yet." He said, "Take off your clothes." 

Your face burned as you obeyed. You took a few steps back and hurried to shed your dress, slip, shoes, and stockings, but you hesitated yet again once you were in your bra and panties. You felt so naked already, so vulnerable. You didn't know if you could bear it to be completely nude. You tried to shield yourself by bringing your hands up and wringing them. It did little to conceal you. Seeing this, Copia approached and kissed your temple. 

"You can keep them on. Now, my little puppy..." He buckled the collar to fit snuggly around your neck and left the leash dangling between your breasts. "You have been very, very good so far, apart from your little slip of decorum, but I want to see just how obedient you can be. You know a well-trained dog always follows its master's commands, yes?" 

An icy prickle crawled up your spine, sending shivers through your arms and making your heart clench in your chest before hammering hard again. 

"Yes, Papa..." You said as expected though uncertainty and fear laced your voice. Copia rubbed your shoulders, his hands firm and soothing at the same time. His touch made you feel almost woozy, dreamy even in your unease. 

"I will make it simple: Tonight, you're my pet, sister, and I am your master. As your master, I will give you commands, and you will do them as perfectly as possible to please me. Do what I tell you, and you will be rewarded. Disobey, and you will be punished. Ah, don't be afraid; I don't think you will disappoint me much, but..." Then he pressed closer to you, leaning in close to your ear so that you felt his breath caress your skin, "I confess I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy spanking that plump bottom of yours." His hand slid down and grabbed your ass before giving it a playful swat. You blushed. You felt the arousal rise in your core again. It flooded in, threatened to sweep you away in its erotic current, and you lowered your head, overcome by shyness. Copia lifted your chin and shook his head at you again.

"No. None of that." He admonished, "I want you to keep your gaze up and your manner attentive. And don't hide your body. I have been fair enough to let you keep your underwear on. Now let me see you." He took both your wrists and forced them down to your sides, then prodded your shoulders so that you straightened your back. You stood erect and grew embarrassed now that your posture didn't hide you. Copia nodded in approval, "Yes, much better."

His eyes roamed up and down your body, taking every inch of you in. You wanted so desperately to cover your stomach, your chest, to tear off the collar. Of course, you didn't dare any of it. You couldn't imagine what he would do to you if you were foolish enough to disobey him again; you didn't even want to think about it. 

For a moment, Copia seemed to be thinking, then he smiled. His eyes gleamed like gems in the lamplight. He took the leash and wrapped it around his hand a few times to make it short.

"Clasp your hands behind your back and keep them there. And open your legs wider." He said, then nudged your feet apart until they lined up with your shoulders. You kept your hands behind your back as commanded. It was worse than keeping your hands at your sides. This position arched your body a little more and forced your breasts out. You felt dreadfully exposed, and what was even more excruciating was having your legs apart. But what could you do other than what was commanded? Could Copia be so cruel as to punish you even if you threw yourself at his feet and begged for his mercy? You weren't sure, and you didn't want to risk it. He would have his way, and there was nothing you could do about it. Then you wondered, did you even mind? The pleasure that had built now ebbed away slightly, but it wasn't far from reaching you again. If Copia touched you, it would surely wash over you again. Part of you wanted to drench yourself in that pleasure, to swim and melt in it completely. A corner in your mind wished with all your might that Copia would let you; the rational part of you recoiled at your desire, it being so undignified and sudden. You tried to let your head drop a little, and immediately Copia pulled the leash up with a quick tug that snapped it back in position.

"I said to keep your head up," He said, his voice low, menacing. His hand didn't drop or loosen the leash, so your head remained up. "I will not tell you again, sister. Now be still and don't move until I tell you to."

Copia gazed down at you with such ferocity that you stood rigid and kept your lips pressed together tight. The new Papa was frightening looking but very handsome in the dim light that made his face angular, his eyes even more smoldering. You marvelled at him for a moment, then with a shock, you felt Copia's free hand on you. You felt his fingers trail down the side of your neck and down to your breasts. He grabbed at your right breast, cupping it as if to feel its weight, then kneaded it slowly until it sent shivers through you. His thumb brushed over your now hardening nipple through the material of your bra. He did the same with your left. He then imprisoned the nipple and squeezed it rhythmically between his fingers before reaching for the other to give it the same treatment. A rush of shameful pleasure shot through you and settled between your legs, making your sex grow warm as if it could also blush, and you held back a moan with great effort. Copia pulled on the leash, making you lean slightly closer to him. 

