#sometimes rope or yarn if you need to see it

[boycritter]

what are knots in knot theory made of?

circle

[kakushino]

Not like this

Rengoku Kyojuro x GN! Reader

He needs to learn how to stop Breathing, and focus on breathing.

Tags: fluff, slight angst, Kyo survives Mugen train AU

Word count: 0,8k

Masterlist | Rebuilding the ruins of castle Me masterlist

AN: Written as Christmas gift for the dearest @benkeibear - Merry Christmas, love!

“No no, you need to do it like this… See?” 

Kyojuro nodded, uncharacteristically silent as he focused on your hands. You pulled the string of wool through the created loop slowly so he could catch your movement. Around and around and around and through. Right. Easy.

“Try it now.”

He took the hook and half-finished product from you and briefly marveled at the difference in size of your hands in comparison to his own. He repeated your action slowly and carefully, showing you the result right after, waiting for your appraisal.

“Very good!”

Kyojuro beamed, the room seemingly warming up with how he radiated joy. “Thank you, my love!” He went back to his crocheting, looking like an old wife for all he was a powerful and highly intelligent man. It was endearing to see him squirrel away while working on a simple scarf with a little hook and his giant hands as tools. 

It was by his own prompt that you were teaching him your hobby; Kyojuro had all the time in the world on his hands now that he could no longer fight. The fight against Upper Moon 3, Akaza, had cost him an eye and half his core muscles - many things became difficult to do for the great warrior. 

One of such actions was getting up from his futon. You had been lucky Tengen was over to help when Kyojuro came home the first time, or he would remain bed-bound for weeks. A short trip to the woodsmith, and a group of kakushi carried over a western type bed Kyojuro didn’t have to get up from. Even then, he required ropes which now hung from the ceiling to help him sit or lay down.

Now, thanks to all the free time he had lounging at home, when not instructing the young trio, he took up multiple stress-free hobbies that he could perform sitting down. One of which was crocheting.

“How does this look?” Kyojuro showed you a neat row of the pattern, his face smiling but his eyes slightly anxious.

There was nothing to fear, he was excellent despite - what you felt like - your horrid teaching. “It looks amazing! Well done,” you grinned after inspecting his work. It filled you with pride and happiness to share this with your husband. You had never felt warmer.

You both had been at it for another half an hour when you heard his breath come out in a wheeze. Kyojuro dropped the yarn and started to cough weakly. Immediately, you fussed over him, massaging his back muscles just like the doctor taught you to help him steady his breathing.

Your heart squeezed painfully. 

“Shh, my love. Breathe for me,” you soothed him softly while the wheezing and coughs slowly ceased. 

Kyojuro was never going to be able to use Total Concentration Breathing after his injury, that was an irrefutable fact. Just - sometimes he got lost in the 'mundane' he forgot he shouldn’t, couldn’t, do it anymore. 

He slumped against your side in exhaustion, his frame shaking slightly under your careful embrace.

“I’m sorry, love… I lost focus again,” Kyojuro admitted with a slight flush on his cheeks, though the rest of him had gone white as a sheet from the pain. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you need something to drink? Painkillers? A snack?”

Normally, he would perk up at the mention of food, but he just blinked tiredly at that. “I’m okay now. Just need some rest.”

Kyojuro was not okay. You laid him down and stood up to get him medicine and tea. Before you could take a step, his hand tugged on your nightgown. “Hm?”

“Please, stay…” He had rolled over onto his side, now able to do so since his abdomen gradually healed. 

You hesitantly sat at his side and carded your fingers through his soft hair. “You should take the medicine Kocho-san got for us,” you whispered softly, as if any louder volume would spook him. “You will feel better after.” 

“It makes me feel odd, like I’m not entirely myself.” Kyojuro tugged on your clothes again, urging you to lay down next to him. “I’d rather stay awake and aware.”

You complied, facing him and pulling him closer so you could watch for any minute expression on his face indicating distress - if any appeared, you would get up regardless of his protests.

Your husband gave you a gentle smile, his face gaining back some healthy color to it as you both rested for a while. A shaky hand came up to caress your cheek - the gesture full of adoration and love, nearly bringing tears into your eyes. Kyojuro’s devotion was practically visible to the naked eye.

“My love, will you teach me how to paint?” he murmured.

You hummed your agreement, making him smile a little wider.

“Good. I want to capture your loveliness on canvas. I want you to see what I see when I look at you - for there is no greater beauty than you.”

His words made blood rush to your cheeks. 

Silly man.

dividers made by the gorgeous @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 5

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 3.1k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: Don't be scared to click the embedded links, you might get an auditory surprise (Ai voice cloning works wonders)

Past (v) - Finnick

[17 & 18] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick sits at his desk, the end of his pencil tapping a song into the wood as he thinks. The two of you have been exchanging letters for almost a year now, but he still gets excited whenever you send a new one. Excited and nervous. Getting them mailed between districts is a slow progression involving lying to a few mayors and he's sure Snow reads each one. Still, Finnick thinks, it's worth it. In your latest letter, you explained to him how a bear snuck in from the woods, and the peacekeepers were forced to gun it down. Luckily, no one was hurt, but the mayor was "generous" enough to divide the meat among the citizens who were working. You finish with a closing of 'With love', your signature, and a shitty little drawing of a bear at the bottom with X's over its eyes. He traces it with his finger and pictures you hunched over your desk, nose scrunching in concentration as you draw it. "With love, huh?" He whispers to himself and smiles. Along with your letter, you sent a parcel full of bundled brown sticks tied together with yarn. Licorice root, you had said. Only available in the Capitol and District Eleven, best used in tea with berries. He brings it to his nose and it smells sweet, like caramelized sugar. It smells like you, but it's missing that undercurrent of earthly petrichor. He looks up when he sees Mags approaching with a knowing look in her eyes. She looks at the letter in his hands and he folds it before she can read the contents. Not that it matters. All she needed to see was the signature. It's not like she doesn't know who you are. She was so ecstatic to hear your stories, insisting he got more from you. And you gave them freely, even after Finnick ran out of ones to trade. It’s odd. You wanted nothing in return. Sometimes, he gets a little ahead of himself and wonders if it’s because you like him.

It isn’t too far-fetched to assume that, right?

Right. "What's that face for?" He laughs. She takes a loose piece of paper and a pencil to write: "When's the wedding?" He opens and closes his mouth, words escaping him. "It's not like that. We're just—” Just what? You are friends, right? Finnick has friends, but none that he likes as much as you. And the way he feels with you? He doesn't feel like that around them, not by a long shot. To just call you a friend feels like calling an ocean a pond. It's almost disrespectful to condense it into something so lacking. He can’t force you, and everything you make him feel—into such a small box, it would only overflow and drown him. You are much, much more than a pond. 

Best friend, then? While true, it feels too juvenile. He considers it and he doesn't particularly like the idea of just being your friend anyway. He imagines you introducing him as such.

“Oh, and this is Finnick. My friend. Only my friend.”

No. No, he doesn’t like that at all. 

If he can't be honest with you, he can at least be honest with Mags. "—I guess it is something like that." She hums excitedly and pinches his warm cheeks. "She says she hopes you're doing well." Mags perks up at that, gesturing between herself and the blank paper. He grins at her enthusiasm, "I'll tell her you said hi. Promise." She nods and pats his hand with a smile. As she walks to sit on the couch behind him, he thinks about what to send you. He can't just send a letter. Especially after you went out of your way to send licorice roots after he offhandedly mentioned he'd like to try some. He wracks his brain but comes up empty. Other than rope, hooks, and seashells, there's nothing else he can give you. His eyes drift around the room, landing on his bare wrist.

There is something he can make you. 

Mags sits amused as he jumps up and rushes around the house to collect supplies. Technically, he doesn’t live here—she does. But this place has been more of a home to him than any other, past and present.

He grabs a spool of thin purple and blue rope, along with a few cowrie shells and little charms Mags has lying around. He sets up shop on the desk, cutting the blue rope to the length he wants it and folding it in half. He puts a shell in the middle, tying a knot on either side of it. He slides two little, silver charms on the left and right of the shell, a starfish and a turtle. He makes three basic Macrame knots with separate pieces of string. The two longest ones are slid on beside the charms and the smallest one is used as a closure.

Mags comes to stand beside him as he leans back to admire his work. 

"Do you think she'll like it?" He asks her. He wants to bite at his nails as she looks over what he made, but refrains. 

'She'll love it. :)". She writes and he hopes she’s right.

He repeats the process with the purple rope but uses a fish charm instead of a turtle and writes his letter.

Dear Star, Earlier today, I sat in the sand watching the sun rise over the ocean, and I imagined you were beside me. If I were a painter, I would capture the image for you. For now, I hope my words will suffice. The clouds shift from a dark blue to a ghostly white, parting and making way for the rising sun. The sky is a canvas of assorted colors. Navy blue, baby blue, and burnt orange chase each other in a swirl reflected across the water. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, a clear blue takes over the backdrop. Words can only take us so far. I really want to show you. Snow will only let us do so much, but maybe one day he'll let you come to Four and we can watch it together. Side by side, me and you in the sand. There's something else. I'm sure you noticed I sent you more than just the letter. There should be an intricate rope bracelet with a shell in the middle. I made us matching pairs, yours blue and mine purple—I remember you saying it's your favorite color. In hindsight, it would've made more sense to give you the bracelet with your favorite color instead of mine, but, it's kind of like having a piece of each other, you know?  The jewelry has a bit of significance, too. The starfish is obvious, but the turtle is from Mags’s story. I even found a little fish charm to put on mine. You don't have to wear it, of course. It's kind of childish in retrospect. I just hope you don't laugh at me too much. Regardless, I'll be wearing mine. I know you didn't make it, but, somehow, it makes me feel closer to you. When I glance down at it, I'm reminded that I'm not alone. That there's someone out there whose life was made at least a little bit better by my being in it. I hope it'll give you that same comfort. -Fondly yours, Finnick O. P.S. Mags says hi. She's quite taken with you. You've somehow managed to charm her without ever meeting. Not that I'm surprised. :) P.P.S. I can't wait to see you again. 

Present (V) - Finnick 

[23 & 24] - TRAINING CENTER; FOURTH FLOOR

Finnick rewinds the video and pauses. His eyes absorb your features greedily, taking you in like a man starved. And, honestly, he is. It's the first time he's seen you, outside of your picture, in two years, but it's felt like a lifetime. Initially, he watched your reaping in hopes of you proving him wrong. 

You didn't.

He can't help but find joy in the fact that he still knows you well enough to predict what you'll do. And he'll get to see you again. Really see you. He shouldn't be happy about that under these circumstances, but Finnick is under no illusion of being a good person. The camera focuses on you right as you're about to raise your hand to volunteer. He can see the conviction in your eyes and wonders why. Why did he ever think he could survive being away from you? "God, it feels like I've been watching you rewind for hours." Finnick freezes. There are five other people here, all women, and only four of them can talk. This voice is distinctly male. He looks over his shoulder and sighs. He should've guessed. "Haymitch. How did you—” He cuts himself off when he spots Mags standing a little behind him. That solves how he got in. He didn't hear him knock or notice him approaching, too focused on you to use his other senses. "Kid, I don't wanna say this is sad, but it's not, not sad." Finnick rolls his eyes at Haymitch's unwelcome opinion. Should he be embarrassed to be caught in this position? Maybe. Probably. Yeah, he definitely should be. But he gave up his shame a long time ago. He's honestly just annoyed at being interrupted.

"What do you want?" He turns back around to face you. "Why do I have to want something, huh?" Haymitch walks around the couch, Mags close behind him. "Can't I just show up to check in on you guys?" Finnick levels him with a deadpan stare. Haymitch purses his lips. "Alright, I'll cut to the chase," he starts before pausing, "is your prep team still here?" "No. They're off doing," he gestures vaguely towards the door, "whatever the hell it is they do." Something he considers a blessing. He already sees them more than he sees his own reflection. The less he's around them, the better. "Why?" "Because they're the last people we need to hear this conversation," he sits on the chair to the left of the couch. "Allies. Have you thought of any besides Mags?" "Can't say I have." He lies. Of course, he has. He's going into the arena with people he's known for a decade. Johanna comes to mind, but it's unlikely she'd team up with anyone. And you. He doubts you'd want him as an ally, but he'll help you regardless. And if it came down to him and you, well.

He’ll make sure you make it home. "You sure?" He leans his head on the hand that's propped up on the arm of the chair. "Not even a certain someone from Eleven? What was that nickname you gave her—Star, right?" He asks with that same tone he always used to take on when teasing Finnick about you. He bites down on the defensive response bubbling up, the snide comment on the tip of his tongue. He thumbs at the shell in the middle of his bracelet. He doesn't know, Finnick reminds himself, he doesn't know what I had to do to you. He isn't making fun of me. It's not like he told anyone other than Mags and Annie what happened between you and him—what Snow made him do. It's not like he ever could. Though he’s sure he, correctly, assumes that it’s Finnick’s fault. He takes a breath. "What is this about, Haymitch?" The older man sits for a moment, deliberating, before speaking. "When you get in the arena, I need you to protect Katniss and Peeta." 

