#there is just something so personal about letters (even formal ones) and handwriting

[fictionismyreality3]

Penpals with the 141

Warnings: stalkerish behaviour at the end teehee 🤭

Notes: if only I had a hot military man or men to send letters to 🤷🏻‍♀️😩

It started out as just another way to keep the boredom away. Sending care packages to military members was also a plus. You'd be staying busy and doing a good deed at the same time. You found some trustworthy-enough organization, signed up, and sent out your first letter along with a few goodies like choclates and warm socks.

The 141 had never really thought much about getting care packages from civilians. In their eyes it was just a good way to get the things they missed out on while on deployment. Most of the letters got tossed as soon as they opened the box.

That was until they got yours.

The stupid little smiley face drawn on the cardboard shouldn’t have stopped Simon in his tracks, but he found himself staring down at the doodle.

"L.T? Y'been standin' there fer a good 15 minutes." Soap remarked.

"S'that your favourite candy, right?"

Soap was swayed by the chocolate oranges, finding himself reading your letter as he scarfed down each wedge. The curly handwriting, the crossed out and rewritten words had him showing the letter to Gaz, and then Price. Soon you found yourself in an almost penpal situation. Over the exchange of more and more letters, you were able to dicern the personalities of each man who was writing to you.

There was Soap, who wrote in barely legible chicken scratch, often skipping words or even entire sentences, like he was thinking too fast for his hand to keep up. Always calling you 'bonnie' or 'lass'.

Gaz, who wrote much more formally. His hand writing was the best to read, neatly printed on the lines of the paper. You got the sense that he sat down and put his whole attention into writing back to you.

Ghost, who's name you were yet to learn, tacked on his responses at the end of the paper. It was rare to get more than a few sentances from him, and even rarer for them to be anything but small talk. Slowly, he began to open up, asking you how you were or if your boss had resolved that HR issue yet. How did he know that?

Price, who'd quickly insisted on you calling him John— makes me feel old, luv— was the one who you seemed the most interested in your life. You chalked it up to him wanting to have something to think about other than his life threatening job.

Questions about your living situation, your job, your hobbies, it all seemed like small talk. Easy enough to look over. And then came the questions about your bills. Does your job pay enough? When's the last time you've been on vacation? What does your ideal living situation look like? Are you in a relationship?

It wasn't just John who was asking. So were Gaz, Johnny, and even Ghost began to inquire about more personal details. Every time you got a letter, it was almost a pavlovian response for your cheeks to blush. You looked forwards to the letters from your far away military men, and they even sent you gifts!

A watch, just like the one on your pinterest, wrapped up in a pretty pink bow. They added on such a sweet note too.

"Synced up to our watches." Ghost.

"Thought you needed a little treat." Gaz

"Here you go, bonnie! Now you can know when we're awake!" Soap.

"Let me know if you need it tightened, sweetheart." John.

They didn't feel the need to tell you about the favour they called in with Laswell to get the micro-tracker added, or about the camera and microphone they planted in the watch face. You looked so pretty with it on anyways, they'd need to make sure nobody stared too long.

[court-jobi]

Alexa, Play...

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work OR the mindblowing art of @gsony24~used w permission))

Pairing: Midoriya x reader

Words: 1.6k

Rating: G~

Warnings: Southern US!GNreader, comfort fic, tooth-rotting fluff here y'all, established relationship, language barrier, dancing-in-the-kitchen level self-insert

Summary:

Izuku comes home to spot your grocery list on the fridge written out in your native language- something he sees just as rarely as hearing you speak it. Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek, a laugh thrown his way... or -like now- when you chat over the phone in an accent he never gets to hear. He wants to hear more so badly, and asks for it so sweetly.

A/N: a short n'sweet one today, folks, bc I was missing writing for this sweet green bean. I have yet to see MHA: You're Next, but have no one to see it with ughhhhh so off to writing fanfic to soothe the pain~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

You're on the phone with your mom when Izuku finds your sticky note for shopping on the fridge. His mindful shut of the door was appreciated by your mouthed apology, but let him know that he'd best occupy himself solo for a bit while you catch up. The time difference between your home country and here leaves your windows to chat limited, so he’s happy when your schedules align like this. 

If you'll be on a while longer, he thinks he can take a quick drive and pick up these few things for you. Inspired by the idea, he plucks the list out from the magnet’s hold.

You've got nice handwriting, a blend between printed letters and a tilted, cursive script. Personality shines especially near the end of a word, when you're rushing to move onto the next thought. 

Painter’s tape

bananas

white vinegar (stupid drain line)

It's so simple, but when it's written in your native language by default, it feels like a secret to be reading even something so simple as a list like this– scribbled out in the way as it appears in your head.

For most formal paperwork, your kana characters are decently executed, though it's always going to be harder when you grew up speaking Japanese rather than filling out lines and lines of bellwork in the kanji style. This isn't to say you've not been trying:

Over the course of your courtship, you've bonded with young Eri as an extension of Izuku's life and have inherited some of her early learning textbooks. You happened on them by accident, when you were helping her paint her room a few months ago. It sounded elementary when you expressed the interest to read and write Japanese better, and the sweet girl was so enthusiastic to help! 

She lent you her books, but of course you weren't becoming an expert overnight. However slow you’d pace yourself, Izuku was plenty proud of you for making the effort. He'd allow you as much grace as he could spare– especially since your notes were still so cute to find here and there~

Across the room, pacing along every other tile on the floor like stepping stones, you look up catching Izuku staring. You’ve been deep in conversation for only about an hour, but give him a wrench of your nose in jest, and begin wrapping up the call explaining that he’s home and you’d like to greet him properly. 

Izuku calls out a quick 'hi’ and ‘bye' to your mom when he motions to go on speaker; you're not one to refuse him, as he well knows. 

You seem pleased on more than one front when he asks to talk to your family, so he continues to do it. For one, you’re touched by how spirited he is to even want to interact with your mother, and his dropping of formalities and reverting to English to speak to her means a lot to you. Neither point is lost on sweet Izuku, based on how your smile brightens when he jogs over to you to be more in speaking range. 

When you hang up, you're quick to pop up and kiss him as a welcome home. Izuku hangs onto you a little longer than usual, thumb rubbing into your cheek as he savors you several times in quick succession. 

Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek or a laugh thrown his way. 

“‘Zuku, what's that look for, babe?” 

In your sentimental bliss, you're still surprised to get such adoring treatment from him almost a year into a relationship. 

“Nothing,” Izuku chimes back, “I just forget that you're this American sometimes~”

“Whaddya mean, ‘you forget’?!” the concept sounds hilarious to you. 

“I do!” Izuku offers to take your phone to plug it in nearby, “I have to remind myself that Japanese isn't your first language, until I see you on FaceTime with your mom. Out of nowhere, I'll just hear you sound so different, like: ‘byyyye~ talk to y'all later’!”

You snort at his attempt at a southern accent– stiff and stuck on the wrong vowels. Clearly this succeeds in amusing you, because you hop up and down on the balls of your feet like you've discovered a new game:

“Oh my God, ‘Texas Smash Deku’ is the stuff of my fantasies!– oo!! say, ‘I’d like a honey butter chicken biscuit’~”

“WHAT?? N-no!!”

“What YES!! Please??”

Both doubled over in laughter, you're entertained over his thorough embarrassment, but you're both smitten and carefree: holding onto each other despite nearly buckling at the knees.

Izuku tries his best to catch his breathe first, determined to explain himself,

“I can't do it right! It's like- you say things- I don't know how to describe it! It's not just the flat, movie star accent.. It's–"

“What, a-- ‘drawl’? ‘Twang’?”

Izuku snaps at the realization.

“Yes!! That!! The country kind, like that chef you watch!”

You've rolled your eyes, stepping out of his kind hold in favor of checking out what takeout he brought home. 

“-Hey, no, come back!”

“‘Makin’ fun'ah my accent, I outta smack you’.”

You're far from really mad as you tote around the kitchen getting silverware and soy sauce, but Izuku follows you around like a shadow regardless. Eyes full of that puppy love, he does try to block you in from the pantry closet,

“I’m sorry, honey~”

“No you're not.” --but you're grinning out of forgiveness anyway.

Izuku sneaks a hold on you, reeling you in. It’s cozy in your shared kitchen, alight with just the right amount of overhead lighting and enough space for you two to stand and share tasks.

“I do like hearing you talk like that,” he shares contentedly, “It’s nice to listen to that side of you, especially when you have a lot to say.”

“Yeah well,” you turn into his arms, rather than away, “I'm sure you've noticed already, it comes from her side of the family. Guess I can't really ditch the accent whenever I switch back. The more I think about it… I'm gonna be happy if I can keep sounding like her as I get older. Lets me keep something of hers- even if my ‘dashing hero’ of a man over here thinks I'm being cheeky."

“No, I'm not teasing now! I mean it,” Izuku presses into you, “I only meant, you don't hold back or anything when you're chatty with her.”

He wonders if it stems from shyness, your avoidance of using too much English here at home. If you’re jamming out while doing chores -presuming you’re alone- you’ll switch the station once you know you have an audience.

“Not trying to hide it with you! I'm just out of practice here. No one else in our circle really uses English, so it doesn't come up, I guess.”

You make the point with a wistful aire. Occasionally you'll sub English classes as a favor to Izuku’s effervescent coworker at UA, but not often enough to get too much exposure. He's always been impressed with your Japanese diction, and thinks you could very well go into teaching if you ever wanted a career change.

Still, whether its for work or play, it’s a sound that’s intrinsically you, and there’s a magic to it that Izuku finds himself chasing. A secret power of yours, if he could only unlock it.

“--Plus, I don't think a lot of the slang translates over?” you get comfortable in his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck with no intention of leaving as you muse, “You guys have your own here, and that’s hard to figure out anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

Tenderly, you run your nails through his hair, a thoughtful look up to him, 

“Do you want me to use it more at home? Lay on the sugar for ya?”

A chance to hear you at your core? Watch your handwritten notes come alive?

“If you want-” Izuku softens, “-if you’re comfortable.”

“Can you understand me though?”

“I can hear you. It only gets hard when you get excited, ‘cuz you talk fast.”

You fuss back at him, “Oh, as if you don't.”

Caught under your hypocritical eye, he can only offer an honest chuckle back, “Fair~”

But for all of your feeling put on the spotlight, you seem to hold a soft spot for the way Izuku makes his requests:

“ ‘I guess I can indulge ya, since you asked so nicely.’ ”

–and it’s enough for him to try his hand to give you a linguistic sparring partner right back:

“ ‘Say something else.’ ”

All English flies out the window when he's looking at you like this, as you fall under a fit of nervous laughter, “What am I supposed to say?!” 

“ ‘Sing me a song, my love. Something 'twangy'.”

You giggled, "'Twangy', good Lord…” 

Izuku could write novels on everything from your finest features to even your most pensive insecurities, romanticizing each of them into a beautifully imperfect anthology. He does so in his mind, at least, when you’re barely lucid on the edge of sleep but still trying to engage him in meaningful conversation. He’ll do so in the notes on his phone, when he learns of yet another favorite token of yours, and wants to add it to the list of comfort measures he can refer to when you need it most.

And when you prompt Alexa to play your newly revealed ‘Karaoke hours that will never see the light of day’ playlist -the one that’s chock-full of female power ballads which you begin to sing your own rendition to-  Izuku is certain his mind nor fingers nor heart can catalog how much more he can possibly love you… though he’ll dance in place with you as he listens and soaks it all in.