"Kiss me," He whispered. As soon as he commanded, you moved to catch his lips in a deep kiss almost too quickly, still keeping your hands behind your back. Copia sucked at your mouth, then opened it with his tongue as his hand went between your open legs and, without warning, stroked your sex through your panties. You uttered a sharp cry against Copia's lips before you could stop yourself. Your body immediately acknowledged him with a twitch of your hips and a soft discharge of fluids while you struggled to swallow another moan. You squirmed, resisting the urge to close your legs with everything you had. Copia broke away from your lips to kiss your earlobe, then he nibbled at it as his hand continued to stroke you. His fingers moved in slow circles now, pressed harder until they found the sensitive mound of your clitoris through the moistening cloth. You gave a soft, open-mouthed gasp and your hips jerked forward in supplication. You wanted to grind yourself on his fingers, rock your hips for more, but the sheer gracelessness of it seemed too much for you. Besides, you weren't sure if it was something he would approve of or chastise, so you stayed as still as you could, your legs starting to shake under your weight. Copia pulled back and smiled at your flushing face, then pulled the crotch of your panties to the side and glided two of his gloved fingers along the delicate folds of your labia. The fingers teased at the moist lips and continued to massage your clit in more circles, even slower ones that drew out the sensation. Breathy moans spilled from your lips. The pleasure washed through you, mounting and mounting as he worked you. Beneath your ecstasy, you felt a twinge of embarrassment at how quickly you had become wet for him. It was forgotten in an instant once Copia slid a finger inside you, then a second. You shuddered and cried aloud. Your sex quivered at the sudden penetration, and your cry melted into a long, low moan. Copia kissed the corner of your mouth.

"That's it," Copia said softly, pulling his fingers out, then sliding them back in slowly. Then again and again. "Don't resist me. Be a good girl for your Papa." 

Your hips moved forward at the sound of his voice. Once so frightening, but now smooth and rich as velvet. He was so close to you now, and for the first time, you could smell his cologne. It was warm, spicy, and delicious to you, almost intoxicating. Your eyes stared through heavy lids at Copia's lips. They were full yet strong, set into a faint smile that struck at a cord of desire in you that made the penetration even more pleasurable. You wanted to kiss and kiss those lips until you had your fill. You felt your sex start to throb, and you began to gasp, but before it became too much for you, Copia dropped the leash, withdrew his fingers, and pushed you back, that seductive little smile still there. You let out a disappointed moan that would have been humiliating had you done it to anyone else. 

"That's enough for now," Copia said, "Get down on your knees." 

Your mind whirled as you let yourself float down until you sat on your heels on the floor, your legs still slightly apart. Your thighs trembled under you, and your throbbing craved relief. You kept your hands behind your back. You feared that if you let them fall to your sides, you would lose control and throw yourself at Copia in desperation. The only thing you allowed yourself to do was writhe, clasping your hands as tight as possible. You felt the wetness of your sex between your legs, sticky, slick, and hot. 

You let out a sigh, looking up at Copia, your lips parted, your body wanting more.  He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor.

"All fours." He ordered.

You fell onto your hands and knees. You arched your back, your buttocks lifted as if to be presented. Your body tingled in arousal at doing so, knowing that Copia could see you doing it. You wiggled your hips a little bit, and you were shocked at your own boldness. 

'Fuck it, I don't care. I don't care.' You thought.

Copia stepped forward, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. 

"Good girl," He said, and he crouched down to take a closer look at you, "Does my little puppy want more?" 

"Yes, Papa." You said softly, "Please." 

"Then I think you should clean up the mess you made." Copia held up the hand that touched you. The gloved fingers were still glistening with your juices. He touched them to your lips, and you took them into your mouth without a thought. You sucked on them, letting your tongue swirl around the digits. The taste of leather and your own fluids mixed with your saliva, and when Copia pulled them away, you swallowed. The flavor lingered, both tantalizing and odd to you. 