"...Are you drunk?" Finnick looks him over top to bottom. Maybe he’s gotten better at acting like he’s sober. "Not yet, sadly. I'm serious, Finnick." "And why the hell would I do that?" Haymitch goes on to explain the impending revolution. How District Thirteen didn't become a nuclear wasteland, and, instead, was forced into hiding. And how, with the help of Plutarch Heavensbee, the rebels started planning a coup as soon as the Quarter Quell was announced. "You don't seem surprised." "I'm not. People talk. Especially when they feel guilty." When he started turning away his clients' money, they were desperate to pay him atonement so their consciences wouldn't be weighed down by their sins. You came up with the idea. Money wasn't worth its salt to a victor. But secrets? Secrets were cashed in gold. With everything he was told, it wasn't hard to connect the dots. What he is surprised by is Heavensbee's hand in all of this. He's in a position of power, one directly under the president. What did he stand to gain from throwing all that away? He's wary and he tells Haymitch as much. "I know this is hard to believe, for you in particular, but there are good Capitols." He tries to cross his ankle over his knee but fails—clearly not sober. "Or, at least people who wanna do the right thing who just so happen to be Capitol." He tacks on at Finnick's unconvinced scoff. 

"Alright, say I believe he's genuine, which I don’t. If this has been brewing for so long, why hasn't anyone acted until now?" "Every good revolution needs a spark and a flame." "And that's…Katniss?" "It's the romance! What it represents to Snow, but, more importantly, to the districts. The first act of public rebellion in over seventy-five years. But, the face of it is, more or less, Katniss." The Girl on Fire igniting a wildfire in the districts. He chuckles. "And where does Peeta fall in this metaphor?" "You can't have fire without air, right?" He asks rhetorically. "Well, we won't have Katniss without Peeta. She won't help us without him." Finnick rolls his eyes and sets the remote down beside him. The farce the two of them are pushing forward with this whole 'tragic romance' act will definitely keep them in the public's favor, but to let that get in the way of something this important is the kind of selfishness that can only be associated with a child. "She can't possibly care about him that much." "Yeah, well, you'd be surprised. Regardless, I need you—both of you to be a part of this. The Movement needs you. You're clever and a capable fighter. And you're one of the few who's experienced Snow's special brand of torture." He shouldn't flinch, but he does. It's an open secret among the victors, but to talk about it with anyone other than you is disquieting. He knows his face closes off and he's thankful for the fact that Haymitch knows when to stop while he’s ahead. Finnick looks to Mags. Her brows are furrowed resolutely, nowhere near as stricken as he is. She was alive during the first rebellion, but only a child. She must've been dreaming about this for years. 

Haymitch goes to talk, but Finnick raises his hand to stop him before he can speak. “No need.”

Nothing Haymitch can say now will sway him to the cause, he’s almost certain of it. Better to save his breath while Finnick thinks. Because, rest assured, there is plenty for him to think about.

"God, you too are so alike it's eerie—down to the mannerisms. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it still throws me." Haymitch shakes his head in disbelief. "Who?" "Your better half. It took me a minute to convince her to join the Movement too, but only because she's so stubborn. You both are." And just like that, whatever illusion of choice Finnick thought he had is stripped away with the mention of you. Every path he takes leads back to you. What a heartening thought. "Alright. I'll be their ally. I'll," he takes a steadying breath. "I'll join the rebellion." "That's all it took? I would have brought her up earlier if I knew that, save myself some time." He sighs. "As a plus, the guys in charge agreed to rescue any rebels from the arena as long as you get Katniss and Peeta to the pickup point." Rescue? They'll make it out? Mags. Johanna. You. Abruptly, he gets a faint whiff of your scent caught in his head like a flashback. Hovering in his nostrils as faint as a memory. It is a memory. But if he goes through with this, maybe it doesn't have to stay one. "The pickup point?" "Is something you don't have to worry about right now. Everyone will be getting different parts of the plan that’ll need their full attention." If there really are as many people a part of this rebellion as Haymitch says there are, then, realistically, there's no way they'll all be making it out. Finnick's sure a decent amount of them will be trapped there in the arena after all hell breaks loose. And that's if they don't die beforehand. "Finnick, if we do this, and we do it right, that's it." "That's it?" "That's it. We're free. What does freedom look like to you, Finnick? I mean, I know what it looks like to me," Haymitch leans forward, elbows on his knees. He speaks about this with so much confidence, that Finnick is finding it hard to be pessimistic. "It looks like the citizens living without the weight of oppression and Snow losing any power he has over Panem. It looks like the Hunger Games ending permanently." Freedom. Now, that's an idea he's never even flirted with before. Something so completely out of his reach, he never dared to dream of it because it would hurt too much to wake up. He contemplates it. What does freedom look like to him? It looks like the generations following them never feeling the hopelessness they do now. It looks like the Hunger Games only being experienced through textbooks and the name Coriolanus Snow becoming a ghost story. Freedom looks like being by your side, loving you fearlessly. Finnick's never felt true freedom before—the closest he's ever gotten to it was when you touched him. He doubts it can feel much better than that. 

Even without knowing the full plan, Finnick can tell there are a lot of moving pieces involved. All it'll take is one misstep, one fuck up, and it all collapses. The cards are stacked against them higher than he'd like to think about. Finnick's not a gambling man, but this? This is something he's willing to bet on. 

Either they succeed or die trying.

Finnick runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots for a second. "Alright. What do I have to do?" 

Haymitch smiles, more genuine than it usually is. "Just get them there. We'll handle the rest."

[a-bit-too-silly]

im having a bad day, so.. have some Finnick headcanons since they've been bouncing around in my head recently :]

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Regressor Finnick

🍬 I personally feel he regresses between 3 and 8, generally falling towards the middle where he's able to play on his own but prefers to have someone with him.

🐚 he loves to rock or be rocked gently, it reminds him of being on the boats in district four. Since the Capitol has never put him on a boat, it's a safe haven. They can put him on trains and vans and land and sea, but boats? Never touched.

🪢when he's not very small he enjoys rope puzzles. Even something as simple as untangling thick yarn can keep him happily entertained for a while.

🍬 rain sticks! I don't know if this is a thing in other places, but they are basically hollow reeds/tubes that you fill with dry rice or small beads or things soft that size and you put coverings on either side of the reeds. Then when you tilt it gently they sound like a rainstorm or the ocean. Very soothing.

🐚 he loves attention, most importantly from his carer but other people's attention is welcome. He has a lot of anxiety surrounding how his regression is perceived, especially with his history of being exploited and s€xualized, but everyone who is close enough to see him in that headspace understands.

he's definitely the type to put on performances or show his carer(s) every little thing. Every bit of praise is well deserved and definitely cherished, even if it's something as small as picking up his plate after dinner or not tracking muck into the house.

🪢while he is often a happy baby, he does have a lot of rough times (as do all the people in the universe of the hunger games). When these happen he tends to isolate himself, tucking away into his bedroom or somewhere else that he feels people won't find him.

He doesn't want to be touched when he's upset. It's a bit of a learning curve since sometimes he wants to cuddle or hold onto his carers hand while he regulates himself, but if his carer reciprocates the touch it will make him spiral. Just keep still and let him cry it out, oftentimes he exhausts himself doing so, collapsing against whoever is there with him.

🍬 on a more cheery note, he absolutely loves when people hide things in the sand for him. Big shiny shells for him to 'discover' or packaged sweets are his favorites.

🐚speaking of sweets, he has a huge sweet tooth. He absolutely loves all kinds of candies and baked goods, and he will find them. Peeta often has various kinds of candies fruits and other sweet things in his bakery, every time Finnick comes by he knows he needs to make extra. Just in case. Finnick adores his trips to district twelve because it means he can sit in the bakery and simply breathe in the sweet air.

I haven't thought much about him as a caregiver but something tells me he is so good at understanding babbles. He'll have full conversations that no one else can understand. He also loves to bounce them in his lap and play little pranks with them.

[siyithecreator]

warnings/tags/notes: gojo satoru x fem!reader, established relationship, car sex, p in v sex, fingering (fem!recieving), i got kinda lazy in the end, first fic ever 🤔, based on this song btw, enjoy mwah!

Count: 655 words

UNDER 15 DNI

It’s your first time ever seeing a meteor shower, or - it was supposed to be.

“C’monnnn,” Satoru whines again. At this point he’s basically throwing himself at you, what with his arms splayed across your chest as his own smushes against your back.

Honestly, you wouldn’t be opposed to taking him right here, right now, but - NO!

What’re you thinking? You couldn’t miss this opportunity for anything, all your other dates ended with Satoru’s blushing, swollen tip pressing softly against your lips and thick ropes of his sweet seed all over your face. You’re determined to finally have a normal date for once.

“Nope.” You say again, firmer this time, even adding a shake of your head to get your point across. Yes, that’ll definitely show him! (｡ì _ í｡)

And then he does that thing. That thing with your hair, like a cat with a yarn ball. He twirls it affectionately around his finger, his other hand sneaking (quite obviously) down your torso.

And then - he stops.

Right as he reaches the hem of your cutesy pink, lace, strawberry panties.

And, duh, of course you want more. You may be determined but there always be more meteor showers…right?

His warm breath tickles your ears as his whispers seductively, “You said no, but why are your hips bucking up into me so desperately, hm?”

“If you truly loved me, you’d get to work.” You pout, your cheeks gaining a slight blush the moment the words escape from your lips.

“Fuck you, you know I love you.” He chuckles softly as he presses warm, soft kisses to your neck.

Considering the fact that you’ve definitely given up by now, you crawl to the backseat and Satoru follows.

Maybe there’s something with the A/C back there, but it feels hotter than before. You can tell Satoru feels it too from the way he’s rapidly pushing up your miniskirt.

He lays you down across the seat, moving your panties aside and sliding a long, slender finger inside of you.

The way he had you seeing stars, maybe you didn’t need to watch the meteor shower.

The pads of his finger creating friction against your gummy walls, and let’s not even get started on how, as he added more fingers, his fingertips kissed your cervix in such a delicate way.

Sometime in between, you managed to mewl out, “Mm ‘Toru, think I want you inside…”

All it took was the click of a belt buckle and there he was with his full length grinding against your fountain of a pussy.

“Ready?” He’d ask, even when it looked like he was more than ready.

You nodded, “Wait though, I wanna ride you.” Something about cowgirl and being on top just made everything feel so much better for you (and Satoru would always happily agree).

Okay, maybe it was little cramped in the backseat, and maybe the windows were starting to get foggy, but who cares? You were in the backseat of your boyfriend’s luxury car, sliding up and down on his cock.

Everytime you’d slide down, his tip would kiss the entrance to your womb and it was such an addictive feeling. You felt so full with his entire length in your slutty cunt, just bobbing up and down on his cock.

Your tits were just bouncing, and so desperate for someone to pay them any attention. So, of course Satoru set your body alight when you felt his tongue flitting across your nipple. Closing his mouth around one and with a POP, he’d move on to the next one.

Without realizing, you’d picked up the pace. The sound of your hips slamming down punctuated every. fucking. thrust.

You knew he was close when he started mumbling a series of jumbled expletives mixed with various “M’gonna cum-“s.

And like every date before, this date ended with you on your knees and Satoru’s pretty tip against your lips.

[kira-ani-mcgrath]

Your commission advice is all very practical and helpful, but how can I avoid saying "contact for pricing" when my offerings and the potential requests are so diverse? I understand that pricing schemes can be rather formulaic for character portraits, but I don't want to limit myself.

Note for others: This is referencing my "Commission Tips" post, specifically this part:

Public Pricing I've signed my name to more vehicles than I care to count over the years, which means I've done quite a bit of car shopping. I am a researcher, and I've had times where I have many browser tabs open, pouring over the various listings and comparing all kinds of factors - such as mileage, gas mileage, safety rating, features, and, of course, price - in an effort to narrow down my choices and arrive at the best deal possible. Sometimes in these searches, vehicle listings will say "contact dealer for pricing" for various reasons. That instantly knocks the vehicle down a slot in my rating system. I have enough anxiety dealing with certain things even when I have all the facts and know exactly what I want. It's even worse when I have to cold-call for a very important piece of information and risk getting roped into a conversation I don't want to have. Yes, I have a point to this anecdote. I have many times compared commission shopping to car buying, even joking that I put more research into my commission purchases than I have into our last few vehicle purchases. "DM/email me for prices" is an artist's equivalent of "contact dealer for pricing," and thus is an instant back-button for me at this point. It's just not worth the hassle when there are so many other options out there that give me all the information I need front-and-center.

Admittedly, this point is probably the least universally-applicable, given that there are buyers who have no issue with these sorts of inquiries. However, I'd presume I'm not the only one who avoids this, especially online. So, if you'd like to catch the consideration of a customer such as myself, there's a few options:

1) Include examples with approximate prices in your commission information. These examples can be personal works or past commissions you've done (and the example price doesn't need to be what you actually charged for that particular commission, but what you would charge if asked to repeat it - useful if you raise your rates or if the cost of materials increases). You can also stress that the priced pieces are examples and final pricing is determined by the exact specifications the potential buyer sends in for consideration.

2) Utilize base + add-on pricing. With this pricing method, you have a minimum price for a basic service, then additional charges for increased levels of work. This method is similar to the flat pricing you typically see for artwork commissions, but it gives a little more flexibility in accounting for the differing detail levels of requests while still giving people the ability to calculate an accurate price for themselves. Example 1: base of grayscale half-body = $10, add full-body +$5, add color +$10, add complex details +$10, add basic background +$10, add complex background +$20 or more depending on details Example 2: base of 24-in scarf 1 color of basic yarn = $10, every additional color +$5 ea, upgrade to premium yarn +$10 per color, add an extra inch +$2 ea

3) Utilize ranged pricing. With this pricing method, you advertise a minimum charge for a basic commission but also state that the price increases with complexity and the actual price will depend on the specifics of the commission. You don't specify all the minutia of what increases the cost. While this is less information upfront for the buyer, it's still some information while allowing for more nuanced pricing control by the artist. You can also have different levels of ranges. A top-end price cap isn't necessary, but I have seen it used in tiered ranged pricing or if the artist just wants a cap for their own sake. Example 1: grayscale portrait $50-$150, color portrait $100-$200, color illustration $300+ Example 2: acrylic scarf $15+, wool scarf $50+

On the back-end of things, I would recommend having some type of cost breakdown of what goes into your craft(s). Overall, have a general idea of how long it takes you to create pieces at different levels of quality/detail/size/etc. If the commission is a physical item, the costs of materials and tool wear-and-tear should also be factored into the final price. If you have at least a mental guideline for that sort of thing, it will be easier to price your examples and any incoming inquiries.

