#'i am no match-maker' (proceeds to match-make) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

frenchy-and-the-sea · 1 year

Text

OC Kiss Week 23 - In Which The Rogue’s Name Proceeds Him

I am neck deep in a terrible writer’s block, but that has not and will not ever stop me from participating at least a little in the spirit of the season.

@ghilenan had the biggest brain suggestion of a kiss between her sweet wine-maker Ambrosia and my water genasi swashbuckler Lux, who I haven’t talk about much here but who lives in my brain 24/7. I thought they were a sweet match-up, and I decided to make it Lux’s problem. <3

~1992 words

-----

Lux had warned his crewmates that he would be late.

“Wine shops are always run by beautiful women or kindly old grandmothers,” he had told them, when they had shoved him unceremoniously towards the overgrown little hut on the edge of town, “and I am irresistibly charming to both. If I go alone, you all may find that you will not get me back again.”

“Good,” their bosun had muttered, before shoving a scanty little sack of coin at him and trudging off towards the inn, calling over one shoulder that he would be expected back — provisional wine secured — within the hour. No one else had even cared enough to look back.

But, well. Lux had warned them, after all.

“ — and that's when I saw the third door open, which meant that we were now very surrounded, and I did what any reasonable swordsman would do; I leapt upon the table and asked the gentleman in front of me if he thought a bit of a vertical tango with me might help him with the horizontal sort that he seemed to be so desperately lacking. Poor fellow nearly broke his nose scrambling up after me, he was so eager to knock me off again.”

“Oh, very daring.”

Across from where Lux was propped against the counter, the keeper of the ramshackle little shop smiled and leaned forward onto an elbow, long tresses of dark hair sliding forward over her bare shoulders. His first instinct had been right — the shop’s keeper was a beautiful woman, tall and horned and handsome in her colorful swaths of embroidered damask, and the handmade wooden jewelry that clicked musically when she walked. She had introduced herself as Ambrosia, naturally, and had watched him with intensely purple eyes from the moment he stepped through her door. This had the natural effect of enticing Lux to inquire about a few more of her wares than were strictly necessary, and she had asked, without one hint of rancor, if sailors had the taste or the coin for anything stronger than pink water. He had grinned and told her that even if sailors didn’t, he certainly did, and that had earned him a laugh and a seat at her counter, where he had spent the last hour trying to convince her that he was entertaining.

Now he leaned against the back of his chair, raising the stout cup that contained a sample of her newest batch of mead, and dipped his head in a low, theatrical bow.

“Though not so daring, if I'm honest,” he admitted when he had straightened again, giving her a lopsided little grin. “There wasn’t exactly any more room on the floor, understand, and I was doing my marked best to not get stabbed. Cowardice and roguish charm make for strange bedfellows when things get interesting.”

“Mm. But they do make for wonderful stories.” Across the table, Ambrosia’s startlingly violet eyes narrowed as she looked him over, a languid up-and-down appraisal that sent a pleasant shiver up his spine. “Though I suppose that would be the point, wouldn't it? A noble’s son doesn’t typically abandon his post to go adventure-seeking for terrible stories, after all.”

She smiled again, and Lux felt his bowels clench painfully in surprise. A noble’s son, she had said. Like it was a joke that they were sharing; like she knew. From his place at her table, Lux stared up at her — at her casual lean forward, at the coy tip of her head, at the little twitch of a smirk at the corner of her mouth — and swallowed hard.

“Well," he said, a little unsteadily, "I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that —”

“Wouldn’t you?” Ambrosia raised an eyebrow, her coquettish smile sloping towards something very nearly wicked. “The wayward child of a local lord, slated for greatness at his behest, who neared the prospect of marrying age and flew to the four winds instead? Who took to swashbuckling, and to the sea? Oh, yes, I know who you are, Luxus Bray. Your story happens to be a favorite around here.”

Without waiting to see if he had a reply to that little bombshell — he didn’t — she stooped down behind her counter and reappeared a moment later carrying a slim book bound in slightly warped cardstock. The cover was a softly painted tableau of two figures tangled together at the waist of a ship, wreathed in a stormy crash of sea spray. One was a long-furred orange tabaxi wrapped in a tattered white slip, looking remarkably well-groomed for being in the middle of a storm. She had both arms slung with reckless abandon around the shoulders of the second figure, who was dressed in a trim orange waistcoat that offset the star-spattered, midnight-sky color of his skin. Thick, rolling curls had been swept forward over one shoulder, sunset purple where they weren’t orange, orange where they weren’t a shining yellow-gold. One of his hands was tangled in the rucked-up skirt of the tabaxi’s dress; the other was wrapped in the ratlines of a very implausibly-placed shroud.