[kiyomitakada]

okay fuck it i went to a leonardo da vinci exhibit today and now i have a leonardo da vinci death note AU in my head because i am a parody of myself so you can fucking have it i guess what do i even do with this

light yagami: young genius polymath who is good at literally everything

unfortunately for him he is a foreigner in italia (his family immigrated) so the government is not letting him anywhere near their weaponry projects. instead he does art. yes light yagami painted the mona lisa no i do not take criticism i’m in too deep

his portraits are predictably amazing. smash hit. soon aristocracy from all over italy is contacting him to draw them and their mother. this means he doesnt even have time in the day to draw giant fuckoff warship designs anymore. what point is there to life, he sulks.

eventually he accepts a commission from one kyosuke higuchi! we’re italianizing him because i really don’t think this AU works otherwise but let’s call him higuchi anyway. higuchi is a fifty-something duke of something or other who has recently married one misa amane who is twenty-something (the same age as light). misa is the subject of the portrait because higuchi just loves his darling wife so much (read: they had a shotgun wedding and higuchi needs to keep up appearances)

light is like wow someone who isn’t white it’s been like five years. i kind of feel bad for her, this situation is very suspicious. hello miss amane if you’ll just sit down over there while i get my brushes

misa (seeing the first person who has been even remotely sympathetic to her absolutely horrific life, noticing he hasn’t tried to make any advances on her at all [this is a good thing]): I AM DRASTICALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU.

light: what

misa’s plan of seducing light predictably fails because he’s light, so she explains she has to get the fuck away from higuchi somehow

light is like okay well i am sorry to hear that but what does this have to do with me.

misa, tearing up: im a damsel in distress! also i can get you information about his court

light: whats his job

misa: financial advisor

light: oh fuck yes okay

so light’s plan is now to worm into the yotsuba court to get funding and hopefully sway them enough to let him pitch his cool weaponry ideas so he can Change The World. he does need income in general too (both for himself and his family; expected lifespan was way shorter then obviously).

misa’s plan is to kill higuchi somehow which will be much easier with light as backup she thinks

so. light packs up and moves to the yotsuba court which is thrilled to have THE light yagami portrait artist (i do more than portraits…) in their employ

oh yeah, misa mentions, the prince of the yotsuba court is kind of… weird

light: you could have told me this before

misa: ehe. dont worry about it!! it’s just um. he had a weird personality shift a few years ago? and now he refuses to wear royal attire. he always dresses like a peasant.

light: well it’s not like i’m going to be there to judge him on fashion am i.

THAT’S RIGHT. SIKE THIS IS AN ISEKAI NOW. yes L does remember light killing him <3 he (L) woke up in fifteenth century renaissance italy in a twenty-something-year-old body immediately after the heart attack. by some miracle he already knew italian.

so everything is going swell until one day light walks into his workshop to find the prince flipping through his notebook

light, sleep deprived: hey what the fu—i mean. uh. good morning your highness

there’s no need for that formality. call me L.

(…but your name doesn’t start with an L?) thank you, your highness L. um. sorry i know my handwriting’s messy.

on the contrary i find it completely readable, as long as one reads backwards and caesar shifts it three letters forward.

(oh SHIT he’s onto me) haha what are you talking about?

in fact i think this mechanical dragonfly contraption is rather ingenious.

oh aha that’s not important, just a passing fancy honestly

[ignoring him] if only you had some better way of providing torque, because as it stands the spring engine is extremely poorly designed.

what the fuck did you just say to me

[they end up physically fighting over the notebook because of course they do. meet cute!]

some more details:

ryuk is the patron light eventually gets after being in higuchi’s court for a bit

rem is higuchi’s personal assistant, who was disowned by her own royal-blooded family because her family sucks. she hates her job. if it weren’t for misa she’d probably be on the other side of the country by now

i don’t know where the wammy kids are. they’re definitely competing to be the heir to L’s throne but also they’re not related because there is no way that all the wammy kids (the whole orphanage of wammy kids) could have come from the same person. maybe some kind of insufferably high collar royal boarding school? did they even have those? help me

kiyomi and teru are both advisors in other courts (which are extremely corrupt, light seethes, in his perfect world there wont be any of those anymore) (you work for a court light) (thats different)

okay i’m done for today. you never know about tomorrow though. /threat.

[ @deathnotetober day 12: isekai ]

[perfectsunlight]

01 ━━━ THE WAY THINGS GO

warnings: minor angst.

word count: 2.3k

synopsis: your ex-wife receives an invite to your wedding, but will she let you say "i do" for a second time?

masterlist | next

when the leaves grow green and the cherry blossoms bloom, soyeon remembers your wedding. however, she wasn’t expecting that reminder six months earlier, and this time it wasn’t a reminder of the past.

the ceo furrowed her eyebrows as she flipped over the white envelope that had been addressed to her as “jeon soyeon” and not “ceo jeon.” did her mother send her a late birthday card? or was it something from a friend?

a pit formed in her stomach when she recognized the handwriting. it was yours.

the woman’s fingers trembled slightly as she gently opened the invitation, and prayed to every god in the sky that it wasn’t true. she hoped that the non-formal addressing and the color scheme meant anything but the thoughts running through her head.

the elegant script on the invitation danced before her eyes, adorned with black and white lettering. the weight of the revelation caused her chest to tighten and the air inside her lungs to disappear. 

you were getting re-married. 

it had been 5 years since the divorce. had you really moved on?

as she read the details of the upcoming ceremony, soyeon couldn't shake the mixture of disbelief and subtle pain that twisted in her stomach. 

on top of that, you were marrying a man who happened to be an old school friend of yours. he was always the only person who had been closer to you than she was.

with a heavy heart, she traced the letters of your name on the invitation, feeling the ink under her fingertips as she remembered the way her name looked next to yours all those years ago. 

she thought about reaching for her phone, dialing your number and demanding an explanation from you. but the rational ceo within her prevailed, reminding her that the past was just that—a chapter closed and done, sealed with the ink of divorce papers.

yet, in the solitude of her office, surrounded by the trappings of success, soyeon couldn't escape the way this single white envelope had made her feel. the memories of your love that once bloomed like the blossoms outside her window did in early may were now juxtaposed against the harsh reality of a future that no longer included her.

with a sigh, she folded the invitation, holding it in her hands as if the act itself could contain the storm of emotions brewing deep inside her. she had so much left to say to you, but she didn’t even want to bother trying at this point. 

you were getting re-married, and she would have to accept the fact that you no longer were in love with her. 

she gently placed the envelope against the side of her desk lamp, not wanting to throw it away, but also not knowing exactly what to do with it either.

her gaze lingered on the invitation, her mind oscillating between the urge to confront the past and the wisdom of letting it rest. she wrestled with the conflicting desires, knowing very well that your happiness was all she ever wanted, but also hating that your happiness was no longer coming from her.

but soyeon knew that it hadn’t been coming from her for years now.

the ceo knew she couldn't change the course of your life or the feelings that led to this moment. the realization stung, but it also carried a quiet strength—a reminder that she had weathered storms before, and this, too, was just another tempest to endure.

as she leaned back in her chair, she allowed herself a moment of reflection. her eyes briefly glanced at the scenery outside her window. autumn leaves were falling, symbolizing the true arrival of the fall season. the tiniest smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she watched them dance in the wind.

it reminded her of the first time she met you.

the air outside was cold, and on that day specifically, soyeon remembered thinking she could feel the brisk touch of winter lurking in the breeze. it was a day much like this one, with leaves in hues of amber and gold painting the path beneath her feet. the crunching sound echoed with each step as she approached cube’s headquarters.

her breath escaped in visible puffs before she entered the warm heating from the establishment. a soft beep announced her arrival as she made her way to the elevator. once her feet carried her to the practice room, her eyes scanned the figures of the other girls there, searching for a face she had only seen in photographs and the youtube videos she watched for over 50 hours.

there was soojin, the master of the stage. shuhua and yuqi, the loud ones. miyeon and minnie, the two aces up soyeon’s sleeve.

and then there was you.

you, the newcomer whose presence was anticipated for weeks. you, with a burning passion that seemed to radiate like the winter sun filtering through the frosted windows of the practice room. you, with an undeniable presence that made you stand out even among the most talented ensembles.

when yuqi mentioned that she had a cousin who was, as she said, “even better than me”, the leader raised her eyebrows, intrigued by the idea that there was another who was at the same level of talent. 

it wasn't long before soyeon found you.

jeon soyeon probably spent hours watching videos of you, consumed and captivated with everything you did. cube wanted to cap the group at six members, but soyeon begged for them to let you in. 

she presented a compelling case, illustrating how your unique talents and energy would enrich the ensemble, creating a harmonious blend that surpassed the limitations of a predefined vision. you, in her eyes, were the vital piece needed to complete the puzzle she envisioned.

after much persuasion, the company relented, granting you a place within the group lineup.

the girls paused in their dance routine, their attention turning towards the doorway that signaled their leader’s arrival.

soyeon felt a mixture of responsibility and eagerness. as the leader, it was her role to guide and nurture the talents within the group, and your arrival brought both the challenge and the potential for something extraordinary. she remembered the way the stress felt on her young shoulders at the time, but there was something that changed in that very next moment.

the way your eyes met hers for the first time was something she’d never forget. 

soyeon had never seen such soft irises.

it was a bit awkward at first, especially since she remembered that your korean vocabulary was very limited at the time. you actually mentioned to her once that you spent the flight to incheon memorizing korean phrases.

you just simply smiled, and soyeon remembered thinking you were the best thing she’d ever seen.

the ringing of her office phone snapped her back to reality, where the responsibilities of being a leader and the demands of the industry pressed upon her. soyeon shook off the remnants of the memory, though the warmth of your smile lingered in her thoughts.

with a composed demeanor, she answered the phone, her ceo mode immediately activated. it was a flurry of discussions, decisions, and planning for the upcoming schedule. the music industry moved at a relentless pace, and soyeon had proven time and time again that she was an immovable force.

but truth be told, she didn’t really process half of what the other person was saying. matter of fact, she was running on autopilot even after work when she was in the back of her all black suv returning home.

the home you once lived in. 

the ceo punched in the code for the door with a heavy sigh, being met with the dark and quiet space. she was used to the lack of life that lingered in her home. as she took her shoes off and placed her bag down, the wedding invitation slipped and landed onto the floor.

soyeon didn’t remember slipping it in there. or maybe she did, and couldn’t remember? her mind had been a mess all day, and with the shake of her head she gently picked it up and placed it on the nearby tabletop.

she wandered into the living room, where subtle traces of your life together still lingered. the color of the walls you had chosen was still the same. soyeon didn’t have the time to change them after you left. it felt like too much work for something that meant nothing.

at least, to her the color didn’t mean anything. you were the only thing that mattered.

the brief thought of you painting the walls of your new home that same shade of cream entered her mind. it didn’t sit well with her at all.

to be honest, the divorce never sat well with her either. but at the time, she was too prideful to admit that losing you would mean losing everything.

soyeon’s eyes wandered to the empty mantle, where empty command hooks still remained. you would be decorating the house around this time of the year. she never understood why you needed to cover every square inch of your shared home with holiday decor, but it made you happy and she never questioned it.

the ceo made her way up the stairs and into the bedroom and into her bathroom. she remembered the days you’d yell at her to go shower before laying in bed, and for a moment she could remember your laughter at the sight of her laying in bed all sweaty after a long day of practice.

she stood in the bathroom, the echoes of your playful banter ringing in her ears. soyeon's gaze fell on the shower, a space that had witnessed both the mundane routines and the intimate moments of your shared life. she hated the tiles when you insisted on buying them for the house. she couldn't help but smile wistfully at the memory of your insistence on those particular tiles. 

you had argued that they added a touch of character to the bathroom, and now after all these years, standing amidst the steam and droplets, she had to admit that you were right.

with a contemplative sigh, soyeon turned to face the water, allowing it to cascade over her tired shoulders. the familiar sound of water against tile was soothing to her. it was her only source of solace nowadays. she was too old to party, too mature for clubbing, and far too busy to find a new hobby.

it reminded her of the times when you would always call to tell her about something new you had learned every day. she didn’t know how you did it, but you always seemed to constantly be doing ten things at once.

the ceo reached for her shampoo bottle, the same brand she had been using ever since you complemented its scent all those years ago. she always told you she was just a creature of habit, and that she liked it because she had it for so long.

but she never mentioned the other truth to it. maybe she should have. perhaps it would have made you feel even an ounce more appreciated than you did when you were married to her. 

eventually she stepped out of the shower and changed into comfortable loungewear. her hair was still wet as it left small impressions on her white shirt, and for a fleeting moment she could hear you yelling at her to just blow dry it. 

she never listened to you before. perhaps she should have listened to you, not just about tiles and wet hair.

the former idol made her way to the bookshelf in the hallway beside her bedroom. soyeon had developed a habit of reading every night before bed (thanks to you), but she never read anything but her manga. 

soyeon's eyes wandered over the titles, each one she had read over numerous times and yet still enjoyed it. but tonight, she didn’t feel like reading her usual choices.

she reached for one that held a particularly special place in her heart—the novel you had recommended during one of your late-night conversations. as she held the book in her hands, the cover brought back a flood of memories.

you used to pick so many different books that you thought would resonate with her, begging her to pick up literature of “more value” for once instead of a picture book. eventually, you gave up on making her read something different and just stored the numerous novels on the shelf next to soyeon’s comics.

but tonight she would finally listen to you for once.

fahrenheit 451. a book you refused to put down all those years ago.

she traced the spine of the book with her fingers, reminiscing about the nights you spent discussing the intricacies of the plot, dissecting the characters' motivations, and sharing the emotions the story stirred within you. the book, a tangible artifact of the intellectual intimacy you once held, now felt both comforting and achingly distant.

as she gently thumbed through the pages, a small, forgotten object slipped out and landed on her feet. it was a bookmark—a simple yet profound reminder of your shared history. soyeon gently picked it up, her twitching fingers tracing the edges. 

it was your old wedding invitation, elegantly adorned with the details of a day that had once symbolized the union of your lives.

soyeon just stared at the bookmark you had used, her mind flooded with emotions. if it was any other day, maybe she wouldn’t feel like this. maybe she’d brush it off with a small smile and move onto reading the book without any problems.

but after seeing your new wedding invitation this morning, she couldn’t escape the feeling gnawing in her chest. 

water droplets landed on the small piece of paper—perhaps remnants from her wet hair, or maybe they were the silent traces of tears that had escaped her eyes. whichever it might have been, soyeon only knew one thing was for certain.

she should have listened to you. 