I understand the appeal of just saying "contact for pricing" is the artist being able to tailor a quote to the exact specifications of a request, but I think this method is inefficient. There's unnecessary extra steps that can be eliminated with the artist giving potential customers a minimum baseline expectation front-and-center through one of the above methods.

Thanks for the compliment and the question! I enjoyed being able to expand on that point, and I hope it's useful. :)

[milkweedman]

Do you have advice on how to tell if yarn you're spinning is over/undertwisted? Thanks!

absolutely ! there's a few ways you can tell just by observing.

OVERTWISTED:

can it lay flat without twisting up ? if you take a stretch of yarn and lay it on something flat and it immediately crumples up into a kinked mess, that's a sure sign it's overtwisted. there's a bit of variation in terms of whether you've already blocked the yarn or not, but a balanced (neither over nor under twisted) yarn that's been blocked will lay flat and straight. a balanced yarn that hasn't been blocked yet will probably twist up a little, depending on how much spin and ply twist you put into it, but it shouldn't twist up very much. when in doubt, take a little sample of the yarn you're testing (about an arm's width) and block it. if it still twists up after it's dry, you've overtwisted it.

does the yarn feel hard or disproportionately rough compared to the fiber it's made of ? the more you overtwist a yarn the rougher it gets. if your fiber is soft and your yarn isn't, it's very likely that you overtwisted it.

does it still have elasticity ? if you hold a length of yarn between each hand and pull, there should be some stretch. the amount of stretch varies wildly depending on what the fiber is, but if it feels like you're pulling on rope instead of yarn, that almost certainly means it's overtwisted. this method isn't really effective with anything other than wool, and some wools stretch more than others (short wools tend to be quite stretchy while long wools have very little stretch), but while learning about over and under twisting i'd recommend trying this on every wool yarn you spin, just to get a sense of how stretchy it should be and what it should feel like.

is it smooth ? on a two ply yarn, if the silhouette looks smooth, it's overtwisted. a balanced two ply should not look smooth--it should have some curves in the profile. This is only applicable to two ply, though. 3+ plied yarns are typically smooth unless very underplied.

UNDERTWISTED:

is there visible spaces between the plies ? if so, it's underplied. the plies of a balanced yarn should fit together without gaps.

is it floppy and limp ? typically you want your yarns to have some body, so if your yarn just seems... lifeless and floppy, that often means it's been woefully underplied.

does it look messy ? this is pretty subjective, of course, but if your yarn kind of just looks untidy and not very nice, the usual culprit (at least for me !) is that it's been underplied. all the gaps between yarns tend to make it look unfinished and not quite as nice as it should.

does it split when you work with it ? your needle or hook shouldn't be able to split the yarn very easily, and if you find that your handspun yarns specifically are more splitty than commercial yarns, that almost always means that you're underplying everything. yarn needs twist to hold it together, so if it's not holding together, that means there's not enough twist.

It took me a while to learn how much twist to add (and i still miss the mark sometimes, lol), but some things that helped me figure it out were

winding it into a skein and blocking it before making any judgements. yarn can change drastically after blocking it--a hard, kinked up yarn can block into a soft, mostly-balanced yarn. if you don't want to keep spinning before you know if you're adding the right amount of twist, you can always take a sample a few meters or yards long and block that, and see how it looks and behaves. blocking is very, very helpful.

doing plyback tests often while spinning. this helps make sure you're adding consistent twist the whole time, as well as gives some indication of whether it's well twisted or not. you might find them very helpful or only kind of helpful, but it's good to at least give it a shot.

holding the blocked hank in the air and seeing if it twists is also a pretty clear indicator--a balanced yarn will hang without twisting (or maybe turning a tiny bit to one side but not a full rotation). if it doesn't hang without twisting, then it's not a balanced yarn.

some last few things to remember: there are times when a balanced yarn ISN'T the best yarn for the job. adding a bit of extra twist to a sock or glove yarn is fairly normal, and if your fiber is really rough it might benefit from undertwisting just to stop it from getting even rougher. and also, some spinners just don't go for balanced yarns. so while it's important to learn to control how much twist you're adding, you do not by any means HAVE to spin balanced yarns.

and lastly some pages I thought were pretty helpful:

[friendlytacosyumyum]

Hcs for Bakugo, Todoroki, Midoriya

Warnings: mentions of nightmares and scars

type: headcanons!

bakugo, todoroki, and midoriya (separately) x fem!reader

a/n: deku favoritism i mean i love them all equally omfl they're amazing

Bakugo

100% has scars all over his hands and fingers from incorrectly using his quirk as a kid

has hearing aids built into his suit so he can talk to heroes while he works bc the explosions are loud

doesn’t actually like rock music, which you’d assume because he’s an angry hedgehog with emotions, prefers lofi

will buy you starbucks but only after you promise something in return because he doesn’t like ordering girly drinks

refuses to let you drive in case a villain shows up and throws something through the drivers side (ptsd from a villain attack)

has frequent nightmares and night terrors, wakes you up sometimes when he’s yelling “DIE” in his sleep

gets extremely sore from training and needs help applying gel that soothes muscle pain, won’t ask you out loud but will text you and if you tease him about it he will kill you

won’t kiss you in public because he gets flustered but behind closed doors he’ll give you all the affection you want

gets invested in the plot of the rom-coms you make him watch but he’ll never admit it

“I love you too, fucking dumbass”

makes you food when you’re sick

genuinely does care about you and would kill everyone if something happened to you

doesn’t let his friends come near you because he’s overprotective like that

he hates admitting that he likes your laugh, your smile, or the way you make his heart flutter

when he first started liking you, he thought he was getting sick and went to see recovery girl

freaked out when you said “i love you” for the first time and forgot to say it back

you’re his soft spot and you know it so you try to see how far you can push his buttons

denki and kirishima WILL bring him to you so he’ll calm down after they piss him off

is secretly super happy that you don’t find his personality annoying or rude

hates when you compliment him in english because he can’t understand what you’re saying and you won’t repeat it

won’t allow you to teach him english bc it hurts his pride so he learns it on his own and surprises you by telling you he loves you in english

had to bring his parents with you when he met your parents because you were afraid they wouldn’t give him a chance

“you couldn’t have done better?” -mrs bakugo to you

you scheme with his mom to find different ways to piss him off

if he sees you with damn deku he’ll beat the shit out of midoriya and won’t talk to you for two hours tops

lets you tell him what to do, gets teased about it

smells like caramel/sweet things, took you a bit to figure out it was his sweat and not some weird cologne or perfume

Todoroki

is extremely touch starved and touch deprived due to his traumatic childhood

has extreme anxiety and depression because of how he was treated but won’t show it

attends therapy weekly to try to fix his life

panic attacks at least once a month, you normally find him curled up on the floor in a ball and have to calm him down

has to wear contacts in his right eye because of the burn, the water affected his vision and messed up his eyesight permanently

won’t say “i love you” very often and shows it through other ways (watching movies with you, being the one to initiate affection or conversations, suggesting a date)

comes up with and is an avid watcher of conspiracy theory videos. will rope you in and will make you watch them with him

has a cork board where he connects things with red yarn (current project: proving midoriya is his cousin or half brother)

lets you wear his clothes without asking, random hoodies will show up in your room sometimes with notes from him

gets snappy with you occasionally because he’s never had a girlfriend before and is worried you’ll abandon him like his mother and oldest brother did

lets you sleep on his chest at night when you can’t sleep- it’s mildly uncomfortable but he doesn’t mind because he gets to hold you and kiss your forehead

loves cats and owns three of them. this isn’t up for debate and is canon.

uses his left side to keep you warm when you’re cold

likes it when you fall asleep on his shoulder because it means he gets to carry you to bed

uses his right side to ice any bruises you get or numb injuries you have until you can reach a hospital

loves when you play with his hair because he likes having his scalp scratched

will have netflix parties with the rest of class 1a and you’ll all stay up way too late binging the office or conspiracy videos

makes you teach him english and watches every american show that he can (with japanese captions)

your parents didn’t like him at first because he’s a little standoffish since he didn’t socialize much as a kid but warmed up to him eventually (pun intended)

has no filter. will say whatever he means, whenever he wants. no, he doesn’t know how to word his sentences better and is confused when everyone goes batshit about what he said

example: saw an old photo of midoriya’s mother, proceeded to say she looked hot, then got confused when midoriya’s mother choked on her drink and turned red

“if i ate an ice cube with both of my quirks activated what the hell would happen?”

sleeps in until noon on the weekends (you do too, so both of you end up leaving all of the errands until sunday afternoon and panic ensues)

Midoriya

still gets flustered around you, even after you’ve passed the one year anniversary

is terrified you won’t like the gifts he gets you and won’t even hug you without getting consent first

gets lost in his own worries, you have to snap him out of it

wakes up during the night some days in extreme pain from the scars he has

ptsd from almost completely losing his arms, has nightmares where he loses feeling in them completely and has to give up his dream even though he’s made it so far

is genuinely interested in all of the ‘girly’ things you love, even tries your favorite starbucks drink (and likes it)

lets you braid and put barrettes in his hair

home screen and lock screen are photos of you together, posts photos of you regularly

protects you with his life, refuses to let you do simple tasks alone in case you get hurt

is a cuddle-bug, will cuddle with you every single day because he missed your touch while he was at work

you two came up with nicknames for each other and use them all the time, even in public

will let you kiss him in public but he’ll basically lose his shit after and will do stupid things or walk into telephone poles

cant take him anywhere, he’s too accident prone (examples: broke his ankle at a trampoline park, accidentally shot himself in the eye during paintball)

met your parents for the first time and freaked the FUCK out

they loved him even if he talked way too much (on accident) and spilled his drink

always says things with good intentions but they come out wrong

example: “kacchan, you’re a good person but you really need to tone down-”

“THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO ME YOU DAMN NERD?”

wakes up with insane bed hair and you have an entire album full of photos of him after just waking up

“I-I love you too! I’m sorry did I stutter too much? Am I allowed to say that? I didn’t mean to mess it up!!”

catastrophizes like crazy and falls into the “what-if” spiral

has definitely been asked why he only has eight freckles/if his freckles are fake

reckless.

rushes into situations headfirst because he wants to save everyone and can’t waste time because they might die

gets into fights with bakugo daily, they attempt to beat the shit out of each other weekly

[batfoonery]

Crafty Batkids

Literally. Just batkids doin' crafts. As someone who does..... way too many crafts to list here (I'll send a list if asked but just trust me) I feel like I've gotten a good feel for this.

Dick

My man grew up in a circus, regularly checking ropes and tensions....

Macrame. He's a pro at macrame. Maybe he doesn't do it often, but like. For his friends, he'll sometimes surprise them with lil gifts.

When any of his Titans buds move he makes them those fancy hanging macrame plant holders. Donna and Kori both love them, and have been known to fight over them during white elephant/dirty Santa type gift games.

Probably doesn't have the ability to sit still for long periods of time, so can't do anything that'll unravel if he puts it down. It takes him a long time to finish a project, so he really only buys materials as he starts a new one, and doesn't have any excess stuff lying around his apartment.

Jason

You cannot tell me he doesn't crochet to unwind. Like. Idk if he's any good at it, but he def angry crochets.

Probably has been working on one scarf for like five years

Never has consistent stitches

Likes touching all the yarns at the store

Probably just enjoys squishing the yarn in general tbh. It's slightly more satisfying than ever actually doing anything with the yarn.

Cass

One time Bruce took her to like. Silver Dollar City or somewhere else that had someone with a loom, and she was fascinated. She made him buy her a shawl and then made Tim put together a power point about why she should have a loom.

Bruce ended up caving and buying her one that's skinnier, for like table runners. It's great, because she's mostly fascinated with making gradients in her weaves.

She learned Swedish Weaving (it's a like an embroidery/weaving hybrid) so she could embellish her works.

Mostly gives them out as gifts. She gave one to Selina, who guards it possessively. Harley tried to borrow it once and about lost her fingers.

Probably also learned to make little tassles for the ends

Tim

Attention to detail? Obsession over the minutia? Oh. You know my boy is an epoxy resin artist.

Has a crafting station in his room that's meticulously organized. There's cubbies for pigments, flowers, glitters, bits of ribbons and strings, etc etc

Probably makes all kinds of thing tbh. Phone cases, trinkets, you name it. But pens are his favorites, because they're both simple and practical. There's like a whole army of pens that just... keeps growing in Titans Tower because he always forgets where he's put his.

None of his teammates realize he is the source of the pens. They (Kon, Cassie, Bart) just think the pens are an infestations and/or are pairing up and making baby pens. But Cassie and Bart love them bc ✨aesthetics✨

Probably has a tik tok or an insta where he posts videos of himself de-molding things to soothing lofi tracks. Literally just. All the vibes. It's gorgeous.

Steph

Also all the vibes. She is a bujo/stationary queen.

Her collection is much messier than Tim's, but has a surprising amount of overlap. Sometimes they borrow things from each other, and have collabed on their social accounts (he makes journal covers, she makes them into notebooks, he supplies her with pens, she uses them when making a weekly/monthly set up, etc)

Stickers and glitter everywhere

Probably sponsored.