It was a cheap, half-copper novel of the bodice-ripper variety, and that was undoubtedly Lux on its cover.

“You apparently left quite an impression on one of the girls in the next valley,” Ambrosia said as she set the book on the counter between them, her voice dull and distant-sounding beneath the rising thrum of his heart. “That, or you have a doppleganger running around doing his marked best to make all of the locals swoon. But by that look on your face, I think you recognize this one.”

“I do,” Lux heard himself say, very softly. He felt strangely separate from himself, like his spirit was lingering a half-step behind the rest of him. A quiet, contemptuous thought — hissed in a voice uncomfortably like his own — reminded him that being the centerpiece of some cheap smut that most people paid for in clipped coins would have been an insult to most people. That he should be angry. That he should, at the very least, be a little bit put out.

But, hot damn. People knew his name.

With shaking fingers, Lux pulled the little novel closer, lifting the cover to leaf slowly through the pages. It fluttered open to a natural part about two-thirds of the way through, where a leather bookmark sat wedged against the spine, its twine tether threaded with familiar-looking wooden beads. They clattered pleasantly against one another, an echo of their owner’s, and another shiver, warm and pleasant as bathwater, rolled up his spine.

“You’ve read it?” he asked after a moment, glancing up to where Ambrosia still towered overhead. She smiled a long, liquid smile.

“I have,” she said. “The author did not give you much in the way of anonymity, I’m afraid. She names you ‘Lucius,’ but that seems to be where her imagination stops. Or…well. I certainly hope that’s all she exaggerated, anyway.”

This, she said with another long up-and-down appraisal of him, and a pleased narrowing of her eyes that snapped the world sharply back into focus. Lux let himself ease slowly back into his seat again, fighting the rising grin threatening at the corner of his mouth.

“So do I,” he said, nudging the novel aside to prop an elbow back on the table between them. “Alas, I don’t have the time to scour an entire book to find out, much as I would like to. But you’ve read the whole thing, haven’t you? That makes you the expert in this case. So.” He set his chin into his propped-up hand and peered up through the fall of his hair, grinning. “Care to double-check her work?”

To her credit, Ambrosia's expression didn't so much as flicker at the invitation. She just regarded him sidelong for a moment and then stepped around the counter between them, humming thoughtfully.

“Petitioning a woman while she’s at work, are you?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. “While she plies her trade? While you drink her wine? That’s rather unbecoming of a noble’s son, don’t you think?”

She crossed to the door of the ramshackle little shop, and Lux felt his come-hither grin break like a dropped vase. He rocketed to his feet and dropped instantly into a low bow, heart in his throat. It was the same deferential bend of the knee that his father had scolded into him regularly throughout his childhood, and it came on like a reflex, like a phantom pain.

“Forgive me,” he said to the floor. “That was… that was monstrously callous of me. I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position, or make any propositions that you felt you couldn’t —”

The sound of a door bolt sliding home cut him off; when he chanced a look up, Ambrosia favored him with an impish little smile over one shoulder, and then casually flipped the wooden sign on her door from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’

“Well,” she said slyly, “it’s certainly a good thing that I’m not working right now, isn’t it?”

That was about the only warning that Lux got. Suddenly, Ambrosia was crossing the shop in three graceful strides, hooves clicking across the soft wood, her dark hair fluttering behind her like a streamer. She caught his hands before he managed to get upright again and pulled him the rest of the way, backing him smoothly against the counter before he could think to plant his feet. She wasn’t especially tall, but neither was Lux, and the single inch that she had over him was all she needed; suddenly, the entire breadth of the room around him was filled with her, with the press of warm brown skin and clattering beads and the soft, tickling waves of her hair. Lux found himself clutching reflexively at the rustling folds of her clothes as they flattened between them, nearly as much to steady himself as to draw her closer. His knees suddenly felt unsteady beneath him; his head, like a spinning top. The whole world dimmed at the edges as he looked up into Ambrosia’s self-satisfied little smile, and the brilliant gem-purple of her eyes, bright as freshly dewed violets.

And then, she kissed him.