Copia stood and made an airy gesture to your bottom.

"Wag your hips for me." He said, and he laughed when he saw your face go red, "It's no use being shy now, sister. Unless you want me to take my belt off and make good use of it. You don't want that, do you?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You shook your head. 

"That's what I thought. Now, put your face to the floor and swing those hips." 

Your face flamed as you lowered it until you all but kissed the floor, your ass high up in the air. You churned your hips and hoped it was pleasing. You felt Copia take the leash from the floor and give it a quick tug. 

"Faster. Arch your back more."

You lowered as you were told to do and arched your back almost uncomfortably, your cheek sealed to the floor. A groan escaped you at the touch of the cold stone on your chest. Then in utter submission, any sense of pride, if there was indeed any in the first place, left you, and you wagged your buttocks back and forth like an excited dog wagging its tail for its master. Above you, you heard the creak of the bedsprings as Copia sat. You felt another tug on the leash, and you lifted your head. Copia sat back on the bed with his legs spread apart, the bulge of his erection in full view. Your sex seemed to swell at the sight of it. 

"You please me very well, sister," Copia said. He tugged on the leash again to bring you forward. "No more playing. Come here, let Papa reward you." 

"Papa..." You whispered. You hurried to him on your hands and knees. You kissed the tops of his shoes on an impulse, then his ankles. Copia didn't protest, so you kissed his knees and dared to run your hands along his inner thighs and kiss them as well. His thighs were rather shapely and solid under his clothes, pleasant to touch. When your hand rubbed over his groin, Copia let out a soft moan. Encouraged, you leaned over and kissed the waist of his pants, still rubbing the bulging sex. 

"Undo them." Copia's hand stroked your hair.

You didn't hesitate to undo the button and zipper of his pants. And now you were staring at his cock through his boxers, a small wet spot formed on the dark cloth. Again, you leaned down, placing a little kiss there, then you darted your tongue out and licked it. The hard cock twitched in its prison as if it asked to be free. You looked up at Copia with lustful, inquiring eyes, and you were delighted when he nodded at you. 

"Yes, cara. You can touch it." 

You pulled the elastic fabric down until his cock sprung free from its confinement. It stood tall and thick. A bead of clear fluid seeped from the tip, and you stared at it, surprised by its length and size. You took it in your hand, stroked it, felt its hardness and warmth. You couldn't help but wonder if the others knew Copia was quite well-endowed. You caressed the shaft up and down, tightening your hand every so often at the base of Copia's cock. Copia moaned as you did so, his head lolling back slightly. Your heart fluttered in your chest. It felt good to know that you gave him pleasure, that you pleased him enough to avoid his wrath and to even reward you. What an honor this must have been! A ripple of relaxation washed over you. You closed your eyes and took the tip of the cock into your mouth, suckling on it before taking it deeper in.

Copia gasped above you and bucked his hips. The action drove the shaft even deeper into your mouth, and you sucked on it hard, bobbing your head with a steady rhythm. It nudged the back of your throat, droplets of salty liquid mixed with the taste of his skin. Copia's thighs shivered, and his breath quickened. You moaned as you continued to push up and down on his cock until his hips started to shake. 

"Fuck, sister," Copia grunted, "That's enough!"

He grabbed your hair and pulled your head away. He didn't pull you hard enough to hurt, but you still gasped once you felt the fingers grip your hair. When he released you, he motioned for you to stand. You obeyed.

"Take everything off and lay on the bed." He told you, almost breathless. 

The collar was the first to go; you unbuckled it and threw it aside, happy to be rid of the awful thing. You unclasped your bra and let it slip from your shoulders. Though the air was cool on your now naked breasts, your nipples grew hot and erect. A sudden, inexplicable desire to entice Copa came to you as you lowered and stepped out of your panties. 

'Do it.' Your lust-clouded mind ordered you, and you did. 

When you straightened, you locked eyes with Copia as you ran your hands over your breasts, pushing them together and biting your lip. A dark look flickered across Copia's face, and he stood with a low growl. He snatched your upper arm and yanked you to him. 