Canonically draws cute little cartoons in the comics, they absolutely are a regular on her socials and in her bujos.

Duke

For some reason I don't peg him as being as craft-oriented as his closest-in-age sibs? He probably has less expensive coping mechanisms tbh

That being said I can see he would enjoy those stores where you go in and paint pottery and they kiln/glaze it for you? Like he isn't into sculpting it himself, but painting the little kitchenware pieces or statuettes is relaxing.

He paints mugs for all his sibs on their birthdays, and for Alfred.

Alfred probably has a whole army of custom mugs made for him by the kids, now that I'm thinking about it. Like half of them are from Duke, because he doesn't know what else to do with them. There are just so many because it's so simple.....

Kate Kane, Tatsu Yamashiro, and Jeff Pierce also all have mugs. Actually... Lowkey highkey I can see that Tatsu might have introduced Duke to this kind of stuff in the first place? I can see that she would enjoy something simple that you can do while trying to clear out your mind.

Damian

Well. Damian is a gifted artist, but this translates differently into actual crafts. It just does.

He's probably a good printmaker. Not only does this take advantage of his art skills and keen attention to details, but it's one of the oldest artforms still in practice today. Most printmakers develop their techniques by perfecting one of several forms of the art, which have been passed through generations, and have a really firm grip on art history. Those stories would appeal to Damian, in addition to the craft itself.

Damian is the most likely of his siblings to be able to sit still for prolonged periods of time and do a repetitive motion. In fact, it may actually be something he can enjoy if it means he can just zone out for a bit. So, he's probably actually decent at spinning yarn. If the sky is grey and rainy, he drags out a wheel and some pre-sorted rolags and spins yarn, exclusively for Cass, who then weaves it. He enjoys the progression of colors in the fibers as much as she does, and they bond over it.

The feeling of different fibers slipping through his fingers is also really soothing. Bad day? Time to spin some merino, because it slips like water through his touch. Need to feel grounded? Time to spin a cotton blend, because you have to be present enough not to chafe your hands on the rough fibers...

Probably also really good at embroidery, for the same reasons. Plus, it's really satisfying to feel and hear the pbt-psht, pbt-psht of the needle and thread pulling through the taut fabric.

Bruce

Obviously knows how to forge/metalwork. I like to imagine he's also dabbled in lost wax casting.

Probably has little trinkets he made when he was younger scattered around the house. Maybe he donated a few to charity auctions.

Has made rings/jewelry pieces. But doesn't talk about them. (One ring went to Selina, and a pair of earrings went to Talia)

Alfred

The all-talented, all-knowing. There's probably nothing he can't do. He already sews all their outfits. So I mean.

Sometimes it feels really good to have something to stab. I'm not saying he does needle felting, but I'm not saying he wouldn't.

Probably was the one who taught Bruce about lost wax, and the one who helps Damian research about printmakers.

Silently supplies all the kids with all the art things.

Has a chest in his room filled with all the things that he's been gifted with over the years. There's little uneven macrame hanging from when Dick was just getting the hang of it, lumpy scarves that are too short for anyone to realistically wear from Jason, linen sets made by Cass, various trinkets from Tim, handmade cards and notebooks from Steph, mugs from Duke, and old embroidery pieces from Damian in unevenly stained hoops.

[thesiriusmoon]

The Violinist

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner X Haley Brooks

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Haley Brooks

Word count: 2k

Summary: Aaron finds himself lost within his new schools music department, and stumbles upon a girl playing the most beautiful melody. The story of how Aaron first met Haley.

A/N: This was upsetting to write :(

——————————

Oh no! It had only been a few days since starting in this new school, and he had managed to get lost halfway through the day after doing so well with his map. Every hallway just looked the same!

Huffing in frustration, a fourteen year old Aaron Hotchner was looking for the soccer tryouts in this maze of a school. He must have taken about a million twists and turns but still he hadn’t arrived. By the time he’d get there, it would be midnight.

Stopping just before entering another department, he crumpled up the map and chucked it in the closest bin, he’d find it himself.

However, his ambition faded slightly after pushing open the wide swinging doors in front of him. He paused at the start of the hallway, his ears capturing a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant sounds coming from different rooms on each of his sides.

An out of tune guitar, a simple piano sonata, a very annoying tuba, and… as he slowly walked further, the sound of a slow and emotional violin was crying. Despite how soft it was, it deafened the rest of the performances and Aaron could no longer hear them.

The second he heard the violin, he stopped, and just listened.

Before he realised, the notes were guiding his feet and gravitating his body towards the closest door on his right, as if the score were acting like the magic carpet in Aladdin.

Checking up and down the corridor he stood alone in, he ensured no one was looking before he pressed his ear against the wood of the door to receive a better listen.

The performance was hypnotic. Aaron felt himself falling away into a daydream as the violins notes graced his ears.

It reminded him of his mother and father back home. His adoptive parents that is. They gave him love and a new found purpose for life the second he met them. He loved them more than anything in the world.

The piece was hopeful. It made him think of lovers seeing one another after years apart. How they missed each other and how their hearts grew twice their size once locking eyes. Children running into the arms of their parents after a day in nursery away from their home and loved ones, thrilled to be going back to the place they call home. Kittens playing with yarn balls and puppies playing with sticks like no one else is watching, nobody could take away their enjoyment.

The notes were sort of like the ocean. How it’s never always smooth and steady. Sometimes there’s storms that tear boats apart and ruin cities. The hopefulness and happiness you feel looking at the things you love won’t last forever, so you must cherish and hold onto it for as long as you can.

But if the rope you hold onto starts to burn, it may be time to let go. It may be sooner than you expected, but everything has an end. We don’t have to suffer trying to defeat the inevitable.

Lovers will eventually part, children will miss their parents kisses, kittens yarn will unravel, and puppies sticks will break.

But then what do we do?

We move on, and we don’t stop.

Faint memories that are only visible in our hearts are enough to give us the light we need to keep going, even when we have no idea it’s glowing.

Yes, nothing lasts forever, but that’s why we must live in the moment and appreciate what we have now before it’s too late. The song was the sadness of that reality.

With each second that passed, Aaron’s urge to find out who was playing only grew. Because if not now, then when?

After a quick glance over both his shoulders, Aaron carefully took hold of the door handle— begging that it would be unlocked— and pushed it down.

He was quietly thrilled when it moved. The door slowly edged open, just enough that Aaron’s head would fit through.

Goosebumps coated his arms and the hair on his neck stood up as a shiver ran down his spine. The melody was right in his ear now, entering and dancing around his brain.

His eyes landed on a girl, standing in the middle of a spacious hall, her back to the door as she focused solely on the sheets of music standing in front of her. The magic violin in her hands.

The only noticeable feature that Aaron could note was that she had pretty blonde hair which she tied into a low ponytail, some strands sticking out here and there because they were too short to reach.

Getting more comfortable as the piece played on, Aaron opened the door wider so he could step in and close it behind him, so nobody outside knew he was there.

It felt a little weird to be eavesdropping like this, but maybe she wouldn’t mind someone appreciating from a far— he hoped anyways.

After a short time of leaning against the wall of the hall, the song ended with a slow drawn out note that perfected the sad ending of life.

As a silence filled the room, without thinking Aaron began to applaud. It’s what you do after a fantastic show right?

The only difference here was that his wasn’t a fancy concert hall where the girl knew her music was being studied by some boy behind her. It was an empty school hall that she was alone in.

His clapping abruptly ended with the unpleasant squeak of the violins strings as the girls wrist flinched and her bow attacked her instrument. She had spun around in surprise, gasping in fright.

“Oh! I didn’t k-know you were there.” She breathed out, her cheeks turning scarlet.

When she turned around, Aaron’s words caught in his throat.

She was beautiful for sure, and even her voice was lovely.

He was staring, and he hadn’t been meaning too. Just her talent mixed with the fact she was a pretty girl had his stomach in knots. “N-no I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to come in.” The girl cocked her head sideways, seeing as Aaron’s full body had been standing right inside the room for a few minutes.

“Well I-I did.” He confessed shamefully. “But not in a weird way- it wasn’t my plan.” He awkwardly attempted to explain, his left hand rubbing the nape of his neck as he spoke.

The girl was still looking startled, holding her violin and bow close to her chest.

Clearing his throat, Aaron began again. “I got lost- then I heard your song- I’ve never heard anything like that before- so I opened the door to listen because I wanted to hear more.”

“I mean- I’ve heard a violin before and I know what they are but uhm- you sounded-sounded nice is what I’m trying to say.” His cheeks started to turn red, hoping this girl wasn’t thinking of him as some common loser who doesn’t know a trumpet from a flute.

“I’ve just never heard anyone play it before.” The words he spoke cracked and he could feel sweat forming on his back.

“Tha-“

“In the real life.” He quickly added, going back to rubbing the nape of his neck.

The girl looked at Aaron warily, waiting to hear if he was finished talking or not.

“My mother has vinyls of orchestra music so I have heard the violin before… that’s all though. You’re the first in person.” He gulped afterwards, shutting his mouth.

There was another pause. Aaron rocked back and forth on his heels, and before he could say anything else the girl finally got a word out.

“Thank you.” She flashed him a quick smile.

“So uh… what were you playing?” Aaron asked, peeking around the girl to see her music stand holding her score.

Turning around to look at the paper, the girl shyly said, “I wrote it myself. I don’t have a name for it yet though, I’m still working on that.”

“Oh alright.” He nodded, and the two fell back into a silence that laughed in Aaron’s face. All he was doing was making things awkward.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop himself from talking, his mouth had began moving without him even knowing. “Maybe… something to do with life? Life and death? I don’t know maybe that sounds dumb-“

“I like that!” The girl suddenly had came to life. From standing as stuff as a brick to her arms and legs shaking with excitement. Like a puppet turning into a human for the first time.

She took her pen that Aaron saw was behind her ear, she quickly scribbled on the top of her first page, ‘Life and Death’

“I’ve been working on a title for ages, and here you come in and just say the first thing on your mind.” She chuckled, and Aaron felt his face redden even more than it was already, but this time there were butterflies added to his stomach, fluttering around and giving him nervous laughter.

“Th-thanks. I-it was nothing- maybe you just needed an outsiders ear or something.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Her response was the most unexpected. Aaron tugged with the sleeve of his school jumper, feeling rather flattered that she was liking his ideas.

Feeling himself become more confident, he smiled brightly when suggesting, “I could help with other song naming if you like? I’d like to listen to you more!” The girl stroked the neck of her violin, chewing on her bottom lip as she thought.

The second he finished his sentence, Aaron mentally cursed himself out for being so up front. He’d only just met this girl- she probably thought he was some weirdo who just watched other students!

“If you want… I could play for you sometime if you stay after school.” His mouth went dry. Did she seriously want to spend time with him? The boy who had heard her violin solo and decided to spy, and who even named the piece she had worked so hard on?

“Are you alright?” She giggled, looking at the deer-in-headlights expression of Aaron who was trying to comprehend his situation.

Wow her eyes were beautiful, bright and blue were looking right into deep and dark trying to scan whether or not a cog had stopped turning in his brain.

From the short amount of time of being in this school, he hadn’t yet made any friends- which wasn’t a surprise for himself. He hadn’t any friends in his last school either, which was why he was here instead. He couldn’t believe his luck right now that he was actually in the process of befriending someone other than his dog back home.

Especially a pretty girl who was very clearly talented with the beautiful gift of music.

He’s always wanted to learn the piano… maybe this was a sign to get going with it.

“Huh? Oh- I’m fine yeah.” He snapped out of his daze and laughed happily, he couldn’t help himself. “Of course I will, I’d love to!” And the girl grinned with him.

“My names Haley by the way.” Aaron had to take a second to understand, it had never occurred to him to ask her name.

“M-mines Aaron… it’s nice to meet you.” He followed on.

He sensed that his time here with Haley was now up, soccer tryouts were waiting and he had succeeded in figuring out who was playing the melody, so there really wasn’t a reason for him to stay.

“Well I uh… better get going now…” In all truthfulness he was much more interested in the music department rather than the physical education now. He hardly wanted to leave the comfort of it all.

“I’ll see you around then Aaron, tomorrow after school if you’re free?” He felt himself blush again.

“Sounds great!” The blurted out, but Haley wasn’t startled at all this time, she was delighted.

“Perfect! I’ll be in this room tomorrow around three o’clock.” She stated, and Aaron tattooed the date into his mind, he swore to himself he wouldn’t forget.

“Great!” He smiled excitedly, before turning to exit the hall door, but before he left, he called back to her.

“Oh- Haley?”

“Yes?” She twisted her head from placing her violin back in its case.

“Where’s the soccer tryouts?”

[capriciouslyterminal]

Wolves Don’t Do True Love’s Kiss

(Aka I wrote an Ishimondo Wolf Among Us oneshot thing instead of editing a paper and I’ve never posted my writing on tumblr before).

~Full idea credit goes to @andy-deer​ and his amazing art if you like Danganronpa or just cool art you really should follow him~

~Mondo’s the big bad wolf, Ishimaru’s the blind prince from Rapunzel. I know in the original fairytale I think the prince is blinded by thorns but listen a version of him being blinded by snakes lives in my brain from somewhere and I couldn’t not write it.~

~P.S. I don’t know that much about Wolf Among Us and I am sorry about that~

Mondo Oowada had been having the same dream a lot lately, ever since that night he shoved the guy who used to be The Minotaur through the display case of a yarn shop.

Normally he and the other fables didn’t have such violent altercations now that he split off from the pack, but then the detective called in a fucking favor from the big bad wolf himself.