Whatever dim-witted brainlessness her proximity had worked into him before was nothing compared to the way his thoughts evaporated at that touch. His mind released its hold on the rest of the world like letting go of a kite string; suddenly, everything existed in the brief span of her lips against his, bright and sharp as cut crystal where they touched, muddy watercolor everywhere else. He was aware, very distantly, of his rapier clattering aside as she hooked a thigh over his hip. He felt his hands move leagues away from him and settle unbidden on her waist. There was a low, buzzing hum in his ears that he was startled to realize was his own heartbeat, working overtime. And then, suddenly, he didn’t care. None of it mattered, really. The only thing worth keeping his focus from sliding off of was the sweet mouth pressed to his own, the way his whole world rose up to meet it, and the sparkling, full-up feeling purring right in the center of his chest.

Eventually — a breath later, a lifetime — Ambrosia pulled away. Lux tried not to chase her retreat, tried not to notice the way her violet eyes practically shimmered with sly satisfaction at his hushed gasp. He succeeded marginally at both.

“Gods,” he breathed, when he found that he could speak again. “Is that usually how you accept an apology? I’m starting to think that you’re the one who ought to have romances written about them.”

“Do you?” Overhead, Ambrosia’s eyes narrowed as she smiled. She slung both arms around his shoulders and then sank her full weight against him, laughing quietly when he staggered against the bartop behind him. “Well then, ready your writing hand, Luxus Bray. I intend to be very inspiring.”

#my writing #frenchy writes #ockiss23 #oc kiss week 2023 #other people's ocs #luxus bray #d&d #d&d writing #a lot of this still feels choppy and overworked but EH #they're both charming and hot enough to pull it off so i'm not worrying too hard #my favorite fun fact about lux is that he thinks the idea of having a trashy romance novel written about him is like #PEAK infamy #as the older but decidedly less capable sibling he likes the idea of getting a little notoriety

14 notes · View notes

hancocksspouse · 1 year

Note

11. For Doll and Hancock? I love your writing so much, I've missed reading new FO4 content

Thanks so much! It’s a safe assumption this is for either the smooches prompt or the other? Cause imma mix em. This one is just too good to pass up.

11. …in joy.

. “I can’t breathe in this dress, can we please hurry up.”

😘

Uncomfortable situations were not Doll’s strong suit. Sure, she could worm her way out of one or sweet talk her way through it if need be, but this one. This one was directly involving her and bullshitting her way out wasn’t an option.

And neither was her wardrobe. It had to be NICE (as nice as possible, anyway) and more often than not, nice also meant UNCOMFORTABLE.

And she was right.

In her perfect world, she’d be able to wear a nice suit, perhaps with the top buttons questioningly undone so she could at least sit comfortably but no. Finding pants that fit her waist and thighs at the same time that WASN’T a pair of jeans or sleep pants was not happening and they really didn’t have the time to scavenge through all of Boston for a pair of pants that probably be damaged to hell anyway.

So, here she was, growling to herself as she struggled to willfully pull on the shimmering red dress that seemed to mock her, laid across her bed so loosely and yet, it seemed to look so heavy.

Magnolia had no problem lending her the dress for the time being and Hancock had no problem going with her thru town to grab it.

But fuck, she didn’t wanna wear it.

A resigned sigh left her and she managed to stop herself from rubbing her makeup covered eyes before standing up from her hunched over cross cross position on the chair next to the bed.

‘Just one night and we can give the damn thing back’, she thinks. She finally picks it up from the bed and unzips the back, stepping into it, and slowly shimmying it up. It fits and she frowns, pulling the straps over her shoulders. When she reaches for the zipper, she grunts and pays around her back for it, swapping arms each time and a mortifying fact slowly creeps up on her.

Doll can’t zip the damn thing up.

For a split second after the realization, she simply stops and hopes for the earth to crack open and swallow her whole and proceeds to throw wild hay makers at the air around her as if it would somehow rectify the situation and not just make her look like a jackass fighting air.

But she stops because she knows when she’s been beaten.

“Hancock? You in here somewhere?” She calls out down the hall and there’s a small rustle followed by footsteps heading to her room. She turns her back to the doorway in the meantime to find the shoes that she’d have to wear with the dress since, apparently, giant thumping boots wouldn’t ‘match right’. What a load of shit.

“Yea, I am. What’s u-“, Hancock stops upon coming into the doorway and for a moment, his brain shuts down on him as he sees Doll bent over in the shimmering red dress, the hem rising a bit as she shuffles around for something on the floor and when she finally rises, the air is almost punched out of him seeing the back of the garment unzipped with the zipper resting against her lower back.

The contrast of the bright red against her black hair already grabbed his attention but the triple whammy he had just received was something he hadn’t prepared for. His silence doesn’t disturb her though as she turns to him, stepping into her heels.