[everythingblreview]

Tokyo at 6 p.m.

Uuultra C Short Story translation

A white, wood grain dresser was standing in a bedroom. It had been placed there nine months ago. As usual, I sat in front of it, looking in its mirror and doing my make up. An old Christmas song by Frank Sinatra was playing on the radio. Applying my lipstick, as orange as the evening sun, I sang along to his melody.

In that moment…

“Extra News” “Extra News”

Suddenly the radio crackled, and a formal Japanese voice cut through the music. I faced toward it, my lips forming the words “Oh, by gosh.”             “We are continuing to reporting on the phenomenon that synchronises the heartbeats of people in your immediate vicinity.” “As far as we know, no deaths have occurred to date.” “All those affected are advised to remain as calm as possible and…”

Oh my, it was happening again. I’m sure the announcer felt the same way I did. As soon as he had finished reading his stiff lines, he promptly returned the broadcast back to Sinatra. But Sinatra’s song had already finished, ending with him whispering a final “Merry Christmas”. I decided to quietly turn off the radio and leave the bedroom. It was 6 p.m. in Tokyo. The sky had taken on the dark blue colour of the night, with only a string of orange left at the horizon. The city heading towards Christmas, was decorated and wrapped in a warm neon lights. A hectic and restless atmosphere hung in the air; it was like you’d get swept away by someone if you hesitated your steps. In the middle of it was Shirou, with the usual arrogant expression on his face. He was standing next to the Setagaya Station, in front of an old message board. The weak lights of the Christmas decorations were sparkling on his head. “…..” He looked up when he noticed me. Ba-dum My heart jumped the moment our eyes met. …The left side of my chest began to burn, the sensation spreading through my body, as if someone had thrust a knife in me and blood was oozing out. …What was that? That feeling. As I crossed paths with the people leaving the station, I stopped short. Every single one of them was holding onto their chests, rushing past me. The radio had mentioned something about a “phenomenon that synchronises the heartbeats of people in your immediate vicinity.”, right? …Which meant the reason for my heart beating this way was Shirou. We looked at each other as the crowd passed me, a small smile playing on my lips. Once the crowed had vanished, I walked up to him and greeted him in a formal manner. “Good evening.” “…..” “How long have you been waiting?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Your nose is red. You seem cold.” “…Let’s just hurry up and go.” Shirou said, exhaling a long, white breath. Instead of the trains, he faced the direction of the arcade. The reason why we ended up meeting in front of the station goes as follows: When I woke up this morning, a letter was laying by my pillow. Written on it in clean, formal handwriting was something along the lines of… “6 pm. I’ll be waiting at the Setagaya Station.” Any other person would probably think that whoever had wrote the letter was challenging them to a fight, but I immediately knew that it had been a love letter from Shirou. I wrote “I understand” on the back, then turned it around and handed it to him. The rest of the day went by, just like every other day off. Shirou did some repairs on his camera, while I made a simple meal for lunch. Then we watched TV together in the bedroom. However around 5 pm. Shirou disappeared. It was then that I got dressed and came to the station. “Why did you write me a letter?” I asked him as we walked together through the city. Normally I would have asked him about it right away, but it wasn’t the most romantic atmosphere at home, so I decided against it. “Because you wouldn’t wake up.” “Oh my.” Not a very romantic reason. Even if it had been fun, it felt like our relationship as lovers was growing in distance.

“Tell me, why do you always sleep so long?” “Since we had the day was off and there was nothing I could help with, I thought that it would be fine to sleep in for once.” “For once? Who’s the one who keeps going back to sleep shortly after waking up when I’m working…?” “I do that?” “You always say, ‘just a bit more’ and then you’re asleep two seconds later.” “Being awake for just two seconds doesn’t count. Which means I don’t wake up at all and just sleep the whole time.” “~Well that may be true!?” Shirou’s lives a meticulous life, he sleeps no more or no less than seven hours a day. I, on the other hand, can sleep for ten full hours, and even then, I still want to sleep more. For now, he seemed to have accepted my response and gave up on the argument. “…. Whatever.  Just stop turning off the alarm at my place.” “I do that too?” “You do.” “I don’t think I do, though….” “…Should I install a video camera to show you evidence?” “You’re saying such lewd things…” “Hha?!” “Going all the way to buy a video camera and putting it in the bedroom…” “Don’t say that shit outside….!!!” Shirou yelled at me in an usually quiet voice, with a panicked looked on his face. A passerby grabbed their chest and collapsed. They needed help, but Shirou just walked away loudy. I-I’m sure the person should be fine with the distance between them…. I also was a bit mean to him. Shirou’s heart was delicate, so even if you were to tease it just a bit, it would start beating faster. And its throbbing was also affecting me, making it hard to breath. Shirou had the same indifferent expression on his face and probably didn’t even notice the change that was happening around him and inside me. …Maybe he didn’t even know that another incident was happening again. If I hadn’t listened to the radio, I myself would have gone to the hospital thinking I have a disease. …Even now, the city was filled with strange phenomena. Every week something strange happened, as though we were in an anime. What’s happening or who’s responsible— these were questions I couldn’t answer. Stuck in my own confusion, the phenomena were over before I even noticed it. Or rather, should I say, until someone put it to an end, without us having to intervene. In my mind, we were becoming background characters in an anime with the names like “Citizens A”. And I was happy about that. “Where are you taking me today?” “…” This year’s Christmas would take place on a weekday, so Shirou would have to work. I wondered what it would be like if we could go to a party at a nice house….

But even if it was impossible, I wouldn’t feel lonely staying at home. After all, he had invited me to meet him at this place right before Christmas. “Should I have high expectation, then?” I looked at Shirou while asking. His eyebrows were hidden, and his lips pursed in an angry expression. And yet his cheeks were turning red, he was blushing. …I started to feel dizzy again. The cause was his heartbeat.   Why did I keep getting caught up over Shirou’s heart every single time….? Why couldn’t I just walk after him in silence? Once I noticed that he had some kind of surprise for me, it made me so happy that I just couldn’t keep myself from asking unnecessary questions. “Christmas…will be here soon… that’s why…” “That’s right.” “…The city looks pretty, right?” “It does.” “…And that’s the reason I wanted to go together with you.” My heart was throbbing. “Nothing else. There was no particular place I wanted to go to…” It was hard to breath. “…Are you disappointed?” I stopped walking. The moment Shirou had said the city lights were pretty, they suddenly looked even more dazzling and beautiful to me. Shirou turned around. In front of a big Christmas tree by the entrance of an arcade. “Did you think I had something for you?... Actually yes, I do, so follow me.” “!” (Wait a second.) (Wait!) (What?) I could see the small box partially peeking out from his pocket. “Hurry up and come!” “Wa-wait!” (Ri-right now.) (It isn’t the time for that!) “Just come over here.” “…!”

I grasped my chest. But for the sake of being by his side, and to keep his mouth closed, I mustered my strength and walked over to him. “Your ring, I know I was the one who gave it to you…” “Um, wait a moment-” (Let’s stop it for today.) (No, I really appreciate Shirou’s feelings, but…) “Originally it was my mother’s ring, not mine.” “Um, Shirou, I really will die.” (St-stop.) (Please don’t take it out of your pocket.) “That’s why I got you a new ring…” “I’m suffering because of you…!” I grabbed Shirou’s right hand and held it in place. “Please don’t take it out of your pocket.” “…” “You probably don’t know this, but another strange phenomenon is taking place right now. Whenever I’m too close to you, my heart…” “I know about that...!” “!?” Once I had calmed down, I loosened my grip on his hand, which he took out of his pocket. Inside his hand was a white velvet ring case. (Wai-) “That ring is already too tight for your finger, isn’t it?” “So….!” “…Take mine!” “!!!” Sitting inside the open case was a silver ring. It looked like the halo of an angel, making me think I had already died. My knees gave in, and I collapse on the ground like someone had cut the threads, that were holding me upright. Only on one knee was keeping me up. Covering my mouth with my hands, I desperately tried to calm down my heart. Shirou was looking down on me, a hard expression formed on his face.” “Ha….?” “Forgive me…” “….” “I can’t take Shirou’s heartbeats anymore…!” “I’m the one who is suffering here, though!?” “…?” “You’re affecting me here! Our synchronised heartbeats are your fault!” “You’re wrong, it’s yours.” “It’s your fault, idiot…. Just hurry and take a deep breath!” “……” I took a three-second-long breath, then exhaled for another five seconds just as Shirou had instructed me. Wanting to live, I breathed deeply with my hands still over covering my mouth. As the air slowly flowed in and out of my body, my heartbeat mysteriously also began to calm down. …I looked up at Shirou once again. His eyebrow was raised, then he sighed out of relief and amazement at the same time. Then what in the world…. “I had thought you were causing the heartbeats the whole time, so then what was that?” “How should I know.” “When I got the letter from you, I looked at the calendar and just assumed. So, my heart was beating so fast on its own accord….?” “I don’t know, idiot!... Now hurry up and hold out your finger!” The ring Shirou presented was sparkling so beautifully, like it wasn’t made in this world. I’m sure it took him a lot of time to decide on it. Looking for it on his way home and in unfamiliar places, always with me on his mind.

I knew that because the ring had the same white colour as my hero form. Still kneeling in front of him like a knight, I presented my left hand to Shirou. He took off the ring. Then placed the new, bigger ring on my cold ring finger. It felt heavy and hot, but also soft like it could dissolve any moment. Shirou returned the other ring back to the case. …Every time I had been in pain, I had kissed the ring like a prayer. And had extended the size, just to not get rid of it. The way Shirou covered the almost broken ring told me he knew all about that. “…Your heartbeats are getting worse again.” “It’s all your fault.” “~You’re still saying that?!” It was true that my heart was beating fast, and you were the one who had set it off. So, it was your fault after all. I finally stood up. Once I straightened my posture, Shirou raised his head and gave me a bored look. “Now, let’s go to the hospital.” “You always say that, when something happens. This is probably the work of a kaiju, so we just have to rely on the help of a hero.” “And you’re the one who always responds with this…” Shirou suddenly started walking away. “I’m done here, let’s head back home.” Even if he sounded angry, he didn’t let go of my left hand. I looked back from the corner of my eyes. In a few days, everything, even the beautiful Christmas tree would be gone. But soon a new season would begin, and new decorations would probably light up the city again. Someday Sangenjaya would develop, and big buildings like the one in Shibuya would be standing there. And once that happened, I would like to look down on its nightscape and talk about today’s Christmas memory.

The original short story was published in cool-b. The text in the artwork is the conversation they have in the story. Hope you enjoyed~

[sugutoad]

matchup for @archive-of-the-lost

GRISHAVERSE MATCHUP

I ship you with… NIKOLAI LANSTOV. Is this a shock? Perhap. But Nikolai, with would instantly be captivated by your intellectual nature, your ability to read people, and that no-nonsense approach to life. Look at how much he adores Zoya and she is so like you! He is a Prince straight out of a fairytale! He thrives on banter, and your sarcastic and blunt way of speaking would be so entertaining for him yet keep him on his toes in the best way. He is an emotionally intelligent person, he understands when you needs your space and isn’t afraid to push you out of your comfort. Nikolai is so used everyone hiding behind a mask, that he would find it so refreshing to be with someone who sees through that—someone who values him for the complexities of his soul ans accept everyone side of Nikolai. You’d be his equal in every way—both of you are fiercely independent, but when you come together, it’s unstoppable. You said you wanted someone smart and dislike those who have no passion. Nikolai is intelligent with many degrees and passions, his favorite being a privateer, Nikolai would be the person you can count on to be there for you, pushing you to dream bigger and laugh harder, while you provide him with the rare comfort and trust that no crown or war can ever give him.