"You dare tease me in my own room after I've given you an order?" He hissed, then gave a wicked smile, "You must like being punished, sister. But we will save that for another time." 

He turned to fling you down onto the bed. You fell back onto the mattress; the sheets and coverlet were soft and plush underneath you. You had little time to enjoy it before Copia descended on you with rough kisses, his hips grinding against yours, his cock prodding at your thigh. His hand grabbed and kneaded your breast hard. But you wanted him so badly that you scarcely noticed how tight his fingers dug into your flesh. He then gave it a cruel slap that drew a loud moan from you. It was an exciting mix of pain and pleasure, and you wanted more.

"Again." You pleaded. You arched your back to offer your chest to him, and you wrapped your legs around his hips. Copia rose from his kisses. It was his turn to lock eyes with you as he lifted his hand and struck you again, just a little bit harder than the first time. You whimpered and squirmed underneath him. Copia positioned and moved his hips so that the shaft of his cock rubbed along your slick pubic lips, grazing your sensitive, engorged clitoris. You strained against him, tried to rock your hips to feel more of that rigid member. Copia looked amused by your torment. 

"Tell me what you want." He leaned down again and sucked at your nipples, bit at them playfully with his teeth. Your hands went to cradled his head to you, little sighs and moans leaving you unrestrained. 

"Fuck me." You murmured into his hair. 

As soon as the words left your mouth, Copia rose, brought his cock to your opening, then drove it into you in one fluid motion. You cried out. Your head fell back, and your body seemed to explode in pleasure. His cock was a thick, piercing thing inside you, bathing in your juices as he drew back and plunged into you. His thrusts were brutal, delivered in almost snapping motions that made the bedsprings creak under you. You heard yourself unleash loud, guttural moans with each solid thrust, wholly overcome by denied passion. Copia buried his face in your neck, his breath making the skin hot as he panted. The agonizing pleasure rose in your core, swelling, ready to erupt in a shower of sparks behind your skull, in your loins. Then all at once, your wet sex tightened around Copia and throbbed violently until you were all but screaming in ecstasy. You clutched Copia while the spasms rolled through you, and you let your legs spread wide, allowing Copia to slam into you unhindered until he also gave a small cry and shuddered above you. Hot, gushing fluid flowed into you and lay you back with your chest heaving in gasps. 

Copia pulled out and collapsed beside you. You turned on your side to face him; his features were soft-looking, almost angelic in their exhaustion. His eyes drooped closed, his forehead glistened with sweat. You brushed his disheveled hair back, leaned close, and kissed his brow, tasting the saltiness on your lips before pulling away. Copia opened his eyes, gazed at you lovingly, then took you and cradled you to his chest. The fabric of his suit felt luxurious on your naked skin in the afterglow, and you snuggled close to it, sighing. You both stayed that way for a few minutes, with Copia threading his fingers through your hair. You yawned, and your eyes started to feel heavy.

"We can't fall asleep," Copia said, shaking you a bit to rouse you, "I've kept you here long enough, and the other sisters must be out of their minds with worry by now." 

"Yes, Papa." You nodded, sat up, and winced a little. Your privates ached from their hard riding. You tried to hide it, only making a slight noise in your throat. It seemed you couldn't fool Copia, however. He also got up and rubbed your lower back, kissing your cheek.

"Was Papa too rough with you, cara?" He asked. You shook your head. 

"No, Papa, I'll be fine. It'll pass." You reassured him. 

"Alright, but I will have Cirrus check on you later tonight anyway," He patted your hip, "And what happened here must be a secret. You know this, right? Otherwise, I'd have to gag you and march you through the grounds. It's a little, eh, display, you could say, that I've come up with to officially demonstrate my authority to the others. I have yet to put it into practice, and It'd be unfortunate to have you be its first victim." 

You bowed your head, not in fear, but again in reassurance.

"Yes, Papa. I won't tell anyone." You said obediently. You crawled out of bed and gathered your clothes. Copia zipped and buttoned up his pants, then stood as well and straightened his hair. 

"Good. Now, get dressed and get back to the convent. Tell the Ghouls to run you a bath when you get there. Say it's my orders, and they'll do it." 

"Okay." A bath sounded lovely to you as you redressed. If only Copia could join you...