And what else was he supposed to do? When the guy wouldn’t own up to the blood of all those teenagers stuck in his teeth and he wanted to put his horns through the dancing princess turned detective and her naive sidekick?

If he’d known the whole thing was going to lead to a blind prince from another story storming up to his apartment from the DA’s office to yell at him about property damage and chances of exposing the whole fable community at two in the morning while he was trying to sleep of the few times he got gored, he wouldn’t have bothered. 

It really wasn’t his fault The Minotaur couldn’t afford enough glamor to withstand a single punch. And he’d told the annoying little shit as much, but the whole thing inevitably meant that he was seeing a lot of Kiyotaka Ishimaru whenever he was roped into being the muscle behind Kirigiri’s investigations. Which was fine. And normal.

But then the dreams started after that night at the bar, and everything changed.

~*~

He doesn’t know when it changed, when he went from running in the forest of his mind on four feet to two as he slept.

He never lost the sights or the smells of the old forest that had no name. But now he ran it as a man. No matter the wolf he would always be deep in his heart.

It was something like when his brother died. He’d been too young, hadn’t even finished cutting his teeth, when he was shunted from the dreams of hurtling through the night at the front of the pack to hurtling alone through the end of days.

There the isolation was a nightmare, a punishment, but this is not the same. This is a simple shifting of reality.

Sometimes he wonders, looking at the webs of veins stretched under the skin on the backs of his hands in the gray light of morning, when the glamor started to feel more real than his body. 

When he grew so used to the delicate tapping of hands, to standing tall and far from the ground, that the memory of the nights spent slinking through the shadows on his belly faded. He would never truly know when that was lost.

All that meant was that now, whenever he had to shift back, it was no longer the shrugging off of a costume like in the early days in this new town. 

It was shouldering back into an old coat, ill-fitting and smelling of pine, that stretched at the seams to hold him.

He was freezing now, dreaming, skin unprotected from the winter that could steal the breath from your lungs. He was running towards the tower with a panting in his heart and a frenzied howl in his mind. 

~*~

He mentioned it only once, over drinks.

Or, well, more specifically, only Mondo had the real drinks. Something old and amber that burned as it went down. Something served in a glass of gently melting ice that was always refilled whenever he shot a slip of teeth to the bartender and flexed his bloody knuckles while eyeing the shelves of glassware behind him.

The bartender in another life, another place, not that it mattered much anymore, had been a pig. Mondo could tell not just from the swell of his pale throat and the slight tilt of his nose, but the fear that sprang in the air as soon as Mondo had entered that first night in town. The man froze like he was still the prey.

As soon as he’d entered the establishment for the first time, and seen the bartender shakily reach to stroke the brick wall for comfort, he knew the little pig remembered him. Mondo hadn’t paid for drinks in four years, and he hadn’t even needed to threaten to blow down the joint.

Not that he would do that anymore. Now, with cigarettes and cash in the pockets of his long coat, he would have had some complaints for the structure of the building and nothing more to add. Now, he could have figured out how to bring it down with his fist in moments instead of having to empty his lungs.  

Getting Kiyotaka within the brickwork bar’s confines had been an accomplishment of its own, a sign of respect for their still growing friendship that made Mondo swell with pride and grin to himself at the sight of an old world prince crammed into a booth at his favorite dingy bar.

The first time he asked for drinks after a successful arrest, and had seen Kiyotaka nod against the neon backdrop of the city with an uncertain smile, he’d practically howled with glee. If he still had his tail it would have wagged.

 But getting him to sip anything harder than soda water was a losing man’s game.

~*~

The pines are so familiar he could think of them as his own brothers, feeding the deer whose innards he lived on before he found new villages to savage. Even as he left the skin of the wolf, he would never be free of this forest that still shuddered with his howls if he stopped to listen.

But the tower, crooked and dark against the snowy sky, is new. Rising from the thorny ground as if it had been summoned from Hell itself.

A break in the tree-line, a monument of dark stone frozen in a twisting shudder as it reached for the clouds. The single shining yellow window gleams like an eye watching him approach. 

If he saw eyes like than in an animal he’d think it was rotting from the inside out. He wouldn’t eat it, and instead leave it to bleed sluggishly into the soft earth.

The tower is sick.

A man is climbing it.

~*~

He’d been five drinks deep, warm in the belly and ready to curl up by the golden hearth that kept the bar warm, when it finally happened. He hadn’t actually curled up by a hearth in years, and would only consider it after five more drinks.

But needless to say, he was drowning in golden comfort when he’d asked about the tower. 

When he felt the air that had been so warm a moment ago freeze as the words left his mouth. A question that had been scratching at the backdoor of his mind since Kiyotaka had pounded on his door and demanded Mondo put on a proper glamor when he accidentally grabbed a hunk of his hair.

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Mondo said. The words slurred, flowing between his teeth and tongue like a river. “A blind prince of all fuckin’ people. Breaking and entering.”

There was that twitch of an eyebrow, displeasure kept on a tight leash, that made Mondo’s heart clench with fondness. 

It was a feeling like he swallowed the sun, his gut full of light, only for it try to kick its way back up out of his throat.

“I wasn’t always–I did not break anything! And I entered with permission.” 

Kiyotaka had discovered the napkin dispenser on the table earlier in the night, sopping up a ring of condensation that Mondo had been happy to leave to sink into the table. He made use of it now, and quickly shredded a napkin between his pale fingers.

“Come off it, man.” Mondo chuckled, raised the glass to his lips, and took another swig. “What would permission to break into a tower in the middle of the fuckin’ woods even sound like?”

“I didn’t break into her tower.” Even blind, Kiyotaka knew how to glare with the best of them. Another napkin was plucked from the table, but he worried at it for a bit longer this time.

“She was screaming,” Kiyotaka said. “I was nearby, hunting, and at first I thought it was the wind. But then I really listened. And she was screaming.”

~*~

The man is up higher than the treetops, clutching the stones of the tower with his bare hands. The wind is whispering, the clouds humming in anticipation.

Mondo breaks into the space, and a name rings out like a bell in his throat. He howls with it, staring up at the figure as he runs. He is too far away to catch him should anything happen.

When the man turns to look down, all Mondo can see is the red pinprick of his eyes burning against the grey eternity of the sky. And his hands.

His fingers are bloody at the tips, streaks of crimson left on the stones. He broke his nails against the brick of the tower, flecks of scratched into his pale skin. He surely has been climbing for days and is nowhere closer to the top.

Even as he runs, Mondo knows that though he has hands, he cannot climb fast enough to reach him.

“Stop!” He hears himself roar. “You’ll fall.”

The man looks down, and Mondo feels his smile on the wind. He is weeping, tears freezing before they reach the ground to shatter into icy shards.

~*~

“What did you hunt?” Mondo was not sure where the words came from inside of him.

Kiyotaka’s sightless eyes were pale flecks of ice under his furrowed brow. He crumpled the napkin in his hands, and immediately tried to smooth it out with a regretful twist to his mouth.

“I don’t know for sure anymore…it was so long ago. But there was talk of a wolf, I think.”

He let the space hang between them, gave Mondo a chance to haul him up by his collar with a growl. But the rage never came. Mondo knew him now.

He continued on.

“I wasn’t much of a hunter. But I knew that my grandfather should have–,” his voice melted as it always did when the old king came into the conversation. “It is the royal family’s duty to protect their people.”

The freezing slush of the past seeped down Mondo’s spine. For a second he almost could see his breath, as if the old forest had risen back up around him.

For a second he could almost imagine it. Them meeting there. 

He could imagine himself standing on all fours heaving, staring into burning red eyes against a dark and ancient sky. A figure fit to stop his rampaging ways. Not a woodsman, crude and homely, but a prince. 

Would he have used a bow? A sword? What would have come first? A slice through Mondo’s belly or Mondo’s teeth in his neck?

But those times were long gone, and the quiet murmur of bar patrons tethered the two of them in the present.

“She screamed, and I followed the sound…and I found the tower. I called up to her.”

Mondo could imagine that with ease. Kiyotaka thundering out of the forest like a madman, yelling up at a witch’s tower to try and ascertain if a screaming woman needed his help. 

Kiyotaka trying to figure out the best way to help her as the sun went down and the temperature fell. 

Kiyotaka shedding a finely embroidered coat to climb a random ass tower despite any good sense he might have been taught.

His princely fingers, tapered and gentle.

“I thought she had lowered a rope. I didn’t know until I held it in my hands that it was her hair. Sometimes I can still feel the slick weight it.” 

His hands clenched, old scars scraped into the pads of his fingertips drawing across the table.

~*~

The man leans back, and with the gentle gasp of the wind, he falls.

Mondo is sure his heart falls with him

~*~

“She was so young. And so frightened, Mondo. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her face,” Kiyotaka said, stricken. “Her hair falling to the floor.”

Mondo was only aware of the thundering breaths he drew in and had to focus to release with care. The howling of the wind was still inside of him, screaming to be let out.

“I promised her I’d help her, find a way to get her out of that place. I had to.  It was a single room and it was freezing. In the middle of winter! Imagine it, Mondo, a single stone room is all you know for eighteen years. I think I was the first man she’d ever seen. She stared at me like she couldn’t understand what I was. She held my hands and…and she wept.”

His hands were shaking bad. Mondo focused on his breath and felt claws scrape somewhere down deep with his bones, hiding under the skin of a man.

“I promised her I’d help her because that was my duty to my people. Because she deserved more than to be a witch’s prisoner. I promised her that I’d keep her safe. I just needed a ladder, something so she could climb down. I had to go back for one, and she didn’t want to let go of my hand. I had to pry her fingers off my wrist. She cried after me.” He admitted it like some shame, like something heavy on his chest that Mondo understood.

“It took a full day’s ride to return. I hadn’t realized how far I’d travelled. And as soon as I found a ladder long enough I turned and went straight back. I think I almost killed my horse, but I couldn’t stop to think.” 

The words were falling out of him faster and faster. Mondo didn’t know how to stop him.

“When I got back, when I called up to her, there was no sound. She tossed nothing down for me. So I climbed on my own.” His fingertips twitched, a sardonic grin followed them and looked wrong on his face. “But I was too late. I wasn’t fast enough. She was not there to greet me upon my return. But the witch was.”

~*~

The man is caught in thorns. His fine clothes in the style of their homeland torn and dirtied. He is bleeding from his crown and moaning, but he does not scream. His bones are broken, his skin is bloody, his eyes are screwed tightly shut.

Mondo feels something terrible will happen once he opens them.

The snakes are looming, dry static across the ground.

Mondo flings himself into the thorns on instinct bred by his old skin and bellows at the pain of it.

~*~

Mondo suddenly reached out, on instinct bred by his old skin, and felt himself take Kiyotaka’s hand.

The prince of the old world was startled. Mondo heard the stutter of his heart. The gasp of his breath.

Mondo knew a want like a chasm, stretching and straining from his chest through his whole body. It drove him to hunt, to shatter, to shrink his pupils to slits, and to take all the world had with a guttural howl. This want shuddered through his body at the sight of Kiyotaka, golden in the light, parting his lips to speak.

He wants–he wants–he wants–

In a way he had not wanted since the old days.

~*~

He rips into the throats and bellies of snake after snake. He tears scale and muscle with his teeth and flings the corpses away with his hands until the ground is littered with them.

Only when they are all dead, when the root-like curve of their bodies are all he can see, does he turn back to the man. He whimpers and the tears leak from under his closed eyes. He is beautiful.

Mondo takes his face in his hands, feels the sharp press of his cheekbone against the palm of his hand, and moves close enough to feel the warmth of his shuddering breath on his face. Holding him close, their foreheads almost touching.

Mondo feels the venom drip from his lips now, venom from the throats of the snakes that would fall to the man’s eyes and have force him cry out while his body recoiled. Venom that would steal his sight and cast his eyes in icy nothingness.

But it is all he can do to press even closer, feel the man’s heart beat in one with his own, and ghost his lips over the chilled ones.

The man screams into the kiss, and Mondo howls with him.

He always wakes in a cold sweat, and the moon is full and staring down at him from the sky.

~*~

Kiyotaka had continued the story, Mondo had not listened, too entranced by the simple impossibility of holding Kiyotaka’s hand.

“I think she kept her there the whole time, Mondo. And I don’t know what I wanted to do but that woman…she told me I had failed to protect the girl and she–she grabbed me and…” 

Mondo could hear Kiyotaka’s heart thundering in his chest. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, tears welling up the creases of his eyes. It was like he could feel Mondo looking at him even as he kept his eyes downcast.

“And I fell.” His voice was hardly a rasp, utterly hollow. 

Again, Mondo moved on instinct.

Pulling Kiyotaka to him felt like coming home, squeezing his arms around his back as tight as he dared felt like obeying a rule of the new world. Like casting a glamor.

“Hey man, it’s alright now,” Mondo murmured. Something warm blossomed through the want in his chest, and it coated his voice.

“Mondo.” Kiyotaka’s voice was strangled, his arms hovered above Mondo’s back, as if he were unsure how to put them down.

“None of that shit matters anymore, yeah? You’re here now. With me. And I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to you again, swear on my fuckin’ life.”

Kiyotaka took in a shaking breath that hitched in his chest.

“We’re out of the woods, Taka. You and me.”

Kiyotaka let out the slightest sob, equal parts relieved and haunted, and finally wrapped his arms around Mondo. He surrendered himself into the embrace, and Mondo felt everything inside of him shift as Kiyotaka Ishimaru took up residence within the beating of his heart.

And everything changed, simple as that.