HEADCANONS

You never sent the letters to your family (see backstory for more context!) Of course you didn’t. Your sister had never really earned them, but somehow, Nikolai knew. Maybe he didn’t outright say it, but he could tell just by the way your hand lingered over the paper, or the way your eyes glinted when you mentioned Shu Han, dimming only when someone asked if you wrote to your family yet. One day, you find a letter on your pillow, addressed in a handwriting that’s unmistakably his, but the contents? It’s filled with stories—mundane ones—about his life as a privateer, about how the palace cat knocked over a vase, how his courtiers are still trying to get him to wear a formal crown. But in between the lines, there are these little hints, these small notes that he wrote for you, wrapped up in his humor and charm, but also carrying something else—something you couldn’t fully understand. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll send him one of your own letters soon.

There’s a moment when the two of you are out, somewhere fancy—maybe a ball, maybe a banquet, but definitely somewhere where you’re both expected to play the part of Royalty in the eyes of thousand. And sure, Nikolai’s got the charisma as if he had swallowed of a thousand suns, but the second your gaze meets his, there’s a flicker of something different. For just a second, everything around you both fades into the background. It’s as if the world knows that no one else exists at that moment except for you two. People are still admiring him—hell, they’re practically bowing down, but it doesn’t matter. When he steps a little closer, murmuring something about “how perfect the evening is,” you can feel it in the way his hand touches the small of your back. It’s not a royal gesture; it’s something more grand, something you both understand is not shared by any others but the two of you

Of course, there was no grand proposal. Nikolai would have never let that happen, not with all the eyes on him. But somehow, when you two end up on a balcony overlooking Ravka, something happens. It's cold, the air kissing his blond hair, and there's the soft echo of the city far below you. He’s leaning on the railing, hands tucked in his pockets, looking like the king he is—and then he turns to you, his eyes serious for the first time all day. "So," he says, "About that future..." And you know exactly where this is going. Earlier that day, he said that if you wanted to stay in Ravka, you always had a future at his side as Nikolai’s consort. You raise an eyebrow at him, and before you can say anything, he’s grinning like he’s gotten away with something. “I mean, no pressure," he adds, the smirk returning to his face. And just like that, the pressure’s off. That’s Nikolai in a nutshell—underneath all the royal bravado, he knows exactly how to make you laugh, even when everything’s so serious.

You don’t need extravagant dates or grand gestures to know that Nikolai’s fallen for you—no, his version of "celebrating" is far more subtle. It could be something small, like when he orders your favorite tea at the palace (without you even asking), or when he interrupts a long meeting just to send you a note—just thinking of you—and it’s enough to send a flutter through your chest. He doesn't make a spectacle out of it. No, he enjoys keeping you informed of his thoughts in a way that makes you feel special. Even when there’s a hundred things to do, you’re the only thing he chooses to focus on in that moment.

ship tropes

black cat x golden retriever

I’m in the wind (you) x you’re in the water (him)

forbidden marriage

CONFESSION

It is with a quiet moment. Both of you stood on a balcony, below which lay sprawled out Ravka, far-out lights shimmering like stars carefully placed in night sky. You can hear the soft rustling of leaves from the garden below, the faint murmur of life still going on without you.

Nikolai is uncommonly quiet, his loud and charming nature almost gone, as if he was thinking deeply, his brows furrowed. You glance to him, noticing how he gazes out across the horizon — the look on his face almost unreadable (you picked up the shimmer in his eyes, the crease in his eye as he squinted slightly and his furrowed brows). Your fingers twitch to reach out for his, and yet, some thought of vulnerability seems to hold you back. You don't mind silence, not really, but with him, it is different. When his banter is not there, something else can settle. Someone you don’t always want to feel.

Nikolai speaks finally after a long beat, his voice so unlike his own, as if he’s careful with the words. "I don't know what it is," he says with a slight chuckle; it doesn't quite reach his eyes, though. "But whenever you're around, everything just seems… less complicated." His eyes flick to yours for the briefest moment, like testing whether you're still there, still listening.

You swallow, heart racing a little too fast. The words are already halfway out of your mouth before you realize they've slipped through. "I don't need things to be simple, though. Just. honest. And with you, it's always been that way."

His eyes catch yours this time, more intent, more searching than usual. Nikolai has always been observant, always reading between the lines, and something in him knows. Knows this isn't the kind of admission you throw out lightly. He tilts his head to one side, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Honest, huh? Funny, I always thought I had to be careful around you."

You laugh, but it's tinged with something softer-something that's been building, simmering under the surface of your interactions for longer than you've realized. "Careful?" You scoff, looking away for a moment, staring into the stars like they'll give you some clarity. "I think you've been more careful with yourself than with me."

It's his turn to pause now, and you can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Me?" His voice softens, dropping any pretense. "You've always been more honest than I have been. More,” He falters for a second, searching for the right word. "Real."

You don't know why those words gut you, but they do. His eyes linger on yours, teasing gone, lightness gone. And for a moment, you see the cracks — the king beneath the crown, the man who is just as terrified as everyone else of not being seen for who he truly is.

You finally meet his gaze, the pulse thundering in your ears. "I don't know how we got here," you start, voice steady despite the sudden rush of emotion. "But all I know is that. I can't imagine going back."

Nikolai tilts his head, weighing whatever words you'll give against something only he can see, for what feels like an age. A shift in him-a weight off the shoulders, at last-the pressure of his crown momentarily forgotten. Then, he grins,

Well, lucky for you," he says, voice quiet, a soft tease still there but not masking the sincerity behind it. "I was hoping you'd say that. Because I think I'm rather fond of you, too."

Just that tiny gesture-just the reaching of his hand out to yours, a touch of the fingers against each other, with the touch lingering, as it were, feeling its way-so that in his touch, you feel it.

power

I struggled with this at first, but at the end I deemed best fitted for you to be an Etherealki. Specifically a Squallor. Squallers can control wind, and though this might seem like an obvious pick on the surface, I think it fits pretty well with your introspective nature and subtle influence over your surroundings. Wind, much like your demeanor and energy, is often unnoticed but deeply impactful in that it can change the atmosphere, create tension, or bring calm without ever being seen directly. As you study the people and interact in small, meaningful ways, so too does a Squaller, through other, far less obvious manipulations of the surrounding environment. No one notices the change is wind much until it is blowing everything away. As cliche as it sounds, the wind release matches your aversion to conformity and your desire for independence.

backstory

Born into the Shu Royal Family as the 2nd child was both a curse and a blessing. You were given all the love and gifts, similar to the rest of your siblings. Shu hated Ravka, that was common knowledge but your Mother believed that there could be more to this relationship than hatred. You hated that ideology. Ravka and Shu has always been like, why must it change!? You loathed the concept of change, until it hit you. The Shu people also despised Grisha, but your Mother adored you even more because of your unique talent. Before her death, she told your elder sister to declare you heir. A Shu ruler who was a Grisha would forge a new alliance and name for Shu Han. But soon after her death, your elder sister (whose name I forgot from the King of Scars duology) persisted that you go and marry another. Canonically, she would ‘torture’ Grisha, but you were her sister. Some part of her felt as if she could not harm you (as much as she hated your odd powers). Forging an ‘alliance’ with Ravka, you were sent off to marry Crown Prince Vasily, Nikolai’s elder brother. Before you left, your sister dug her nails into your shoulders, telling you to send her everything you heard through letters. You never sent one. After Vasily’s death, she wrote one last time, telling you to come home and that your usefulness was complete to the Ravkan’ now that your fiancé was dead. But a week later, Nikolai (who was now King), declared your engagement to him for all to see.

RELATIONSHIPS

KAZ BREKKER sees you as a necessary ally, but he’s too wary to fully trust you, even if you both understand each other on a deeper level. Kaz, like with most people, initially kept you at arm’s length, seeing your power and status as a potential asset but also a liability. However, as time went on, he began to notice your sharp intuition—something that not many people have—and he respects that. He knows you could see through him if you really tried. There’s an unspoken bond of mutual understanding, though it’s built on an icy foundation. He’d never admit it, but Kaz would come to rely on you more than he expected, especially when his plans hit a snag

INEJ GHAFA would be someone you respect deeply, as both of you understand what it means to carry heavy burdens in silence. Inej’s unwavering faith and calm determination would speak to your own sense of responsibility, and while she may seem distant at times, you’d feel a slight kinship with her. There’s an unspoken understanding between the two of you, one neither of you fully understand. She’d never push you to open up, but there’s a quiet support in her presence that makes you feel safe, like you could trust her .

NINA ZENIK adores you like a sister, and you know she’d do anything to make sure you feel loved and accepted. The warmth and openness Nina exudes are like a stark contrast to your more reserved nature, and while at first, you may have been wary of her overwhelming energy, you quickly grew to appreciate her sincerity. Nina doesn’t push you to open up, but she’s always there when you need her, whether it’s to lift your spirits with her humor or offer a comforting presence when you withdraw. There’s a constant, gentle push from Nina to bring you out of your shell, but it’s done with care and patience. She’s the one who makes sure you’re okay, and you’d do the same for her without question. If anyone could get you to see the world in a brighter light, it would be Nina!

WYLAN VAN EK is one of the few people who can completely put you at ease. His calm demeanor and gentle nature make him someone you’d feel comfortable with even in the most chaotic situations. You and Wylan would have a quiet, almost serene relationship. There’s no pressure, no need for grand gestures.

MOONBOARDS

[bastardsblood]

29. “Stop giving me that look! Stop looking at me as if I’m a monster!”

ohohohohehehehe I wonder if Kieran became a yandere, would him being pushed to the edge mean he'd want some 'control' the same way he did when he tortured people? Or if his s/o found out abt what he'd done, perhaps he wouldn't want them to see him in such a way when he's in denial about partially enjoying torture!!!

Hello! I'm sorry for the long wait. I really enjoyed writing for this prompt, but I feel like I still could've done better...! Furthermore, this is unedited, so there may be grammatical mistakes. I hope that you'll enjoy this fic nonetheless, anon.

Character(s): Kieran Scenario: Prompt request Content Warnings: Yandere, mentions of violence

You knew Kieran since you were young. 

A small frame against your taller one, she was a notable presence in your life ever since the news of your engagement arrived. She was quiet, obedient, and pretty; everything a nobleman could ask for, and yet you weren't really sure you liked her. She'd laugh when it was appropriate to do so and always gauged your reaction anytime she spoke. She'd link her arms with yours, walk your pace and listen to you talk about topics you were certain she wasn't interested in. 

Despite being aware of her existence, you didn't know much about her as a person. Her mother always praised her, so your parents did as well, which caused you to hold her in high regard too. It was a chain reaction, but although everyone spoke nicely of the young lady, nobody commented on her peculiarity. She held close to no personality and always looked in her mother's direction for guidance anytime you asked her a personal question. You were rather a mean teenager, and so you'd do these things often just to get a reaction out of her. 

Eventually, small bits of someone who was hidden behind the mask of a demure lady started peeping in. At first, she'd drop subtler signs she liked something, even admitting she was fond of it. Later on, she got courageous enough to talk about things that piqued her interest, so long as you were a distance away from her mother. 

You were starting to like her, you thought. She was innocent, sure, but her curiosity warmed your heart. You wanted to help her flourish and improve, preferably by your side. 

Her mother had no qualms against you wanting to spend more time at their estate. She seemed happy, satisfied. Her eyes scanned her daughter as if she were an art critic appraising their favourite art piece, more so focused on the beauty than what lied underneath. 

Your stay at the estate was fine. You talked to Kieran, had dinner with her and her mother, studied, slept. It was fine, it truly was—save for the strange sounds you'd hear from time to time. You seemed to be the only one to hear them, as both Kieran and her mother denied hearing anything. Asking the servants wasn't an option, as the lady of the estate had banned you from speaking to them. 

Still, they persisted, and so did your growing curiosity and dread. 

—

After your stay was over, you and Kieran hadn't seen one another for a long time. 

You'd send each other letters. Your family was overjoyed, talking about you two as lovebirds, and you hated that you couldn't really deny it. You liked her, maybe even loved her, and writing letters was less of a chore and more an enjoyable pastime. You'd eagerly await her letters, smiling anytime you held one in your hand. While they still stayed respectful, you were less formal with your writing style and wrote even about mundane things. Kieran seemed to enjoy that, and both of you would send a reply to a letter that'd just arrive earlier on that day. 

But, her replies started getting messier. You didn't assume much of it until each letter looked more frantic than the last. It was like talking to a person who was being kept at gunpoint, unsure and desperate. Her handwriting was clawed and not at all elegant as before, but she'd still persist in stating that she was in good health. She'd ask more and more questions about you, but be vague about her own life. 