“Oh, good, there you are. I need you real quick”, she says, stepping close to him and sweeping all of her hair over her shoulder. She looks up at him and the mascara and eyeliner she’s put on makes her eyes sharper and Christ in heaven, somebody help him before he hits the ground when he combines what he’s seeing with what he heard.

“You need me?” He jokes, covering his nervousness with humor. “I thought you’d never ask”. She rolls her eyes and turns her back to him.

“Zip me up real quick”, she says.

It’s a simple request. A favor for a friend and he KNOWS this but the domesticity of the situation makes his hands shake a little at first. He clears his throat real quick and reaches down to hold the base of the zipper before grabbing the zip.

“Magnolia said it’s supposed to be a bit tight in the waist so heads up”, he says. Doll rolls her eyes a bit.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not that t-aaahhh!”

Now, they’re both red. Redder than the material that’s tightened around her torso.

Doll, because she didn’t think it would actually be that tight and could not believe the sound that escaped her when the zipper was jerked all the way up.

Hancock, because not only did that sound come from her but he was the one to cause it and the way the dress showed her waist to hip ratio after being fully secured made a shivering sigh leave his lungs.

The t-shirts and jackets did no favors for her and he couldn’t help but thank whatever god was out there, be it atom or something else, for the opportunity to see her like this.

“S-sorry!” She quickly blurts out, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, letting it drape across her back again. Hancock chuckles a bit, biting his inner lip.

“Heh, so what was that about it not being that tight?” He jokes.

“Alright alright so it’s a little small in the waist. I’m not exactly the same size I was before”, she mutters to herself.

Unknown to her, he knows. Oh, he knows she’s not the same size before.

She’s gained more muscle now and it’s making her figure fuller, which is in turn, making him melt. He could throw her across a room if he wanted to but that was because of the radiation in his body. She was strong from the extensive amounts of work they did on the daily. Could she throw him? Probably not, but she could probably pull and shove him around pretty easily and that thought alone was making him feel hot.

‘Head out of the gutter, head out of the gutter. Quick, uhhh brotherhood of steel, radroaches, oh! Remember that one time you accidentally saw super mutant schmekel?’ At that, he get his stomach turn but at least it kept the dirtier thoughts at bay.

“Relax, sunshine. It doesn’t look bad at all”, he says, looking her up and down while he adjusts the jacket of the tux he’s currently in, tricorn still sat atop his head. She looks his way and takes in his neatly dressed form.

“Same. At least once of us gets to be comfortable”, she gripes, lifting her leg up and sitting her foot atop her chair and tugging the hem of her dress even higher, strapping a knife to her thigh. Hancock shuts his eyes and takes a long, hard drag of his cigarette.

‘Super mutant dong, super mutant dong, super mutant dong’, he thinks to himself.

He’s pretty sure he’s gonna have heart failure at this point.

It wasn’t often there was a celebration like this in Goodneighbor and unfortunately, it wasn’t purely for fun. They were meeting up with several trading caravans to make a deal: trading for protection. They trade more with Goodneighbor and they’d have the protection of Mayor Hancock, his triggermen, and the sole survivor, in turn, allowing safe transport for synth escapees with old man Stockton and Dr. Amari. Sounded simple until it was found that Diamond City attempted to get involved and tried to keep the caravans from heading their way at all, so what better way to convince them to continue trade anyway then partying?

Especially since there would be a hidden Diamond City snitch somewhere amongst them.

Hancock could handle a lot of shit. But snitches were not it.

Lucky for him, neither could Doll.

He chuckles a bit at the way he can see her fidgeting with the hem of the dress (whether she’s trying to keep the blade hidden under it, he won’t ask), but does his best to keep her comfortable as the party in the Third Rail carries on. He even teases her and offers her his jacket, to which she gives him a deadpan look and flicks the brim of his tricorn.

“Thanks, but no thanks. It wouldn’t fit anyway, my shoulders are broader than yours”, she says, making him smirk.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Nobody wants a weak hug, anyway”, he teases before taking a seat on the couch in The Third Rail, the caravan seated across the way. He smiles and spreads his arms. “Welcome to my little slice of heaven. Lets get down to business, shall we?”

Doll is seated beside him, a Gwinnett in hand as she watches the caravan casually seated with drinks and chems of their own. The head of the group begins discussion with Hancock while she observes them, watching them closely but subtly to find the odd man out.