~Thank you for reading this, if you did! And thank you again to @andy-deer for their amazing art which has made me smile any day when I was feeling particularly down~

[gouginghearts]

Sestina- “Creature”

A thunderstorm is brewing up in the old attic today And that deathly creature hidden away in there is growling Before you know it, that damned thing is gonna be here soon It’s gonna create a hell of a mess dripping black bile on the carpet Whimpering as I see it cry a flurry of bloody tears I’d best get to fixing that shining silver padlock sometime

Doesn’t that ghastly beast have to get tired of the sobs sometime? I can’t babysit it forever now, I’ve got much to do today I’m watching it painfully stutter about, almost moved to tears Suddenly glaring at me now, it’s stomach growling You’ve already been fed, look at the crumbs left upon the carpet! It’s driving me mad, it has to go or I might get attached soon.

I’ve been patiently awaiting your letter, I hope it arrives soon. Ideally, your response about this mess is in the mailbox sometime The little gremlin bit me today, crimson blood on my new carpet If it has anymore outlandish outbursts, I might lose it today I’m at my last rope here, it feels like a lion inside me is growling Like loose yarn in a blanket, my sanity is coming out by tears

In the summertime the beast is much calmer yet the silence tears Tears through my mind with the idea somethings coming soon Maybe a different beast will come forth howling and growling Wishing on a star you weren’t so busy- I need connection sometime The hot sun shines beautifully out on the old dingy park today I want to go out but I find myself still curled up face down on the carpet

The creature is somewhat still dormant but still I hear it scratching the carpet I don’t understand it, a pleasant morning yet it’s snores bring watery tears The mirror showed me a pale figure from the pits of Hades today Sleep deprived and exhausted, I’m gonna have to pass out pretty soon In the fridge everything’s gone bad and I need to clean it out sometime Rotting food, I’m not even hungry yet my stomach won't stop growling

Lifeless acceptance in my dim eyes when I hear that monstrosity growling In its presence rests a piercing smirk, rising up from off the carpet What’s the point anymore? It’s always going to come back sometime The wallpaper of resistant determination peeling off in tears I’m begging you to please answer me here- rapidly and very soon I think I’ll just watch the world unfold from outside my window today.

Hours passed laying in bed today as my gaze fixates on the carpet Hollow wind growling through the trees and upon my face- dried tears I really want to give up soon, I hope someone hears me sometime.

[frncs]

⌠ ERIC OSBORNE, 21, NON-BINARY, HE/THEY ⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, FRANCES ‘FRANK’ LAVOIE! according to their records, they’re a FIRST year, specializing in MACGYVER SURVIVAL SKILLS AND NAVIGATION & COVERT OPS; and they DID go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of oversized clothing stitched with thick yarn and littered with cat hair, the snap of stretched balloons before they’re blown and a post-nap dazed gaze. when it’s the (virgo)’s birthday on 09/01/1999, they always request CORN DOGS from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation. ⌿ tasha, 22, she/her, est ⍀ 

well well well .. id meant to bring another kid ages ago .. n then jus didn’t because the personality part was/is givin me grief FGJH so pls 🐻  w me n replies as i figure out his voice . also .. haven’t even written out my intro yet . . bt ik it’s gna be long apologies , pls feel free to just read the tldr 

tw: death, accidental murder, grief.

TLDR: grew up fairly well off to spy parents who didn’t want him to be part of that world but apart from that didn’t care what he did with his life otherwise. he often questioned whether they really cared for him at all (tht quote thts like .. if u love me u love me in a way i cant understand). luna’s his best friend, and he’s obsessed with his aunt and uncle’s circus that stops into town every year. life is pretty great until luna ‘dies’ at 16. he joins the circus and becomes a clown, he loves performing with all his heart. at 18, his aunt and uncle arm him with a credit card and tell him to go travel, he assumes it’s because they just want him to explore the world. visits europe for six months and asia for six months, enjoys it but misses the circus terribly, busks a lot. they actually send him away to distance him from the shady happenings that are starting to boil within the company. he comes back in time for the halloween switch-a-roo, where everyone rotates their act (so he does the magic show as a clown). he’s part of a set-up that results in him accidentally killing a person and sawing them in half. his aunt and uncle call his parents, who reluctantly send him to prep school for a little less than a year to heighten his chances of getting into a spy school for protection, which he does. dedicated to working hard and getting a high paying job to pay for reparations for the circus and do a massive overhaul of the way it runs, because it’s like his second home.

grew up in waterford ct, to one retired spy parent ( his mom ) and his dad who works with the government and is aware of espionage. his mom straight up didn’t have a good time, no one really talks about it, he has no idea what happened, doesn’t know if his dad knows either but it’s clear that they don’t want him going into the spy world. 

he feels like he’s always been treated like an adult for as long as he remembers, not in the sense that they burdened him with responsibility, but that they didn’t seem to care what he did one way or another. the best way i can describe it is that his parents had the same energy as a character in a yorgos lanthimos film, very dry and lifeless, like they’re on autopilot. he’d try and cuddle his mom and she’d just pat him on the head. he couldn’t really rebel against them and as long as he went to school and got good grades they appeared un-phased about what he got up to, a very mind your own business dynamic shared between family. 

he didn’t get up to a whole lot, he was a bit of an outsider. didn’t make friends very easily because he didn’t know how to let himself go around people, even though he’d sometimes be excited but wouldn’t know how to show it. definitely had that reserved temperament ingrained into him from his parents. 

he did have one friend who knew him inside and out, luna <3 who was also his neighbour. their demeanours were a perfect match but also he’d find himself getting so excited and wanting to tell her about his day or listen to hers, or read with her or play hopscotch or send her secret notes with his flashlight at her window. 

there was one other thing that got him terribly excited and it’s when his aunt and uncle’s traveling circus would stop in. he’d go every single day for the week and a half it was there. his parents would arrange one dinner with them and consider their familial duty done, other than that they remain out of contact with them. his aunt and uncle tell him that he’s always welcome to join, and he holds them to it. his parents say do whatever you want, just graduate high school first. 

his whole world kinda crumbles when luna ‘dies’ at sixteen. he feels immense guilt over it thinking he should’ve done something about that skeevy bf of hers...this also coincides with one of his mom’s friends dying (harlowe’s mom) which makes his mom act even weirder so he fast tracks his plans to join the circus and joins at sixteen, doesn’t graduate high school. i envision the convo btw him and his dad went like: 

“dad, i’m joining the circus.”

“graduate high school first.”

“no.”

“okay son, i can’t control you.”

the company welcomed him with open arms and he tried out everything, acrobatics, sharpshooting, but wasn’t particularly talented at anything. except, clownery. because messing up is commended, noting how all the kids would laugh at him trying basic magic tricks. so his aunt and uncle got him into a clown costume lickety-split. performing brought him a lot of joy through the grief like he’s an entirely different person when performing, insert that one cursed joker picture: put on a happy face. 

because the owners were his aunt and uncle he was treated exceptionally well and he was very oblivious to the malpractice that went on behind the scenes. the circus had a whole sector dedicated to pickpocketing (other kids who he just saw as friends were often runaways from broken homes who didn’t have anywhere else to go and earned their wages by stealing from customers), and serious kerfuffle with pay, probably some extortion going on, just general yuckery. he vaguely knew it was happening but was kind of like it is what it is kinda standpoint. heavily inspired by the circus barney and clint barton grew up in reffed in the 2015 run of all-new hawkeye.

a couple years later his aunt and uncle give him a credit card and tell him to go travel for a bit. he does because why not but misses the circus terribly. he spends six months in europe and six months in asia, busks as a clown a lot and but his on-the-road/home sickness never really fades.

he returns super excited, ready to clown around but it’s evident tensions are just really high between the workers but they’re still all super sweet to him because he’s very sweet even if he’s oblivious. halloween comes around which is his favourite time of year because they do this thing called the switch-a-roo, where everyone switches what act they’re doing, bicycle acts do contortionist acts, lion tamers do rope walkers, magicians do animal taming and clowns do magic acts. it’s just one big laugh because obviously most of them are cross-trained, but it’s meant to be more of a comedy thing and their mess-ups are to an extent choreographed but also capitalizes on the scariness because they hype up the fact that they have no idea what they’re doing.

he’s doing his magic act, messing up all the magic tricks showing all his cards, and his last act is the sawing someone in half, so the assistant comes out in the box, really selling it like omg a clown !!! being like stop !!! you don’t know what you’re doing !!! and frances is like playing along with the act, as he was told that the gag would be when they split the boxes they’ll have some practical effects to make it look like he’d accidentally actually cut the assistant in half. fumbling with a very real chainsaw, he does the choppity-chop which takes a bit more muscle than he thought it would and the assistant screams a lot then pretends to pass out. anyways it wasn’t an act he accidentally cut someone in half, and they die.

EXTRA CLOWN LORE THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT FEEL FREE TO SKIP!

i envisioned that worker negotiations had been going on for a while and had kinda reached a stalemate where nothing was happening, and there were rumblings about frances being off travelling and spending a shit ton of money where it could’ve been put towards the workers and the circus and his aunt and uncle would hear threats thrown towards frances which is why they wanted him to stay away/go travelling for a while. the girl who was killed did so knowingly, and died a martyr (and also left frances a note explaining things and how she was sorry that he was the one that had to kill her). the whole thing was executed with a lot of thought: how it would affect frances and how it would be seen as a personal attack against his aunt and uncle - and that while the act seemingly went off without a hitch and the public didn’t suspect a thing, the workers have leverage to make it public (which ideally they don’t want b/c a lot of the workers are pretty disenfranchised or have criminal records and truthfully don’t want the end all being the circus closing b/c they do love their job just not the conditions). his aunt an uncle are in a bit of a jam because they need an investor but can’t get that because of shady hiring practices in the first place, and their greed definitely exacerbated the problem.

after that happens his aunt and uncle immediately call his parents, who despite never wanting him to go into the spy industry believe that it would be the safest option for him, and enrol him in prep school (which he attends for less than a year) so that he has more of a chance getting into gallagher the following year, which, with the right strings pulled happens. 

now he’s dedicated to giving it his all so he can get a really high paying job and do a complete overhaul of the company and make a lot of reparations that should’ve been made years and years ago. 

personality

- very patient, a slow talker and more of a listener.  - idealistic, in the sense that he’s always been surrounded by people either in poverty of vulnerable, and despite being a caring guy, adopted that kind of mind your own business mentality his parents had. even his desire to get rich in order to save the circus is a very unrealistic plan or at the very least would take a very long time to achieve.  - tired, i know it’s not a personality trait but i’m making it one, he’s a little bit dazed, not gloomy per se but like he’s woken up from a nap and needs to warm up a bit before being a functioning part of society. but that’s like all his interactions. has the gait of like a drunken kung fu master, very limber.  

headcanons

has slight imposter syndrome about clowning, knows he’s great and always got a standing ovation but can’t help but wonder how much nepotism played a role in her being the main clown in the company.

planning on hiding out in her room during halloween, but is very bittersweet about it, because he thinks that halloween is one of the only times that people are happy because they get to be anyone they want and has found that most people don’t want to be themselves.

has an overweight, old cat which he’s had since he joined the circus and has been everywhere with him. it’s name is cat. he also has an album on his phone of all the strays he’s ever met, which is a lot being on the road. he named all of them but they never got to come with him.

sleeps a lot, probably has some sort of chronic sleep disorder, but enjoys the sweet release from life so he doesn’t question it. has no shame and will sleep anywhere and does.

loves making balloon animals, was his favourite thing to do at the circus. keeps a jewelry dish full of unpumped balloons on his bedside table. also a big reader, and hoarder of anything that can fit in a small travel notebook (leaves, ticket stubs, pictures, anything). 

wanted connections: i’ll update my actual google docs in the coming days but people he met while traveling for a year, anyone with pets wanting to have a pet playdate (cat’s not too active but he could use some company), someone who catches him crying (he cries a lot haven’t peeped his full chart but i can sense the water energy from miles away), people who wake him up when he falls asleep in class, in the common rooms, outside, flirty flirts, someone who’s been to the circus, someone who clowns him about being a clown and he gets super angry, really anything, i’m terrible at coming up with connections i get such a thrill from mundane relations i’m boring <3

[deprough]

Wood and Worry

12/9/2020 Dincember prompt: "Let It Snow”

SFW, however there are descriptions of murder and violence after the fact.

My Dincember prompts are part of a serial story I’m telling. This is the fifth part of the story. This post won’t make sense without reading the others.

Part 1: Snowballs and Saviors Part 2: Dreams and Dangers (nsfw) Part 3: Heat and Harassment Part 4:  Fire and Fatality (depictions of violence and death)

The snow started just after sunrise, fat, heavy flakes that would have doomed the search mission if it hadn’t been for Mando. The weird thing on his back that Corrie had wondered about from time to time was a jetpack that allowed him to get an aerial view and cover more ground. She was starting to understand why the Mandalorians had such a fierce reputation. 

“They’re in the cave nearby,” Mando said as soon as the roar of his jet pack faded. 

“Good, an ambush shouldn’t be too hard, then,” Corrie said grimly. “How many?”

“Eight.” Mando’s grim announcement caused the posse members to shift nervously. That was two more than the posse, but all Corrie could think was that if they got this group, that was over half of them dead or caught.

“Are we sure this is the group that torched the jail?” Kado asked. 

“I am,” Mando replied. “I’m not sure it was all of them, but the two that I followed from the town are here.”

“Unless they surrender, kill them all,” Corrie said, drawing her blaster.

“What happens if the two who torched the jail surrender?” Mando asked.

“Then they go back to town to stand trial,” Corrie said grimly. “I hope they do.” Mando tilted his helmet in a silent question. “It’d do the townsfolk good to see them dance on a rope.”