A part of you thought she was getting sick of you, no longer finding you novel, but her desperation to know about you was strange. It seemed as if she was clinging onto you as if you were her anchor or her only pathway to the outside world. She started asking about recent events or the weather, as if she wasn't able to check herself. 

You started to understand the situation more when you met her again. Your 'fiancé', but definitely not Kieran. 

—

She looked similar, but she was fundamentally different. 

She was stiff and awkward, as if she wasn't used to talking to you. Her appearance changed, her eyelashes were shorter than before, her beauty marks misplaced, her lips thinner. Only someone who hasn't met Kieran before would think that this was Lady Castemont's daughter. 

You missed your Kieran. You condemned her mother. 

—

Lady Castemont's mouth was shut tight at first, until you offered her a couple of your maids. 

You weren't stupid, you knew the rumours surrounding her. A wolf in sheep's clothing that barely kept things hidden, a sadist who liked torturing others, including her daughter. Giving your maids to her finalised their fate, but your selfishness won over your conscience. 

She told you you'd be disappointed if you saw Kieran now, but you begged to differ. She told you you'd come to hate Kieran, but you didn't listen to her. She told you you'd been lied to, but your heart remained unflinching. 

In the end, she was correct. 

—

Kieran was a man. The one who you loved was a man. 

Her—his—build was more defined and muscular than before, his shoulders more broad and his Adam's apple protruding. This was undeniably a man's body, always has been a man's body, and yet you didn't notice after all this time. His long hair was gone, cut down to a boy-ish cut. His hands were bonier and longer, his nails bitten down to the point of blood. His chest was as flat as his stomach, and his reproductive organ was akin to your own.

"Did you think I wouldn't have found out?" 

You asked him, but it was a rhetorical question. "If we actually got married, would I have the pleasure of finding out about it then?" You spat out. 

"I didn't mean to deceive you—I'm so sorry, I—she made me—" His voice hitched in the middle of his sentence. He looked absolutely pitiful and broken, and despite your disgust, you felt nauseous at the fact you were making him feel this way. "I didn't want to lie to you, I promise, I-I, promise." 

"I defied my family for you, I offered that wretched devil my servants for her to toy with—for you." You wanted to scream, to rant, to vent. You weren't even angry at him, but his godforsaken mother. She must've been laughing the entire fucking time you were seen rose-eyed around her son. She made you care for him, and then replaced him the second it started to get harder to cover his secret up. Worst thing is, your affection was not even gone. His body repulsed you, but you desired to touch it nonetheless. It was filthy, disgusting of you to think this way, and yet—

"I still want you." You let out a despairing, shrill laugh. "I still want you! Haha!" 

He looked at you so unsurely yet so hopefully that you wanted to kick him. You were going through all of this anguish because of him, and yet a part of you thought it all to be worth it. "You… You're also a victim, aren't you? The sounds I heard at your estate were your screams, weren't they?" 

Kieran's brow twitched, but he eagerly nodded. He was on his knees, covering his body with only his hands, and you decided that it was enough. You unclipped your cloak and put it around his shoulders. And, although it tasted like venom on your tongue, you whispered an apology to him. 

—

You took him in as your servant, no matter how humiliating it must've been for a man of his station. 

He was surprisingly good at his job, especially when it came to things that required a delicate touch, and you were returning to what you would've called peaceful days. Your family was still at odds with you for sacrificing your family's maids to that devil, but things were calming down. Not one person but you knew that the true Kieran was right under their nose. 

You barely interacted with him during his work, but the man would slip into your chambers after everyone had gone to sleep. It felt like meeting your childhood crush again with how unsure he was acting at first. He grew more bold, just like back then, but this time his personality acquired a cocky and self-assured edge. You'd call him annoying, but if you did, you were sure he'd go back to being a lifeless doll. 

He'd complain about the other servants and other mundane stuff, mentioning everything but anything relating to his mother or home. It was a taboo topic, best to not revisit again, and you both understood that. Still, his eyes would sometimes look into yours and search for something there, often letting out a soft sigh after he'd found it. 

—

Neither of you mentioned your indirect confession again, but Kieran was definitely touchy. 

He'd hold your hand 'just because' and look at you shyly through his eyelashes or be all over your personal space like he couldn't get enough. You felt conflicted, finding it both pleasant and uncomfortable, but if the man noticed the latter, he didn't show it. 

You wanted to see him as a friend rather than… whatever you saw him as before. You were still the family's future heir, and letting previous attachments hinder you would do you no good. The engagement between you and 'Kieran' was still considered as good as done, but the actual Kieran's face would morph into anger anytime he'd hear any mention of it. 

During those days, he'd become a lot more possessive and touchy. He'd be snappy at the other servants during the day, and then look as if he was barely containing himself around you at night. There was some sort of tension when you were alone, and you weren't so ignorant as to not notice what kind it was. 

The first time you did it was the day your family was discussing your trip to the Castemont's estate in the future week. You drank, and so did Kieran, who was hilariously a much weaker drinker than you. You laughed and leaned closer to him, enough to feel his breath, and before you realised what you were doing, you were licking his lower lip and sliding your tongue into his mouth. 

Kieran reciprocated, wildly claiming your body with his hands. He held onto your shirt so tightly it surely wrinkled, pulled at your neck to kiss him deeper so roughly that you got reminded he actually had some strength, and moaned your name like a mantra once you pushed him onto your bed. 

When you awoke the next morning, you strangely didn't regret any of it. 

—

"And so, they expect me to stay at their estate for a couple of weeks. Said that I needed an 'appropriate' amount of time to bond with my fiancé." You sighed. "They make me sick." 

Kieran stayed silent as you were getting ready for the day, but you could feel his disgruntled glare on you. Without turning around, you huffed in amusement. "Don't look at me like that, I've got no say in this." 

"I know, I know, ugh. Are you sure I can't come with you?" As if realising what he just said, Kieran bristled. 

"To your former home? Would you really like that?" You approached him and kissed his forehead, "I frankly doubt it." 

Kieran's cheeks reddened and he sputtered a few incoherent words before just giving you a half-hearted accusatory look. You gave him a cheeky grin, but then schooled your expression into a calmer one. "Furthermore, I'd hate to see you go back to that place… Especially with what your mother did to you." 

There were no visible scars on his body, but you were sure it was simply because his mother had been meticulously prepared to cause as much pain as possible without any lasting evidence. You never asked Kieran about the details and you didn't even want to. Those moans of pain you heard still haunted your memory. 

Clearly, they did Kieran's as well, as he immediately stiffened. "Ah, y-yeah. I don't have the best memories there—" he cringed, "—but! The hell am I supposed to do here for weeks without you? Your annoying sister keeps giving me dirty looks, as if I'm somehow beneath her."

"Well, technically, you are." You reminded him with a laugh. "Plus, for a servant, you don't always act how a servant should. Don't think I haven't heard of how you served her lukewarm tea and then blamed it on her for losing track of her time until it was no longer delicious." Of course, he acted like a gentleman around you and your parents, as if he enjoyed serving you in any way he could. Still, your sister would talk your ear off about how much he irked her. It was funny. 

"I know nothing about it," he innocently batted his eyelashes at you, linking his hands together and hugging them against his cheek. "She should show more restraint as a future lady and her embroidery is simply horrendous. And, her room—what is up with those design choices? Does she intend to torture my eyes? An eye for detail is not an ability she possesses." 

"I don't think her room looks that bad…" 

"Oh, my dearest lord, just because she's your kin, you need not lie." Kieran raised his brows at you, confident in being right. You raised your hands in defeat. 

Still, you were avoiding the main topic at hand, and both of you were aware of it. With how Kieran would occasionally throw you unsure looks and pick at his clothes, you knew he was anxious. "Don't worry, nothing bad will happen. It's just a couple of weeks and then I'm back." You tried to reassure him, but you didn't think it worked. 

"But she's there." His voice sounded so cold it froze you in place. "She's there, and she'll try to win you over. She's going to be near you and touch you. She's going to have long hair and pretty dresses and you'll have dinner with her. She's going to link her arms with yours and make you go on walks around the estate gardens. She's—"

"She's not you." 

You felt disturbed by his increasingly venomous tone, but you knew leaving now would only make him spiral more. In situations like these, you were a bit scared of Kieran, with him acting as if he were a step away from going off at the deep end. 

"She's not the one I like." 

He stopped scratching the skin on his wrist and looked up at you. He blinked away any remains of whatever it was and the fog in his eyes turned into clarity. "You like me," he said, as if he couldn't quite believe those words, "ah, well, it was obvious because of, you know, but—" Kieran stumbled over his words before averting his face away from you, "... I like you too." 

You grinned and ruffled his hair, ignoring the weird pit in your stomach telling you there was something wrong. 

—

'Kieran' wasn't a bad girl. 

She resembled the actual Kieran and although there were certain differences, she still made for a fine copy now that she had grown more. She was demure, somewhat bashful, but also noticeably nervous around him. As if she was feeling guilt for something she had no real control over. 

She reminded you of your first—and, well, current—love with her behaviour. Both seemed lifeless yet had a personality of their own eager to rebel whatever evil the lady of the estate was putting them through. You wanted to ask her for her actual name, but you thought better of it. You had an inkling she'd feel like she failed somehow, as if she wasn't the perfect replacement, even though it wouldn't be the case. 

In a way, you wanted to protect her. She had been dealt a bad hand in life, having been unfortunate enough to be chosen by the devil herself. You couldn't do much, but you at least wanted for her to feel at ease around you. 

It was strange, really. You felt like Kieran made you a better person in the long run. You never truly cared for who one might consider weak before, thinking them to be a hindrance, and yet now you went out of your way to give them your sympathies. Eager to ease them off of their pain, you wanted to be their confidant and a friend. 

And, maybe, you had the intended effect on 'Kieran'. She smiled more often around you, and there was some healthy red to her cheeks rather than her deathly pale disposition. When you brought up the topic of books, she even confessed to having read a couple of them in secret, to which you laughed.   

You started to regret not having brought Kieran with you, despite it being a selfish thought. His vile hatred towards this girl was unwarranted, and a part of you wished he'd come to eventually like her. Just like him, she did nothing wrong. 

Still, as you were around 'Kieran', you started to miss certain parts of the relationship you had with the original before. Sweet like honey on good days, intense like a storm on bad ones; that's how you'd describe the current Kieran. He was… Intense to say the least. You liked him, you were sure—you had to like him. The strong sense of responsibility you held over his emotions and safety had to be love. Feeling guilt after feeling a hint of relief and freedom due to being away from him had to be love. 

Because love was the only compensation you could offer to a victim. 

—

You expected Kieran to be happy at your return. 

When he saw you, he dropped everything he was carrying and ran towards you despite how suspicious his behaviour to others was. He seemed desperate to touch you, if only to confirm that you were truly back. It was as heartwarming as it was uncomfortable.

The other servants were glad to see you back, greeting you with polite smiles and sometimes even waves. Greedy as ever, your sister immediately started pestering you about the whereabouts of her gifts. You had learned the hard way that spending money on at least a carriage worth of gifts was the only way to appease her anger. 

You had a gift for Kieran as well, a more personal one. When you whispered that into his ear when no one was watching, his posture stiffened and you could quickly sense his reddening face with growing amusement. For the duration of the day, Kieran seemed almost star-struck to have you back in the estate again, hating anytime his duties called for his presence elsewhere. His longing looks that he'd turn to mean-spirited glares at anyone who'd dare point them out were truly something.

You had a feeling both of you were looking forward to the evening. 

—

Kieran went to your personal chambers earlier than you'd like, especially because not all servants were free from roaming the halls. Still, with a bit of half-hearted admonishment, you let him off the hook. 

"Just be more careful next time, alright? I don't want to doubt you, but considering how… Distracted you were today, I'm a bit wary about you simply making a beeline towards my room without checking your surroundings first." Although you wanted to seem nonchalant, a bit of worry did seep into your voice, which made Kieran immediately clear his throat. 

"There's nothing for you to worry about, geez." Kieran mumbled, playing with his cravat. "I put more care into coming here undetected than into my morning routine—which you're surely aware I take very seriously—and so doubting me on this is more of an insult than anything." He stretched his hand in a circle motion, giving his voice an authoritarian pitch. Despite being a servant, he confidently sat himself across you as if it were only natural. Well, you supposed it was. 

That arrogance of his would one day be his downfall, you thought. Despite your slight annoyance at his antics, you calmed down by reminding yourself his eagerness today was only due to his relief at you coming back home. It felt strangely funny, in a way. Feeling like a husband under the suspicion of cheating despite only having visited a friend. You stifled a giggle. 