"And sister," Copia's voice came low, playful. You turned, and you saw his eyes gleam at you. Your pulse quickened.

"Yes, Papa?" You asked.

"Don't forget that I said I would save your other punishment for next time." He winked at you, and your heart soared. 

"I won't." You smiled. 

"Good girl."

You bid him good night, then left his chamber, secretly hoping that that time would be soon.

[itlivesproject]

what do you guys think each character including mc, noah, devon, and connor’s handwriting looks like?

Abel

Abel has an academic’s handwriting. Fast and harried, really difficult to read, cursive that looks more like chicken scratch. The only exception is when he’s purposefully trying to make it legible, in which case it’s in print and looks almost childish because he’s trying very hard to make all the letters look like they’re supposed to

Amalia

Amalia's is neat and legible, almost like print. Round letters of appropriate size and with appropriate spacing. Her writing used to be small and cramped, but she spent a while in high school trying to change that. Sometimes when she's stressed and writing in a hurry, her handwriting might revert back to that which all her teachers both hated and feared

Lincoln

Lincoln’s handwriting is a print/cursive hybrid, cool and sort of hard to read. It’s the kind of handwriting that people look at and are like “whoaaa you have cool handwriting!” But then when they actually try to read it they’re like 🤨 aesthetically pleasing but at what cost?

Jocelyn

Jocelyn is left-handed, so by default her handwriting isn’t the neatest. She tries her best to make it look nice but often leaves smudge marks on the paper whether that’s with ink or graphite. Any time she writes for an extended period of time the side of her hand has lead or ink all over it.

[dannywagnerenthusiast]

Empty Seat Moments 2.5: The Letter Sam Kiszka / Danny Wagner / Reader

Hello friends!! Here is Sam's letter to y/n and Danny as promised!! This is written as another installment to the series, but Sam's letter alone will also be posted! Feedback feeds the writer :)

Sitting in a dining chair next to Danny, your fingers were physically shaking as you tore open the envelope. He reaches out and grabs your ankle, pulling it into his lap and begins rubbing soothing circles over the soft skin above your sock.

You can hear Sam pacing behind you. Before you can reach out to soothe him, Danny is reaching his strong arm out and pulling Sam in by the hip, guiding him down onto one of his thighs. Sam’s face is contorted with worry and angst, but you see it melt away fractionally as he joins Danny. The two of them shared a smile as Danny’s fingers continued to work over the skin of your foot. Sam’s hand reaches across Danny’s lap to rest on your shin.

Seeing your two boys next to you, grounding you with their touch, encourages you to open Sam’s letter. You can see Sam squirm at this, but Danny wraps his arm tighter around his waist and nods his head in your direction. “Read it out loud, love?”

You look at Sam and ask quietly, “Sammy?” He gives a miniscule head nod, so you finally break open the envelope. Scrawled in Sammy’s chicken scratch is the lined paper, ripped from the songwriting notebook you’d seen Sam jotting lyrics in before. The thought makes you smile as you pull the sheet out and straighten it, clearing your throat before beginning to read the note.

Dear y/n and Daniel,

You both know that I’m not the best with words. I’d usually leave that for Josh- but it’s time that I finally put my fears aside and tell you everything I’ve been meaning to say for the past 6 months.

I’ll start with you, Daniel. You have been my best friend since 7th grade, and sometimes you’ve been more of a brother to me than Jake and Josh have. I love you more than I know how to tell you.

You can feel your own voice wavering as you read Sam’s heartfelt words. Sparing a glance at your boys, Sam has his head tucked into Danny’s neck. Sam is watching you read the letter with glossy eyes, but Danny…Danny lost the fight against his tears already. They’re freely running down the bridge of his nose and onto Sam’s cheek. The love in his eyes as he gazes at Sammy sets your heart on fire and you can feel the tears beginning to sting your eyes as well. Clearing your throat again, you push on.

You are the type of person that I want to be. You are selfless, caring, you put everyone else before yourself, and I really don’t know how you do it. I am constantly amazed by you, Daniel. Since we were 13, I’ve watched you put everyone else’s needs first, and you deserve to have everything in this life that you want, too.