“Then give the word, Sheriff, and we’ll get ‘em,” Mando said.

“Word,” Corrie said, and the posse rolled out.

~  *  ~  * ~

The bodies were dragged off and left for the beasts, which was no better than those animals deserved anyway. They only had one injury, thanks to Mando’s willingness to test the integrity of his armor by being the heart of the battle. 

“You okay, Osker?” Corrie asked, kneeling down next to the kid. He was technically an adult, but didn’t look it, especially when his face was almost white with pain and he was biting back tears. 

“I’ll be fine, Sheriff.” He put on a brave face but everyone knew the knife wound in his shoulder hurt. Corrie patted his hand and started to get up, but he caught her hand. “Sheriff, if… if my arm’s gonna be okay, can I be a deputy?”

Corrie smiled, even as part of her hated the sudden reminder that she’d lost one last night. The mother in her objected to the idea of sending this baby into fights. Osker wasn’t a baby though; he was a grown man, even if he was barely so. Even if she could remember when he was born. “I’d be proud to have you, once you’re better. You take care.”

He swelled with pride. “Yes, Sheriff.” Then he let the other men get him up on his gurt for the long, painful ride back to town. 

Koda turned to her. “You sure you’ll be okay out here, Corrie?”

“I’ve got Mando,” she said, “I think we’ll be alright.” She hadn’t meant it quite the way it came out, and Koda raised an eyebrow. “Anyone who comes back to this camp tonight is in for a nasty surprise,” she quickly added, ignoring the blush trying to stain her cheeks. 

She stood in the snow, watching four of the six people she’d ridden out with go home. Glancing over at Mando with his floating kid, she said, “So, how about you get some wood and I’ll find some tinder?”

Literally eating her foot wasn’t an option so she met the black T of his visor and didn’t show her discomfort. It’s what Dad would have done, though she didn’t think her father was capable of unintentional sexual innuendos like she was managing. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I got it.”

The second he’d turned away, Corrie allowed herself a full-body cringe over the matter. When she was done, she went through the prisoner’s meager belongings. They’d clearly been stealing from the locals; Corrie recognized all the tools and clothing as being Zalzus-made. She identified one of the scarves; it had been Sunga’s favorite, and Corrie’s clenched her teeth as she carefully set it aside to take back with them.

She picked some yarn from frayed woolen gloves for tinder, and dug the wet pieces of wood out of the firepit. During the fight, someone had kicked snow onto the fire, and now it was up to her to salvage it. Getting out flint and tinder, she started the fight to get it lit again.

“Here, let me,” Mando offered as he dropped an armful of wood next to the pit. Corrie was more than happy to let someone else do this crappy job. She handed him the flint box, only to have him extend his arm and send a gout of flame that effortlessly lit the tinder.

She stared at him. He looked down at the flint box, then back at her. “Cheater,” she told him.

“It isn’t cheating if you win the fight,” he told her. 

“All’s fair in love and war?” she shot back, then wanted to swallow her foot again. 

“In war. Wouldn’t know much about in love,” he said levelly.

“So you don’t love your son?” she asked sharply.

His helmet pulled back in surprise. “That’s not what you were asking about.”

“That’s not what you thought I was asking about.” She shrugged. “Love’s love. There’s different kinds, and it comes out in different ways, but it’s rarely fair either way.”

“So kids aren’t fair in love?” he asked, his voice curious.

Corrie laughed. “Mando, kids are the worst about love. They’ll take it all, but they have to be almost adults before they truly understand how to give it.” He glanced at the child, and she said, “That’s a deep look.”

“You can’t see my face,” he protested.

“I don’t need to,” she said. “Something I said hit a nerve or provoked somethin’.”

He turned from her and she shrugged. They were silent as they got the gurts hidden in the back of the cave with water and food. Then he went and got them more water while she opened jarred stew and started heating it. 

“The kid’s fifty.” His remark, delivered as he casually sent down the water jug, made her take another look at the child. Mando added, “I just thought, if you’re right, then I’ll never know him when he’s capable of giving love.”

Behind him, snow started to fall in a white curtain that blocked the remaining light of the day. “That a problem?” Corrie asked, leaning forward to stir the stew.

“Does it matter if it is?” he asked.

“You don’t like to answer questions, do you?” she asked.

“Not invasive ones.” 

“Then tell me to shut up,” Corrie told him, peering up at him. “So have you figured out how you’re eating yet?”

His shoulders drooped a bit. “No.”

“Great. I’ll just wait outside for a bit.” Corrie half-expected a protest, something about how she shouldn’t get soaked just for him, and no, no, he’d go stand in the snow to eat. 

“Thank you, Sheriff.” His simple acceptance was a pleasant surprise, and Corrie found her opinion of his shifting yet again. He couldn’t seem to go a moment without changing her views on him. 

He took one of the seats left by the prisoners as the food finished warming. They sat in silence, then Corrie ate while Mando fed the baby. 

When she was done, she said, “Hollar when you’re done.” He nodded as he placed the child in the bassinet and reached for the closure. “Naw, give me the control and let him follow me. Get some fresh air.”

He hesitated. “We’re in an open cave. He’s got fresh air.

“We won’t be far away,” she said. “Literally just out of line of sight. It’s better than him being locked up in the bassinet, right?” 

Mando looked at the baby, who looked at him. Rising, he checked to make sure his hat and gloves were on correctly, then tucked the blanket around him more tightly and handed her the controls. Aware of the trust he was silently showing in her, she walked just out of sight of the entrance and no further, pulling the bassinet toward her so she could gently rock it. The kid looked alarmed for a moment, then smiled and settled back to watch the snow fall.

Her comm crackled and then Koda said, “Boss, you read me?”

“Yeah, Koda, I read ya,” she said, wondering what was happening now.

“Boss, some of the teens made their own posse and headed up into the eastern hills before the snow started,” Koda told her. “I followed as far as I could, but the snow’s gettin’ bad.”

“Dank ferrik,” she growled. “Who was it?”

“Scerr Hamne, Lindi Jissard, and Kuna Tane. They took Kern’s speederbikes.”

Corrie tucked her hair behind her ears, since she couldn’t rake her fingers through it like she normally did when agitated. Silently cursing idiot kids, she said, “Lemme guess, they took the high performance ones.”

“Got it in one. Kern says the bikes should have frozen up already.”

“Damn kids. Has Kern gone after them?”

“No, but Lindi’s not going to be able to sit for a month when we find her, and is probably grounded until she’s dead,” Kota answered. “Can’t say I blame her father. Kern loves his speederbikes.” 

“We have to find them before he can ruin her life,” Corrie replied. “I think Mando and I are stuck up here until morning, at minimum. We’ll join the hunt tomorrow.”

“That’s what I figured, boss. See ya tomorrow. Stay warm.”

But not too warm, Corrie thought with a flush. “See ya tomorrow. Have the search party ready.”

When Mando called her in, he took one look at her face and guessed, “Trouble?” 

“Been nothin’ but since that kriffin’ ship crashed,” she said wearily. “Libu used to be quiet and safe, and now…” She pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her thick curls. Sometimes, she forgot she’d cut it back when she’d taken the job, and got a little surprise when she ran out of hair before she thought she would. Tonight was one of those nights when she came up short, and wondered if she really had the right to be out here, doing this job.

“Hutts happen.” 

Corrie looked at the bounty hunter. “Is that a joke?”

He paused and then said, “Was it funny?”

“I… I don’t know,” she said, reaching out to the bassinet and rocking the kid again. He cooed softly. “A little, I guess.”

“I’m not good at jokes.” He said it simply, and she wished she could see his face, to read what emotions were crossing it. 

“No,” Corrie said with faux shock, opting to try a little humor herself. “Really? It’s been a laugh a minute since I met you.” 

The second it was out of her mouth, she realized he might feel mocked, but before she could withdraw her statement, he said, “That’s me, Funny Man Mando.”

She chuckled. “Funny Man Mando, savior of Libu. I think that’s what we’ll put on the statue we erect to you.” 

He visibly winced. “You’re local law enforcement, you’re supposed to take all the credit after I leave town. Besides, you’d make a prettier statue than me.”

Which left her so flustered that she couldn’t come up with a retort, and it had distracted her from the problem with the teens. As a bonus, it meant they spent the rest of the night in near-blessed silence. Better than eating her foot every few minutes.

[funkypoacher]

The Perfect Cup of Tea

some Handers fluff I finally decided to post after ... a year... of ignoring it. tagging @fandomn00blr for fluffy, sniffly, Cat Husband reasons :)

With long faces (and even longer hair), Hawke and Anders rolled into town.

Sore eyes, strained bodies: as the journey from Weisshaupt to Kirkwall entered its final days, the village was a sight for both. It’d been months since the couple, traveling exclusively by foot, had felt secure enough in their anonymity to pop into one of the hamlets they passed, but something about this place—off the beaten path; rising from the forest like a fairytale—had its allure.

It may have been pure exhaustion. It may have been cresting anticipation of impending home. Either way, the bedraggled duo dove in.

Hawke, a woman who, according to reputation, would rather be flayed than found describing anything as ‘cute’, said honestly, in a voice raw from exhaustion, “it’s cute.”

“It is cute,” Anders agreed, scratching his chin through an excessive beard. “Not a lot of industry, but I suppose they don’t need it—not this close to the highway, anyway. Must get loads of visitors.”

Inspecting a large sign around which allium was planted, Hawke read aloud, “Longerswold.” She stared, as though it held a secret.

Leaning on his staff-cum-walking stick, Anders led the way. To and fro they turned their heads, padding down an unpaved street which was lined by little houses hidden behind healthy gardens.

“Has a nice Anderfels flavor to it,” the man remarked of the name.

“And as long as it doesn’t actually taste like the Anderfels, that’s fine,” Hawke answered, allowing her slighted stomach to take charge of her mood. “If I have to eat rouladen again any time soon, I’m going to… Well, I’m just not going to eat, I guess.”

“That’s my heritage you’re insulting!” But, after a beat, Anders wrinkled his nose. “I’m pretty sick of it, too.”

The air smelled sweet with flowers and lush grass; passing people smiled, inspiring confidence in the two disheveled strangers. Clearing her throat, Hawke nervously asked of someone “is there an inn here?”, and, about to enter their front door, the local turned around, approaching cheerfully.

“Sure is! Ivah’s Inn.” Beefy hands shoved in his large pockets, the man nodded down the way, drowning in the brim of his floppy, felt hat. “A few rooms on the second level. Ivah serves dinner ‘round seven. Might be you’re a bit early.”

“That’s alright!” Anders replied brightly, looking between the man and Hawke, his face lit by a polite smile. “Charming place like this, I’m sure we’ll find a way to pass the time.”

The man looked Anders straight in the eye, a most deadly-serious expression squinting his small, brown peepers. “Now you head on to Ivah’s straight-way, friend. You ask for the perfect cup of tea. Not a cup of tea, mind. The perfect cup. You won’t regret it.”

With that, the man went back up his walk way, whistling all the way into his house.

“What a friendly man,” Anders commented, beginning to drag his bones along.

“Yeah.” Hawke frowned. “Too friendly.”

But it was impossible for his pessimistic sweetheart to rain on his parade. As they stepped into Ivah’s thatched roof cottage, two kittens, overseen by their lounging mother, were playing in a stream of sunshine, their soft joyful squeals ringing through the room.

“I’ve died and gone to the Maker’s side,” Anders gushed, crouching down and watching with rapturous delight.

A voice called, “you needing rooms?”

Leaving Anders to bask, Ann strolled towards a worn counter overlooking a small dining area. There were tiny round tables with lace doilies, colourful carved nick-nacks covering almost every wall, and what room was left was filled with plush, potted plants kept fat and happy by the multitude of windows looking out into the backyard.

Distracted by this new view, Hawke’s mouth fell ajar as she looked passed the spotted glass into a yard of chaos and beauty. Not one for the leafier side of life (she’d never been a gardener), nonetheless she noticed that not one bundle of flowers matched another. Dozens—hundreds—of blooms were planted here, some of them still vaguely familiar, and others utterly exotic, but all of them different.

“Dearie?”

Ann’s trance was broken was a going-grey matron at her side, shorter than even she, wearing a dress of colourful patchwork tied at the waist with a tasseled rope.

“Yes!” Ann gasped, startled. “Needing rooms—yes.”

“That one yours?” The woman, presumably the looked-for Ivah, jerked her thumb in Anders’ direction.

Smiling thinly, Ann affirmed, “most definitely” and followed Ivah to one of the tables. The woman hastily swiped a rag over its lace covering (to which Ann smirked), then disappeared without a word.

“We, um—” Hawke called after her, hand held aloft in a ‘hold on!’ position. “We were told to get—”

“Tea! Yeah!” Ivah was no longer visible. The clunking and thudding of pot-steel suggested she was in a kitchen. “I got yer tea...”

Tuckered from his kitten play-date, Anders slumped into the chair across from Ann, cheeks glowing, eyes hazy.

“Wow,” Ann commented wryly, having once thought that look to be reserved only for post-coitus bliss.

“I named them,” Anders informed, sitting back comfortably in his seat. “Bink-Bonk and Stinker. They’re brothers, and they go on adventures together.” He nodded towards Ivah’s ruckus. “She seemed snooty.”

It was true. Brusque and assuming, Ivah’s nature was at odds with the quaint home settled within the cute village. Her garden of colours; the charming decor: neither matched her sharp, short attitude.

“I like her,” Ann said, surprising herself. Unsure why, it was nonetheless true. For reasons beyond her, Ann thought it to do with her flowers.

Quieting, slumping, the couple cooled down, taking stock of their various pains and aches, admiring their surroundings, and silently wondering how the rest of their trip would turn out.