You leaned your face closer to Kieran's and kissed his forehead. "Yes, yes, do forgive me for my earlier comment." You couldn't help but enjoy the shit-eating grin that appeared on Kieran's face alongside a blush. It made you grin back at him. "Well, how have you been? Surely my absence hasn't robbed you of all opportunities to have fun?" 

Kieran moved his head to rest his forehead against yours and groaned. "It has. I've been extremely bored; it's not like my job is fun." Bored, and extremely grumpy, from what you've heard. He'd snap at his fellow servants for the slightest of mistakes and act like a cruel godmother to those submissive enough to bully. 

Not wanting to bring up his mean streak, you instead huffed in amusement and closed your eyes in content. You stayed like that for a while, until you felt a hand tilting your head up and simultaneously felt another hand pulling you even closer. Despite how the table awkwardly dug into you, you let Kieran lap his tongue at your lips before sliding it inside into your mouth. Possessive would be the best way to describe the kiss; it was swallowing and overwhelming. Kieran would only leave you short breaks when he'd need to catch his breath. 

Suddenly, you felt Kieran push you back against your arm chair. You were slightly surprised by his action, but understood everything once he circled around the table and seated himself on top of your lap. You guessed he was far too frustrated to deal with another obstacle in your way. "You're going at things a bit too fast today, aren't you?" You teased him as your arms found their way around his waist. 

His response was a lick at your now-exposed neck and a grumble that you made out to be a 'shut up'. You leaned back against your armchair and fully discarded yourself of your cravat. You supposed you could humour him for a while, at least until he'd gotten adequately satisfied. Back home from a long trip, you couldn't exactly say lust alone would be able to provoke you into having a night of passion. A good night's sleep was more tempting. 

Kieran's hand travelled down your body, squeezing your chest and waist as he went. Meanwhile, his licks started to alternate between soft kisses and harsh bites, both earning you a pleasant sensation. Still, when his hand reached your pants, you knew this was getting a bit too out of hand. 

"The… Mm, the gift." 

It was the first excuse that came to your mind. You had to repeat yourself after Kieran promptly ignored you the first time, the cheeky brat. Hopefully the gift would distract him enough that he'd leave you alone for tonight and you could make it up to him tomorrow, or the day after that. It's not easy to predict when your sister would decide to hog you for the day, after all. 

"It really can't wait?" Kieran's plea came out more as a whine than anything, but you didn't relent. 

"I was really looking forward to giving it to you. It's a rather personal gift." 

Kieran looked like the best gift you could give him now would be to shut up and continue letting him do as he pleased, but he eventually bit the inside of his cheek and got off of your lap. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as he waited for you to come pick it up from your nightstand. 

"Here," you showed him a small box, "open it." 

Kieran rolled his eyes but took the gift into his hands. He raised his brows. "That's your crest." 

What he was holding was a nicely embroidered crest on top of soft fabric. There were some loose threads here and there, but they were few in number. It was still quite visible that whoever made this poured their heart into it. And, looking at Kieran's confused but appreciative gaze, he must've felt it too. 

"You had to discard your own crest by coming here, so I wanted to give you mine." You explained. "While I can't publicly declare you as a part of my family, I, ah, still wanted you to know you're as important to me as they are." 

Kieran looked down at the handcrafted gift, and then back at you. Despite hating it if anyone pointed it out, he was a surprisingly sentimental boy. He seemed torn between saying thank-you and lashing out at you for not getting him more expensive gifts, but something tugged at his brain. "Still, who did you commission to make this? It couldn't be you who made this—obviously—but a skilled embroiderer wouldn't have made mistakes in the stitches like this." 

"Oh, it was 'Kieran'." 

Kieran immediately stiffened, but you tried to calm the situation. "She personally made this for you—she's not a bad girl, you know." You bit your lip for a second before continuing. "Your mother destroyed both your and her life; she is the one to blame for everything. And, 'Kieran' warmed up to me, so surely she'd—" 

"Warmed up to you? Oh, how fucking sweet!" Kieran threw the small box on the ground and kicked it under your bed. "As if I wouldn't recognize that whore's antics. Do you think she made this for me out of goodwill?" He dug his nails into his forearm to the point it looked painful, then, he let out a sharp laugh. "This is simply a reminder of everything she stole for me. But, of course, that's not enough for her, is it? Ha!" 

You were too shocked to say anything, and Kieran gave you a twisted smile. "For all of your reassurances, she's close to replacing me, isn't she? Tell me, did she act like a shy little princess? Innocent and sweet and harmless? While I was stuck here, she was living through everything that was supposed to be mine!" He laughed and pulled himself closer to you. "Isn't it fucking hilarious? My own mother disowned me, and now the one I was promised since I was a child will also be taken by that wretch."

You were starting to get angered by his outburst. Despite your bafflement, you narrowed your eyes. "Kieran, get yourself together." 

Kieran didn't seem to be able to hear you. "Oh, but she didn't show you what she's truly like, did she?" He cackled, a hoarse sound escaping his throat. "She'd never, haha… She'd act the role of an innocent victim until you'd be ensnared by her. How shrewd! She deserves praise, doesn't she?!" 

"Kieran!" 

That startled him enough to shut his mouth with a click. Still, his crazed glare didn't leave you and locked you in place. The look in his eyes told you that he was fully convinced of something that is not even true, and there was nothing you could say to him to change his mind. It's always like this; everything is going well, but then he snaps. Even so, you've never seen him get as bad as now. You bit your lip in unease. 

"I… think we should get some good night's rest."

Kieran clenched and unclenched his hand repetitively, being either a sign of aggression or pacification. "So we could brush everything under the rug as always, huh. I won't allow that today." Then, he suddenly smiled. "Hey, do you know why she's become so adequate with a needle?"

Puzzled by the sudden change of topic, you weren't sure whether Kieran was messing with you or not. Even though you didn't give him a reply, he didn't seem to mind. "I believe she must've went through the same training as me. My dearest mother always loved to use needles to sew up any larger injury she inflicted on a maid that day. Said something about how it was both painful and effective. Acted as a constant reminder not to disobey again, too."

You didn't like what he was getting at. 

"See, a needle is both small and sharp. You need a precise aim to use it well, especially when your target keeps moving. They struggled so much I often pierced their skin into a much, much more painful area. My mother was always overjoyed when that happened." Kieran covered his mouth with his hand, thinking that he was nauseous, you didn't expect a small smile to appear on his face once he pulled his hand away. "I can't help but wonder whether she's refined her methods since then. Maybe her new daughter gets to enjoy even louder screams than me." 

Your face paled as you connected the dots. There was something indescribably evil with the way he spoke, and you could almost sense him thinking back on those memories almost fondly. It almost looked like he broke free of all the restraints of morality and cared not for the morbid words he was spouting. He was less of a victim than you thought him to be, and thanks to the bug he planted in your head, you couldn't help but wonder whether 'Kieran' was the same. 

The difference between the Kieran you knew and the Kieran you saw in front of you now was as stark as the contrast between night and day. He was gloating about it, but a hint of pain could also be detected. As if he found himself vile. 

"What's gotten you so nervous?" He chuckled, finding everything hilarious. "What's up with that look you're giving me? Are you pitying me? Are you disgusted with me?" Then, his volume increased. "Stop giving me that look! Stop looking at me as if I’m a monster!" 

It was a half-yell and half-cry. Kieran was breaking down in front of you and you didn't know whether you wanted to help him or get him out of your room. He was lashing out like a madman and anything you'd say would make him spiral even more, so you stayed silent. Everything you were feeling turned into a cesspool of unanswered questions and crippling worries piled on top of one another. You couldn't move, nor could you will yourself to do anything but stare at him. The situation you were in felt unreal and your mind itched to flee from this mess and replace your confusing emotions with stress-caused apathy. During the entirety of the time you knew Kieran, he had been causing pain to others on his mother's command. He hurt others. He tortured others. The person you were in love with tortured others. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but your tongue felt heavy and your throat lodged up with black ooze keeping any words at bay. When Kieran's madness started to wash away in waves and the realisation of what he had done crept up on him, the silence between you two became painful. He stumbled over his words and let out short, desperate laughs that sounded like nothing if not deranged to you. 

"You didn't want to do any of those things, did you? You felt repulsed by them." 

Your hoarse voice uttered a sentence you didn't even fully comprehend until it echoed in the room. You were tired. You wanted to sleep and forget this ever happened. You wanted a reason to excuse Kieran for everything he had done. 

Kieran, in his eventual clarity, realised that too. He looked up at you and a part of you felt like he was betrayed by you by something. As if you weren't looking at him, but someone beyond him. Your perfect image of the one who was promised to you. 

When he nodded, you pulled him into a hug and shushed him even though he wasn't crying. His body was limp against yours and you felt like he'd fall apart without you. You sacrificed so much for this man. He was a victim, he had to be. 

And you'd repeat that to yourself until you'd finally believe it. 

[scarletwritesshit]

🖋️Ganyu x Ayato 🖋️ Choking on Ink

written as a birthday present for my old ass friend @hopefulceladon

-

Dear Mr. Kamisato,

No, that didn’t sound right.

Dear Mr. Ayato,

That sounded arguably worse.

Dear Kamisato-san,

Still didn’t feel right.

Dear Ayato-san,

That’ll have to do, otherwise, she’ll run out of paper at the rate she was discarding letters.

Ganyu was having far too many problems agonizing over what to write. She could barely get the letter started; writing the rest of it seemed like a virtually impossible task. In all honestly, she would have preferred it to be a super-important-absolutely-must-be-flawless letter to the Inazuma shogunate, as that was something she was far more experienced with. Writing a personal letter to the head of the Kamisato clan, let alone a confession of feelings, was not in her job description.

How such feelings arose began with few and far in between business trips involving the cooperation of Inazuma and Liyue. Their chats were filled with all manner of government nonsense, and anything falling under that umbrella. What little down time they did have, Ganyu usually spent it discussing international relations between the two regions. Or, that was her excuse, at least. Any air of formality with Ayato quickly turned into casual chatter when they would finally have a moment to themselves. His words were smooth and his tone was gentle with her, melting away any lingering anxieties of hers that had yet to dissipate.

The unlikely pair of nerve-wrecked adeptus and smooth-talking clan head evolved into the exchange of letters in between formal visits and other exchanges. One single letter from Ayato was enough to spark enough joy in her to last through the busy week, even if it were simply a tax document penned with his own hand.

Enough waiting, she decided. Who even gets excited over tax documents just because they were in some guy’s handwriting? Ganyu couldn’t hold out any longer, and she’d best confess her feelings to him one way or another before it was too late, or before she delved deeper into insanity. No confessing would be happening if she couldn’t make it past the greeting, however…

I am writing to you to discuss…

What was this, a peace treaty?

There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.

Not that either. Just cut to the chase.

I apologize in advance if this seems abrupt, but there is something that I must confess to you. I will admit, I have quite enjoyed our long talks together, even outside of the sphere of Inazuma and Liyue formalities.

In a way, your words bring me peace. They go beyond the pots of tea we have shared or the words of reassurance we have exchanged. Even when we are split apart by Teyvat’s vast wasters, joy is bought to my hectic little office upon receival of a letter personally written by your hand.

I deeply regret being unable to tell you this in person, but it seems as if our schedules do not align in the near future for a formal meet up. In order to not waste any more of your precious time, I wish to be straightforward with you and say that I...

By this point, Ganyu’s hands were trembling violently, and she could not manage to write the last few words of her letter. The ink brush quivered in her hands, and she couldn’t quite manage to stabilize herself enough to finish it off with “like you.” While her nerves rendered her immobile, she skimmed over the rest of her letter, which only caused her to become even more unsure of her words. Did it seem too rushed? Was she simply a lost cause? She even thought about scrapping it completely and restarting, but had no better ideas on how to word her feelings.

Being imperfect and genuine was better than obsessive over formality.

She would just have to push herself to finish it.

Ganyu closed her eyes and wrote the two words she had been agonizing herself over for so long.

…like you.

Now, her debate lay in figuring out a proper conclusion to such an admission. Please reply at your earliest convenience? I early await your response? None of it felt right. Maybe she just…shouldn’t have done this in the first place, but there was no turning back now.

I’m sorry if this seems rushed. I don’t know how to tell you these sorts of things. Please let me know what you think. Or you can ignore completely too. That’s fine. I won’t feel bad.