You don’t look up from the letter this time, because you think that you might fully dissolve into a puddle if you look at Sam and Danny long enough. However, you can hear Danny sniffling away, and from your periphery you can see Sammy reach up and swipe some of Danny’s tears away with his thumb.

I always wanted to be the one that made you happy, Daniel. But I was too afraid to ruin our friendship and our music, our band. I couldn’t live with myself if I drove you away from me and my brothers by putting myself out there with you without knowing how you felt about me. I decided that having you as my best friend was enough, Daniel. It will always be enough. I need you to know that. Even now, I need you in my life and if time changes this, I need you and y/n to still be my best friends.

By this point in the letter, Sam has succumbed to his tears as well, and you think you might be left with 5 fingerprint-shaped bruises on your skin from him squeezing you so hard.

Tear tracks are beginning to drop from your eyes onto the paper and are at risk of smudging the ink, so for now you set it down on the dining table. You kick your leg free of Danny and Sam’s grasp and clamber over to their shared chair. Throwing yourself haphazardly onto the floor in front of them, you embrace both of these sweet boys before you, not caring about shared tears at the moment.

“Oh Sammy,” you whimper into his neck as you clutch at him desperately, “I love you, I love you, okay? We’re not going anywhere.” You scratched gently at the back of his head, twirling the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. You feel him nod against your shoulder, hot tears of his own running down your neck.

You lean back slightly and lift your eyes to Danny, who has been running a soothing hand up and down Sam’s back and simultaneously softly grazing his nails over the crown of your head.

There’s no need for words. The expression of adoration on his face is enough, so you press up off the floor to plant a searing kiss on his lips, then you return to your own chair.

The only thing I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, Daniel. That’s why when you met y/n, I was devastated and elated.

Your heart breaks over hearing that meeting and falling in love with Danny caused Sam to resent you, at least for a little while.

Sam catches your eye and looks sad, guilty almost. But how can you put any blame on him? He’s known your Danny longer, arguably been in love with Danny longer.

You do your best to shoot him a reassuring smile and continue on with the letter in a wavering voice.

Sweet y/n,

Your own name feels foreign on your tongue. You seek out Danny’s eyes with your own. Your soulmate in this life, you're sure of it. When you do find his eyes, they’re watching you intently. He’s still got Sam wrapped in his arms on his lap, but he’s looking at you.

You are an incredible woman. I want to make so many things clear to you in this letter. It’s hard to find the words for how we got here y/n, and I don’t want you to think that this love is just us sharing Danny. I need you to know that I love you, y/n. You are my best friend. You are my biggest supporter. You are my confidant. You are Danny’s soulmate, but you are my twin flame.

Importantly, sweetheart, I need to thank you for some things.

First, thank you for loving me the way you do.

Second, thank you for loving Daniel the way you do.

Third, thank you for being my best friend.

Fourth, thank you for being you.

When we’re old, baby, standing around and telling the story of how this unconventional trio came to be, I’m going to tell anyone who asks that my best friend Daniel met the greatest woman alive, named y/n. She came around so often that she became my best friend, too. And man, their love was just something to behold. How could you not fall in love with her? She’s soft and kind, funny, and strong. She’s powerful, beautiful, sexy, and she’s hopelessly in love with Daniel Wagner, too.

This line causes the three of you to laugh over the choked down tears you’ve been fighting all night. Sam can barely make eye contact with you, and Danny is looking between the two of you like you’ve both hung the moon and stars.

A few moments of silence pass as you take in the surrounding ambience of the room, bashful smiles on all of your faces. Danny has taken it upon himself to open the wine and pour out three glasses, handing them out with a gentle clink as you all cheers and take a small sip.

“God I love you two.” Danny says with a sigh as he settles back into the chair, pressing a kiss into Sam’s hairline.

Now that the words have been said, you don’t think any of the three of you will ever be able to stop yourselves ever again.

Sam’s voice comes out wobbly as he returns the sentiment, and you agree. It’s a little bit clunky, the three of you sprawled out in your king bed that night. All desperate wandering hands and wine-tipsy searching lips- but you wouldn’t have it any other way, you’ve got your soulmate and your twin flame; and they’ve got you.

taglist: @kdarling1