No other living beings were to be heard in the house, which started to rub Hawke the wrong way. She was so used to over-shoulder glancing and credence-giving to the dread settling in her gut that she no longer knew how to handle peace. Five minutes of muted nothingness meant something was coming. Her heart clawed at her chest, restless and worried.

And she was right. Something came.

“Here’s your tea!” Ivah plunked down a huge tray with two-to-three too many things. Besides the tea-pot sitting on a brazier, there were cinnamon sticks bundled with red yarn, honey, milk, brown sugar, lavender satchels, cream, mint leaves, possibly maple syrup, slices of fresh, glistening lemon…

“My,” Anders exclaimed under his breath, staring at the spread.

“Never could make the stuff just right fer every person,” Ivah lamented in that thick accent particular to the town. “Always hearin’ ‘it’s too sweet, Ivah!’, or, ‘it’s too bland, Ivah!’' She nodded towards the fixings. “So here. Can’t make it perfect to yer likin’, yer too picky.”

With a flourish of her wrist, the brazier caught fire, setting their tea to boil. Ivan went off wordlessly, and Anders’ eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“Did you—?”

“I did,” Ann affirmed. She realized why she’d thought she liked Ivah. The plants in her backyard: they’d been the same as some grown by Merrill in a little plot of soil in the Kirkwall alienage, all of which were for the purposes of replenishing mana, or supplementing mana, or sometimes subduing it.

Those flowers out back; those colours and petals: they were mage flowers.

Anders stared at the brazier’s flames, licking and flickering, dancing free and uninhibited.

“She…”

“I know.”

Hawke watched the wonder take years off his face. The newer wrinkles at Anders’ forehead disappeared; his crows feet, there as long as she’d known him, soothed. The old-man beard he hid beneath was no help, but the boyish joy pulling his jaw into an overwhelmed ogling made him as beautiful as she’d ever seen him.

“I can’t believe it,” Anders whispered, covering his mouth with both hands. Tears began to start; he looked at her with hope she’d forgotten. “Using her gifts. In the open.”

Ann realized she had to start breathing herself, or she might pass out. Swallowing, she felt a little hiccuping, happy sob, but pushed it away, back into her chest.

“Yeah.” Hawke nodded.

“With—with the new Circle of Magi under this Divine, I never thought… But without a thought! Without fear!” Anders’ bony hands, still clasped to his lips, trembled. “Maker.”

And he broke. Bent over, his face buried in his palms, the thick, glad tears spilled down his cheeks, through his beard, to his chin and sloping jaw. He was quiet in his weeping, but now and then a startling sound burst forth before he softened once more.

They knew. The town knew. Everyone in this village, without question, understood what Ivah was, and they didn’t care. They supported her; gave her coin; purpose. They allowed her to subsist on her gifts; they promoted her inn, sending strangers her way. No doubt they vetted visitors, choosing carefully whom to allow near Ivah’s inn. They loved her. They loved her enough that she needn’t be shy or guarded. She was brash and dismissive because they allowed it with their love. They let Ivah be herself.

Thinking about it some more, Hawke had to try very hard not to cry, too.

“Eh?”

Jumping, Hawke looked to her right to see the mage in question, thick hands on her wide hips, long mouth in a frown.

“What I miss?” Ivah asked, eyeing the tray, and, from her tone, most assuredly not making a joke. “Got yer cream; yer sugar.”

“Oh, it’s—it’s not that,” Ann said with a soft laugh, the sound of her own whispering voice breaking her heart. “It’s… it’s great tea. Really. It’s the perfect cup of tea.”

Ivah gave them long looks, scrutinizing and terrible. Anders tried hard to stifle himself, but it only made things worse. Finally, Ivah placed a key on their table, mentioned off-handedly “second room on the right—no charge,” and went on her way, wiping her hands on her patchwork skirt.

Anders sniffled, finally calming. His thin, graceful hands, which had become worn with these few years’ hard living, settled on the table. Ann took them in hers, and took her turn at a good cry.

[efrmellifer]

Reclaimed

Aymeric’s gaze was intense as he watched Etien, perched on the loveseat, knitting needles flashing, the baby blanket she worked on taking the place of the usual blanket on her lap to keep her warm. She was nearly finished with this one, meaning that she would begin work on its twin soon.

Even so, as the yarn passed through her fingers, being woven into the blanket that grew and grew with every new row and the typical click of her switching the needles from hand to hand, he knew there was something else going on. Maybe it was the speed of her hands, or the tension of the yarn, but he could just tell. Something had gotten to Etien and now she was thinking.

So he rose from where he was sitting, so far away across the room, and sat down next to her.

“Get cold and bored over there?” she asked, not looking up from the tips of her needles. She had already cursed at a dropped stitch twice; he could only imagine she was trying not to see if the third time was the charm, and she had to rip up a whole row for it.

“Well, I do feel warmer sitting next to you,” he admitted.

She smiled, grip tight on the ends of the knitting so it didn’t unravel, and she turned to him. “And I thought you were trying to set my dress on fire with your mind. You had such a severe look on your face when I looked up. Is something wrong?”

Aymeric blinked, unaware that she had even looked at him. “Er, no. I was actually wondering the same about you. You look troubled.”

“Oh, that. I’ve been… turning something over in my mind ever since we got that last letter.”

“Another didn’t come, did it? I fully intend to make good on my offer to read them and relay their contents so you have no need to deal with the insults that come in addition.”

Etien shook her head, going back to her knitting for a few stitches before she spoke again. “No, I was thinking that there has to be a way to prevent any more of them from coming at all.”

Aymeric felt himself frown when he’d processed what she’d said. “And how would you propose to do that?”

“Well, I would have to go to Alder Springs, wouldn’t I?” She went back to the knitting, a little more aggressively now than she had been. So the idea agitated her. And yet she was going to do it?

Aymeric let it sink it, then roll over in his mind a few times. He couldn’t control Etien. He’d known for as long as he’d known her that was the case. Sometimes it reminded him of Haurchefant. Like they were blood siblings, almost, he thought. He couldn’t control her, but he had always been able to influence her, the way she influenced him. Changing each other slowly and Ishgard rapidly.

So he had to try to convince her. He came to a knee in front of her, hands folded on her knee, avoiding her bobbing foot and bouncing slipper. “Etien,” he murmured, waiting for her to look up at him. “Do not go to Alder Springs, dear-heart. Certainly not like this.” He didn’t say it, but what pressed at his lips, straining to be given voice was, “or I shall have to follow you.”

Her eyebrows dipped. “But what choice do I have? They’ve seen that the girl they once thought dead is in fact a living woman in a city not so far away, and now they bombard me with letters to rain more tragedy on my life. More never-ending tragedy.”

“Never-ending?” Aymeric asked, hand sliding up her leg until he rested it on her forearm.

She looked up at him again. “Broken up with moments of rapturous joy. Almost always when you’re involved.” She laughed lightly, but it dried out before she continued. “But I left the home in which I had spent my entire life heartbroken and made a fool of, only to be found by Hydaelyn with Lyse and Paplymo hot on Her heels to rope me into taking up the yoke. I fight the gods of the ‘beastmen,’ Ascians, dragons, imperial armies, and the embodiment of what happens when this tenuous balance is shifted, all without a break to breathe. At least, no break I don’t make for myself.”

Aymeric was silent, though Etien had taken his hand, so he squeezed it.

“But when I do, when I come back to you and I can relax, it’s as though I’ve never known sadness from all the happiness that I’m filled with.”

He squeezed her hand again. “Then please do not subject yourself to more of that sorrow. It’s as I told you—this is your fortress. If you leave it, I will happily come with to keep you safe, but I would rather not see you suffer so.”

She sighed through her nose. “All right.”

“All right?”

She nodded once. “All right. Stay with me, and I’ll stay here.”

He kissed the back of her hand, still clasped with his. “Happily, I again take the vow to do just that.”

_

“I worry about what being the Warrior of Light has done to her,” Aymeric remarked into his ale.

“Is she complaining of injuries?” Estinien asked, putting his own drink down. “She never mentioned anything like that to me.”

“No. But does she complain?”

“Not often,” Estinien conceded with a shrug. “So what concerns you?”

“She brought up going to Alder Springs.”

When he was met with silence, Aymeric looked over to see only confusion on Estinien’s face.

“Her childhood home. Where her parents still live. And ailing grandparents that they keep writing to her about.”

“Ah. Is it distressing her?”

“She thinks I haven’t noticed. But she wanted to go see them, hoping it would quell them, make them leave her—leave us—alone.”

Estinien sucked his teeth. “Not bloody likely.”

“I know. Moreover, she’s heavily expectant.”

There was a long silence between them. That, of course, was obvious, but its dark suggestion was a little less defined.

“Do you think her safety would be at risk?” Estinien asked finally.

“More like her sanity. She has gotten too used to having to be the one that takes responsibility, that does the most difficult and dangerous part of the plan. Now she immediately plans the hard part for herself and devotes herself to seeing it through. She still wakes up in tears from memories she didn’t ask to have awoken in her mind, from actions she was forced to take. She still flinches when people shout, when I clench my jaw, and yet she thinks she has no other choice than to go see her parents.” He took a long drink of his ale and put it down harder than he had intended, wincing when it met the table with a loud thud. His voice was weak and on the verge of breaking when he said, “She’s going to collapse under the weight. I don’t want it to happen.”

Estinien pulled Aymeric to his side, shushing him softly. “Neither do I.” He patted Aymeric’s back, hoping there would be no tears, and then let him go, though he made sure they were still sitting close. “Have you reminded her that she has a father here who would never hurt her that way?”

“Not in so many words.” Aymeric picked up the ale again, then put it down with a scoff. “I have the feeling it would make little difference. She has the right of it, when she says that they thought her dead. Reclaimed by the Black Shroud. But I think whoever she had been then… is. Dead, I mean. She didn’t leave them as the Warrior of Light.”

“Do you ever wonder what she might have been like before then? She had already been a lauded adventurer when we met her.”

“I try not to think about it,” Aymeric admitted. Now he drank again, just for something to do with his hands and his mouth. But it was true, he didn’t think about it, as much as he could. He knew that there was only a very slim chance that she had changed that much, but he didn’t like to even imagine that there was a version of Etien that wasn’t the one he loved so much.

The one who was so incredibly strong, but in the way once-broken bones were strong. Nothing could happen on a chocobo cart to have forged her anew, so adventuring had been the flame and the anvil.

Haurchefant had brought him—him and Estinien—a woman of bronze hair and steel resolve. What she had been before then was immaterial. What she was now was theirs. And wonderful. And deserving of the world, or as much of it as they could provide.

“I choose to love her as she is,” he responded at last. “When I met her, I loved her, and that has not changed. It would be a waste of time to speculate on whether or not I would love someone I don’t know.”

Estinien nodded. “And there are better ways to waste time, when she’s here now to be loved.”

“Precisely.”

They both drank.

_

That night, when Aymeric slipped into bed beside Etien, she curled up extra close to him, sniffling as she relaxed into his arms.

“Did you have another dream?” he asked, whispering into the flicking of her ear.

She simply nodded.

“What was it this time?”

“He”-- she never had to use his name, it was clear who she meant and that she didn’t want to name him-- “was telling me how I’d disappointed him. That I should be more like he remembered me, back when he’d loved me. ‘But how could he love what I had become?’ He said.”

Aymeric swallowed, hoping his upset at the notion would go down with the saliva. But oh, that rage was an unpleasant thing to have to quaff.

“How could he love what?”

“Me, now that I wasn’t… how I had been, so long ago. But I can remember back then, too. I didn’t- I didn’t return his feelings, Aymeric. Not then and not now. Which only makes it worse.”

He wanted to ask, made what worse? but he was silent, waiting for Etien to elaborate at her own speed and comfort.

“That he says, every time, that he’d never felt such betrayal in all his lifetimes. It’s all I was to him—a disappointment in an unattainable love, and now as a shadow of what he built me up to be. He expected more of me, and I can’t- I can’t live up to those expectations. Did—” she sobbed once—“it makes me wonder if he really ever knew me. Her. Us.”

“How could he love you if he did not know you?” Aymeric asked. “I could never speak to someone I loved that way.”

“I know,” she blubbered, turning to bury her face in his chest. She hiccuped. “It never made me feel loved. It made me feel…” she sobbed again. “I never asked for this.”

A loud knock on the front door startled both of them.

When they answered it, bleary-eyed in Aymeric’s case and red-eyed in Etien’s, Estinien just sighed. “I had a feeling it was one of those nights. May I come in?”

“Please,” Aymeric said, stepping back from the doorway, guiding Etien back with him so she didn’t stumble.

“Would some warm milk go amiss with the two of you?” Estinien asked as he stepped through. “You look like you need it.”

“None for me,” Etien mumbled. “It would upset my stomach.”

“Then warm tea?” he asked, tipping her chin up. “You’ve been crying. Maybe just a warm embrace.”

He drew her into his arms, and though she tensed for a moment, more tears slipped down her cheeks as she hugged him back.

When he let her go, he hugged Aymeric briefly with a squeeze to punctuate it, then headed to the kitchen to get them all their drinks.

The three of them sat on the bed when they were ready, steaming mugs occupying their hands. They all blew on the hot liquids in their cups, drinking slowly.

There were sighs of unburdening in the room, instead of appreciative hums. But when the cups were emptied, they laid in a loose tangle, sounding a little more contented when they were all together, the touch of loved ones soothing them maybe more than the beverages.

Some mix of the two helped the trio towards sleep, each with heavy eyelids that finally fluttered shut for the night.

It was easy to rest in one another’s arms, where they were known and loved, here and now.