Thank you kindly,

Ganyu

Ganyu didn’t want to look at the letter any longer. After freeing those words from her mind, she concluded it as fast as she could so that her eyes would no longer glaze over the embarrassing words she had admitted to someone who was theoretically a political ally. As she was desperately waiting for the ink to dry, she averted her gaze from the paper, overthinking what she had just done. Ganyu frantically checked for the ink to dry, but looked no longer than she had to.

It felt as if it took far too long to dry, but she breathed a sigh of relief once it was safe to be rolled up and prepared to be mailed. Even with the letter destined for the islands across the sea, out of sight did not necessarily mean out of mind.

He carefully read the letter about three times at this point.

Ganyu? Confessing her feelings? It was a most unexpected, yet rather pleasant surprise. Ayato was convinced that he was going to be the one to make a move, but that little adeptus truly was full of surprises, even going as far as making the first move on this shogi board of love.

 He got up from his desk and paced around his office, pondering his next course of action. Being delicate and formal was not fitting for the situation, even with a gentle soul like Ganyu. At the same time, he wanted to assure that his message would be communicated in a proper manner. Walking circles around his desk was, unfortunately, not very productive.

Taking a deep breath, Ayato sat back down at his desk and prepared his pen and scroll. Upon grabbing ahold of his pen, he was made aware of just how sweaty his hands have become under his gloves. That would prove to be most uncomfortable and distracting while writing, so Ayato bit the tips of the gloves and slid them off one at a time, spitting them onto the floor for the time being. Once his uncomfortably damp hands were freed, he shook them to air them out so that he may write with reasonable comfort.

To my dearest Ganyu,

I apologize for my schedule being filled to the brim, unable to allot for a proper confession between the two of us. In truth, I had been holding out on confessing my feelings for you, as I desired to do so in person without any lingering concerns in the air. Our schedules could never quite align, and I apologize if I have caused any anxiety for you with my unintentionally erratic behavior.

Should things clear up in the near future, I would absolutely love to take you on a proper outing. Otherwise, I have to pray that my love is properly conveyed within this letter.

Regards,

Kamisato Ayato.

Ayato looked at the letter, and even his brief, heartfelt words felt overbearing. He wasn’t quite ready for his first exchange of I-love-you’s with her; that was one of many milestones he felt was better reserved for an in-person confrontation. Regrettably, this reply would have to do for the time being.

He rolled up the scroll ever so cautiously and sealed it shut with the utmost care, sliding it onto his backed-up pile of mail to be sent out. Ayato picked up his gloves off of the floor and tossed them onto his desk.

Another day, another waiting game, he thought as he crossed his arms and looked at the neatly rolled letter on top of the mail pile. At least, waiting for his beloved’s admission of love was a sudden yet most welcome conclusion to one romantic game of cat and mouse.

[unicyclehippo]

just finished the last of four handwritten letters to my dnd party!! with my new quill!! i dont think i will write four all at the same time again, but i DO think i will send more letters to my allies, it was rly fun!

it was such a challenge & deep dive into letter writing & characterisation to figure out what she might divulge & how she would communicate. letter writing is oddly personal, there is a distance between you & your partner so it’s not as terrifying as speaking face to face, but there’s a risk too that the distance will trick you into revealing more than you should, precisely because of that distance, it can feel more like you are speaking to yourself than someone else. plus, there’s the handwriting to consider & the language.

i thought it was so so interesting & learned a lot about my character in the process. for one thing, she never wrote her name in full, only as V. for another, she’s so thoughtful! she uses rote formality to be polite & concise, but also because she doesn’t want to miss saying something she ought to have said, or be much kinder to one of her allies than to another. she did research into things her allies mentioned in passing, & complimented them so sincerely. when she spoke of herself, it was only ever in terms of what she could do to help them. it’s SO interesting to me bc i see this whole campaign (strixhaven) as a sort of…freedom for her, to get away from her family & her duty to them, & yet the very second these people appear, she is doing her utmost to build an alliance with them & make herself useful. she’s obviously searching for community but i also think the behaviours of her family unit are SO entrenched in her identity & idk how she would start to unlearn it or if she would even want to.

what a super fun thing to do. i Rly enjoyed it & i hope my dnd party enjoys getting letters !!

[doom-dreaming]

I wanna know how he'd react to an anonymous love letter

"Welcome back, Blue Team," Roland greets. "Chief, there's a message waiting for you in your quarters."

The green and gold helmet tilts just a few degrees to one side. "Send it through to my HUD, I'll read it on the way to S-Deck."

"It's not digital, sir. It's paper."

There's a healthy pause. Chief nods. "...thanks."

Roland salutes and the holotank flickers back to gray.

John's mind drifts as he goes through the post-mission motions. Paper meant official. At the very least, paper meant important. Not even the frequent attempts to put him up on a different, higher-ranking shelf usually come to his attention through such formal avenues. He wonders what's wrong. He wonders if someone else has died. If his team has any thoughts on the matter, they're keeping quiet about it.

They've all drifted in separate directions by the time he makes it to their quarters. Kelly had nudged his shoulder and jogged off down a hallway. Fred had mentioned getting something to eat. Linda had simply disappeared somewhere between the equipment lockers and the door. He enters the room alone.

The letter sits on the desk. The envelope is plain, unmarked; no seals or insignias, just his name and his number, printed in writing that looks as though it's trying to be cleaner than it naturally is. John-117. For a second, he considers it might be Halsey, but she would have dropped the number altogether. Besides, he knows her handwriting. This isn't it.

He turns it over in his hands, crosses the room, reaches under Fred's pillow for the knife they all knew he kept there. He opens the letter with a clean, careful cut. Official or not, it still had to mean something to the person who'd sent it. Why else would they have gone to all this trouble?

The message inside is handwritten in the same script as the envelope, but there's less care paid to its appearance. Letters bleed into one another, words are scribbled out and rewritten; there's a sense of desperation in it. Not life or death, not the frantic scrawling of someone running out of time, but the desperation to get the right words out in the right order, no matter how messy the process was.

He reads it over again. Three, four times. Different phrases find sticking points between his ribs on each pass. Whoever had written this was right. Technically, this letter was nothing new. But it was...earnest. Heartfelt. Sincere in a way so different from the usual flavors of attention he received.

If he really wanted to, he could find out who wrote it. But anonymity was a precious miracle amidst the meticulously-tracked digital trails of the modern age. It felt borderline disrespectful to rob this person of that, along with their hope that he might...

He shakes his head. Folds the letter. Returns it to the envelope. Whoever they were, he could do them this simple favor and hope that, somehow, they could feel it.

[ll-underestimated-ll]

Handwriting Comparison/Details of the Gang

Prince Lehmann

Leo's personal writing tends to be small quick, cursive, letters blurring together without t's crossed and i's dotted in order to save space - habits from times of limited paper and ink carried forward to make sure if he needs to burn it then it won't take long. If he's the only one reading it then it needs not be legible and he can even fall back on a bit of 16th/17th secretary script within it.

His writing outside of that changes completely depending on who he's writing to and the context he's contacting them under. Formal social letters are typically written with a fountain pen and narrow round-hand cursive with minimal flourish - as he attempts to put across a sense of authority, and professionalism while maximising legibility regardless of reader. Simultaneously precise yet flowing. Although, those to know him well have picked up that his mood upon writing such correspondence can be accessed from the flick of the descending part of letters. Sometimes intentionally but also subconsciously the last one of a sentence will be more harsh, more sharp, in indication of a foul mood.

Memo's written with the intent of providing instruction to others who are outside of his inner circle, and therefore not to be trusted to understand a tidier form of his personal handwriting tend to get written in all capitals. This was not always the case however and has been a more modern change of practice for him.

Beyond this he will change up how he writes to fit expectations of an audience.

Danny / Fish

Danny writes in what to some would appear a very neat cursive, and to others - a very lazy scrawl. He learned to write from a mix of his time at a workhouse and from Leo. Both of which had an influence on him towards writing a touch small and condensed - something that was then compounded on by his writing surfaces often being quite small. He learned both pitman and gregg shorthand initially for taking notes when eavesdropping and as a result peppers it into his writing in place of words. (He prefers gregg since he doesn't have to concern himself with line thickness and it flows more similarly to the rest of the cursive he's writing in). This is especially prevalent if he doesn't know how to properly spell a word.

When he writes something he wants to make sure someone else can read he makes a conscious effort to make his lettering larger and more legible - but it still remains in cursive.

Wart

Has been improving since he woke up due to Leo wrangling him and Lachlan into tutoring from a ghoul! (So, over the last 3 years).

If you get him to write out by hand I think he's got that child's cursive going on. Where the letters are all rather large and evenly spaced as he's having to deliberately think about what he's putting down still and can't just do it on instinct. It's simply not something he has an interest in utilizing if it's not writing insults on walls in blood. In which case he is going with all capitals as it easiest to do.

Lachlan

Has improved far quicker than Wart. Partially because computers hate him so if he wants to write up notes or messages it's far easier to do by hand. He now writes with a very slanted cursive where the ascenders and descenders of letters are far longer than the main body and interfere with the lines both above and below. He thinks it looks very pretty. (Wart fucking hates it passion because it makes reading it when he's asked to type things very difficult.)

[liliths-missing-book]

This is a bit different than what I usually write as I'm more fitted for x reader's but I hope you like it either way @herethereagain ! As I'm writing this just now I thought what if you meant Leona or Malleus rather than Leona/Malleus but I'm just crossing my fingers and praying at this point. Enjoy!

Malleus never felt a warm embrace. In a world full of soulmates, he never met his own. Being trapped away in a valley for 175 years of your life isn’t exactly a prime way to interact with people. To top off being a prince and the senate being absolute fools didn’t help the cause either. However, his acceptance to Night Raven College would hopefully change that. He spent many hours meticulously editing his essays to gain acceptance to the college. He wanted to ensure he was getting accepted since he would fit in rather than just because he was a prince. 

Stepping through the mirror from Briar Valley to NRC the cold wind left his body behind. The mild air of NRC was something he hadn’t felt. The Mirror room had thousands of students packed into the area, however, it was clear to Malleus that he was the tallest one in the room…

“This is fine,” he thought as his eyes shifted through the crowd. Even though he was a Draconia he still needed to be sorted into a house by NRC’s rules they set out for him to go to this school. He knew he didn’t need to attend this school but he hoped to meet people; perhaps he might meet his soulmate. He didn’t need to be careful of stepping on people's feet as he tried to move to the edge of the crowd. He felt hundreds of eyes on him at a time which wasn’t a strange thing, he was used to being watched over but it was different he felt fear. 

In Briar Valley, he never left the castle as per the senate’s request so he was uneasy with these feelings. Once he got to the edge he looked back and every single person who he walked past was staring at him, all with fear. 

That’s the moment Malleus felt despair; if everyone was going to treat him like this why should he dream?

The first class Malleus took was with a bunch of second-years. He excelled in magic so it wasn’t a surprise that he was accelerated and skipped a bunch of his first years' courses besides PE since that was the one course which is unskippable. Taking a seat next to a beastman, Malleus began to feel like maybe he could turn this around. If the first years’ don’t like him that much there’s always the second years’ after all; they were the ones he had a majority of classes with-- 

Focusing from his thoughts to his surroundings once more the beastman had disappeared. Looking around the classroom he noticed a lot of students squished together in an attempt to find a seat so they didn’t have to sit by him. Malleus didn’t even have to think about it, he knew what was the reason was. He already knew they feared him and he wouldn’t be able to change their minds.

The sound of formal shoes rang outside the classroom, a second later Professeur Trein walked into the classroom. “There’s enough room for everyone on the other side of the classroom. This classroom is not made for you all to be on one side.” He responded coldly as he placed Lucius on his desk; beginning to write on the black board. 

The screech of chalk against the board filled the room as Professeur Trein meticulously wrote his name in sharp strokes: Professeur Mozus Trein. Beneath it, he added the course title: History of Magic and Magical Laws. His handwriting was as orderly and rigid as the man himself, every letter standing perfectly aligned. Without turning to face the class, he spoke in a searing tone, his words laced with authority.

“You all here to learn, not to lounge. I don’t know what just went down here before I got here but it is unacceptable. In my classroom, there will be no whispering, no daydreaming, and certainly no excuses. Should you find yourself incapable of adhering to these rules, I can tell you, the door is right behind you. Lucius and I value discipline above all else; you are at Night Raven College you must have some of it or at the least find it.” After his lecture a few of the years shifted uncomfortably in their seats under his scrutinizing tone. Malleus however did not feel this as nothing could be more scary than Lilia.

“Do I make myself clear?” Professeur Trein asked as he turned around to face the class his eyes scanning the room. The class murmured a hesitant “Yes, Professeur Trein,” which earned a curt nod.

“Good. Now, open your notebooks. You will copy this syllabus by hand and by word. Failure to do so will result in additional homework. I do not tolerate laziness.”

 Malleus noted the tone which Professeur Trein had set out. He expected excellence or nothing at all. As Malleus picked up his quill the door slammed openned, Malleus questioned who would just walk into class like this to a teacher like this. From his knowledge, and murmurs of students trying to figure out where their classes were, the professeur also taught first-year so it shouldn’t be a surprise what kind of teacher he was. 

The first thing Malleus noticed about Leona was his unkept puffy, lion-like hair he had and the scowl he held on his face. “Ah, Mr. Kingscholar so glad that you could join us for the beginning of the year” Trein sneered,

Leona however, seemed unfazed. He slouched into the room, hands in his pockets, his emerald eyes having a look of emptiness inside of them. A subtle yawn escaped his lips as he walked past Trein without so much as an acknowledgment.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," Leona muttered, sauntering to the only open seat left in the classroom, next to Malleus. 

The tension in the room thickened. Trein's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more, turning his attention back to the chalkboard. The rest of the class was silent, quills scratching furiously to copy the syllabus, all too aware of the confrontation that could erupt at any moment.

Malleus, however, was intrigued. Leona’s seemingly carefree attitude was a stark contrast to the rigid atmosphere of Night Raven College. Unlike the others who cowered or whispered about him, Leona’s indifference seemed genuine. For someone as used to commanding attention as Malleus, it was an anomaly he couldn’t ignore. Was it that he just didn’t care or did he genuinely not see him as a threat?

When the class ended, most students rushed out, eager to escape Trein’s sharp gaze. Malleus lingered, watching as Leona stretched lazily, clearly unbothered by the stern lecture he had endured earlier by Trein. Before getting up to leave Malleus stood up, his imposing height casting a shadow over the other student.

"Kingscholar," Malleus began, his voice even, yet laced with curiosity. "Your demeanor is... peculiar. Most would not dare to act so casually in front of Professeur Trein. Why is that?"

Leona glanced up, one brow quirking slightly before leaning back in his chair. "Why should I care what a grumpy old man thinks? I don’t need his approval to know what I’m worth. It doesn’t matter anyways."

Malleus blinked, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness. "I see. You hold yourself in high regard. Yet, I sense no arrogance, only... certainty. Is that confidence born of experience, or something more innate?"

Leona scoffed lightly, standing and slinging his bag over one shoulder. "If you’re fishing for deep answers, Draconia, you’re wasting your time. I don’t do heart-to-hearts, and I definitely don’t explain myself to strangers." With that, he brushed past Malleus, his tail flicking dismissively.

Left alone in the now-empty classroom, Malleus stared after Leona, his expression contemplative. The prince of the Briar Valley had encountered many individuals in his lifetime, but none like Leona Kingscholar. 

Soulmates were typically tropes which showed others cared about each other. If Leona was the only one to speak to him with out shaking in fear it would still work correct? If this was what he had to deal with, so be it. Whether Leona liked it or not he would find a way to crack his exterior. 

----

This was for the @heartandquill Secret Santa!!!

[heatherbmoore]

5 Amazing Jewelry Gifts That Never Go Out of Style

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[mindsafe]

in the immediate aftermath of IMMOLATION, suguru envisions a tombstone, half-engraved. all paths ( however convoluted ) lead to the inevitable. execution. in the days to come, would his name be spoken with pity? with contempt? would his memory be reduced to a cautionary tale? more importantly, what would become of them? would these girls, already robbed of their innocence, be taken into so-called ❛ protective ❜ custody until it was their turn to be needlessly sacrificed? to be used as shields by the same ungrateful monkeys who cast stones at them? no. suguru decides that death can wait.

packing his bags is easy: material possessions were few to begin with && he need not burden himself with unnecessary trinkets. there's a polaroid on his bedside table; eyes linger longer than they should ― in the end, it is left behind to gather dust. in a way, the gesture is almost symbolic.

writing a letter of defection is easy: it's the polite thing to do, is it not? his language is formal && concise; a display of practiced eloquence && cold detachment. the handwriting belongs to suguru geto, but the words belong to a stranger. a finished letter is carefully placed by the photograph.

saying goodbye is easy: he considers it. he considers sneaking into satoru's dorm one last time, as he has on countless nights; he considers asking satoru to run away with him ( they would be UNSTOPPABLE together, just like they used to be ). he decides against it. satoru gojo is the only person alive who might still be able to reach him. to dissuade him. it's better to go quietly && disappear into the night, preferably without causing a scene.

but then shinjuku happened.

❝ don't i? i think it's a bit too late to second-guess my part in this story, satoru. ❞ a gentle thumb glides across the damp spots that glisten in dim light. soft skin has a habit of cutting open old scars ― the various what-ifs && subsequent i'll-never-knows. suguru chose exile, but every lonely sunset ( he stopped counting after six months ) would cause something inside him to twist && for once it has nothing to do with the arsenal of cursed energy that resides within. when the time is right, he will finally be free of it. ❝ even if i were to go && put an end to this 'madness', as you would call it, what then? there is no happy ending for someone like me... you, however, have the world ahead of you. that's not a bad thing. ❞

what he said ( then ) vs. what he meant ( now ); words are no longer fuelled by the fear && desperation of a boy only seventeen ― he never meant it, you know... you are so much more than your strength... if satoru speaks true of the nature of his forgiveness, then so be it. suguru is not delusional enough to believe he is entitled to satoru, as the rest of this rotten world is. but if there is a sliver of a chance at the only kind of absolution he would ever ask for ( to amend the cutting words that severed their sacred bond )... he almost wants to ask the other: ❛ may i touch you again? ❜

to no one's surprise except his own, satoru beats him. the other's hand fits perfectly in his own. suguru squeezes. his touch exudes wordless gratitude. ❝ since when have you cared about eating healthy? or do you no longer have the metabolism of an eight-year-old? ❞

execution.  that had been where they had gone wrong, thinking that they could put suguru geto's execution in his hands  &  it would be carried out.  perhaps that's when satoru truly lost what remained of his innocence  ––  when he stepped into adulthood  &  never looked back.  because how could he?  he had watched suguru stand across from him  &  orders rang in his head, but he lowered his hand  &  let himself fade.  he let suguru run.  he let him go.

&  if he took him back there,  if he let jujutsu tech have him,  suguru would cease to exist.  it makes something harden in his chest.  it makes him want to scream.  makes him want to run.  because that would be easier than the convoluted bullshit that they have to deal with now.  because if he ran, maybe he could take him with him.  maybe he could find some sort of fantasy where things could be fine.

❛   you don't have to be the villain in this story, either.   ❜   his voice is quiet because that's what suguru has made himself, isn't it?  he has chosen this path, has put himself forward as a villain so that satoru can waltz in  &  stop him.  so that somehow he can be the jujutsu sorcerer's knight in shining armor.  he never asked to be that.  even as he stares at him with fresh tears clinging to his cheeks, he knows without a doubt that he didn't ask for it.  that he doesn't want to be a hero if it means slaying suguru.

if it means that he'll lose everything that he's ever held close.

it makes his throat tighten.  makes his vision blur for a moment with fresh emotion.  satoru's held strong for so long.  he has not allowed himself to break in front of anyone else.  but suguru is a rare breed  ––  he gets to see every facet of satoru.  he gets to look him in the eye  &  know that he is human.

there is no keeping suguru, he is not a pet.  this visit will end the same way it always does  ––  with him curled up in his bed, alone, the scent of suguru still settling into his apartment  &  his cursed energy wrapped around him.  he'll blend back  &  become a phantom.

it's cruel.  satoru hates him just a little bit for it.  but he hates himself more because there is no promise at any given moment that he'll ever be able to make him stay.     ❛   forgiveness was never my strong suit.   ❜  

he swallows it down; the anger, the hurt, the desperation, the sadness.  the whisper of something that he has lost, again and again.  there's an ache up in his spine  &  in his chest,   &  he doesn't completely know what to do with it.

so he gives him a slight smile  &  nods.    ❛   yeah, c'mon.  can't be sad on an empty stomach.  it's not healthy.   ❜  

he hesitates for a moment, then laces their fingers together.  presses palm to palm.  hopes that maybe this time it'll be different.

even though he knows it won't, he allows himself a minute to be selfish.  to pretend.  sometimes it's all you can do.

[ur-favorite-worst-generation]

Letters pt 1

So, I started writing this as pure self-indulgence, but I do like how this came out so far. There will be a part two!

I think even with how deeply set in his ways Doffy is, a woman who reminds him of his mother would melt him.

Feminine pronouns throughout to refer to his love interest!

--

Donquixote Doflamingo was a powerful man with little weakness. People who opposed the power his company had could never find dirt on him, cleaner than a whistle. Ironic, considering who he and his family were when the sun went down.

There was one soft spot though that he wouldn't admit to anyone past his family.

It started out innocently enough, he and her. A smile across a hallway, a shy wave, and a flicker in his heart that deeply upset him. He had assumed long ago that his heart had been carved from his chest, save a tiny, shriveled chunk for his brother and the others in his family. It was an unfortunate reminder to feel his heartbeat when he saw her again, another shy wave.

His first step was a bouquet of pink carnations, ones to match the dramatic feathered coat that he donned daily. Despite the crime of not seeing her reaction to them being delivered to her, he did receive a letter addressed to him in careful cursive. It sat on his desk for 13 days before he had decided to open it while Trebol had droned on about something most likely unimportant.

Doflamingo would never admit it aloud, but he was hooked by the way she wrote his name.

Doflamingo

Her absence came next. His hidden eyes trailed along the hallways and where he knew she worked, where she had hidden away to write and read their letters. Nothing. Nothing on his desk, in his drawers, hidden among important documents carefully delivered to him none the wiser.

"Corazon." He stood beside his brother, currently smoking on the balcony connected to his office.

'What?' The mute, blond man signed in return.

"There's an employee missing."

'Missing or absent?'

"What's the difference if both mean they're not here doing their job?" The laugh that escaped his brother made a vein throb in his forehead.

'People are absent constantly, why do you care now?' His brother had turned his body to face him, taking a long drag on his cigarette. If there was one person Doflamingo could almost trust, it was his brother, but exposing that he had feelings for some pathetic office worker and the absolute ridicule that would come from Corazon was not worth it. Without answering, Doflamingo turned on his heel and crossed the threshold back into his office.

--

Being the head of the company meant it was very easy to have files and drawers just open like magic when you wanted them to. Nobody questioned him when he started to root around the employee files, or when he jotted down the address of an employee, shoved it into his pocket, and went on about his day. After all, he was a man of secrets, what was one more?

--

She didn't return to the office but diligently returned his letters, dropping the formality of 'Doflamingo' in lieu of 'Doffy' at his request. He liked (read: loved) how it looked in her handwriting, stacking the papers in the fireplace before burning them. He'd keep the envelopes that smelled of her hand lotion and the flowers she had started to press for him hidden away in a hidden compartment in his desk at home.

'What are those?' His brother silently slipped into his vision, drinking from a glass of what Doflamingo could only assume was whisky.

"Nothing important." Corazon eyed him suspiciously. There weren't many things that Doflamingo would take the time to burn himself and on their property, especially if it was anything related to the side business. The two stood in silence for a few minutes too long for either of their likings.

'Dinner?' There was an itch in the back of Doflamingo's mind. Would she want to get dinner with him?

--

It felt hysterically foolish to be standing outside her front door with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Maybe foolish was the wrong word, he certainly did feel something for the woman he was having dinner with, but he didn't really want to put a name to it. They would become real much faster than he wanted... if he wanted that at all. His feelings much more often were that of fleeting whims and desires, used to going from one hand to the next. This was much more like his mute brother who, while not the most romantic, had at least taken women out to dinner.

Doflamingo had caged himself on purpose. Feelings were a trap and distraction, and most often led to getting hurt. His mother had gotten hurt, after all, she died while his father did nothing but sit at her side. His mind continued to wander down that very narrow path, eyebrows twisting into frustration and anger at the image of watching the light fade from his mother's eyes.

"Doffy?" A quiet voice shook him out of the spiral of 'this is a mistake I should leave' and he refocused his eyes on the person in front of him. It had only been a few weeks since he had seen her around, but she seemed... small. Withdrawn. The frustration knitted into his eyebrows shifted into a cautious curiosity, but before he could ask, she gestured for him to come in for their... date. The word felt funny even in his mind.

And yet, he couldn't remember a time conversation flowed as easily as it did with her.

[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.