It takes a few minutes in but she eventually is able to pick them from the group and she keeps her eyes on them. He’s younger than the others but seems to hold himself as if he’s better. The fact he’s cleaner and not actually drinking his beer tips her off most. He swirls it around a few times but not once drinks it while he glances around the room, as if looking for something. The look he gives Hancock is very clearly one of disgust, not too different from the way he’s been looking at her, so once he makes eye contact, she smirks and winks. The way a shade of red sweeps him over is obvious and she chuckles a bit, giving him a smile before pretending to turn her attention back to the conversation at hand.

The small gestures work and she can see from the corner of her eye the way he continues stealing glances at her. He almost chokes on his spit when she crosses one leg slowly over the other, once again making eye contact. It’s not long before Hancock and the caravan leader are shaking hands, a deal being reached and they slowly trail off to join in the merriment around them, leaving Doll and the Diamond City snitch alone. She rises from her spot and slowly approaches him and he finally takes a long swallow from his beer as she makes herself comfortable beside him.

“First time in Goodneighbor?” She asks. The higher tone of voice she takes on makes her nauseated but she rolls with it, smile in place. He clears his throat subtly and nods.

“Y-yea-I mean kinda-I mean well not quite”, he rambles and she chuckles, running her hand up his arm to his shoulder.

“You seem nervous. No need for that here. What’s your name?” She watches him struggle for a moment before he takes another drink and a deep breath.

“Jake My name is Jake”, he says. She nods and leans closer to him, making him look at her.

“Jake. I like that. Tell you what, Jake. Why don’t you and I wander somewhere quieter? Get to know each other in a more…private place?”

He almost rises from his spot faster than her, allowing her to take his hand and lead him away. She walks towards the back room and quickly glances Hancock’s way, making eye contact before giving him a smirk and a wink, letting him know she’s got him. He gives her a smirk back and tips his hat before turning back to his own business as they slip away from everyone’s view.

Whatever happened in that room, Hancock couldn’t say or even guess, as much as he’d like to.

But it works.

‘Jake’ or whatever the hell his name is, Hancock couldn’t care less, soon decides to make himself scarce from the caravan, making up some mumbled excuse to the merchant in charge before heading over to the Rex on his own.

“Do I wanna know what it was ya said to the poor kid?” He chuckles, taking a quick swallow from the bottle in his hand. Doll shrugs and reaches over, taking the bottle from him and getting a good pull from it.

“I mean it wasn’t anything you hadn’t heard from me before at some point”, she says, hissing at the burn before reading the label on the bottle. She silently mumbles ‘vodka’ to herself and hands the bottle back to Hancock.

They’re back at the statehouse already, both sprawled across a couch together, Doll’s head laid on his thigh and his jacket draped over her.

“Perhaps but it seemed to have worked, sister. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have high tailed it on his caravan”, he says. She kinda laughs and lets out a deep sigh before staring at the ceiling for a long moment, almost making Hancock worry.

“I can’t breathe in this dress, can we please hurry up?” She suddenly blurts out and Hancock laughs.

“Relax. Once Fahrenheit comes back with word from the good ol’ doctor, I can help you outta that dress”, he winks, making her roll her eyes.

“Look, I didn’t expect the zipper to be that hard to reach”, she mumbles.

“Lucky for you, I’m an expert at undoin’ em”

The sounds of footsteps approaching pulls their attention and Fahrenheit walks in, crossing her arms.

“Words been passed. Amari says they’ll start moving the refugees tomorrow”, she says. Hancock nods.

“Then I say everything worked out pretty well”. Fahrenheit nods with a smirk and heads off to her own room, leaving them alone until Hancock also rises from his spot, making Doll groan in annoyance.

“Relax, I’ll be right back”, he says and she dramatically groans again.

“Fiiiiiiine”

But her tone changes when he comes back with a baggy shirt and pants in hand with a smirk.

“Not so sassy now, are ya?” He chuckles as she gets up and speed walks over to him excitedly.

“Finallyyyyyy”, she excitedly says, taking the clothing from him with a sigh before turning her back to him, moving her hair. “Unzip me so I can change”.

The view of her back to him and her asking for his help undressing makes him grateful she’s faced the other way, otherwise she would see the breath he’s got to take to keep himself focused as he reaches up and carefully pulls the zipper down, slowly revealing her back to his eyes.

“There ya go, Doll. You’re free”, he says. She takes a deep breath and turns to him, pulling him down to her and firmly kissing the corner of his mouth excitedly before turning and heading into the other room to change. His stomach flutters as he watches her walk away and he undoes the bow tie on his tux, unbuttoning the top few buttons and wiping a hand over his face slowly.

‘Hell, at this point, I’m starting to think she’s tryna kill me’, he thinks to himself as he sits himself back down on the couch with a sigh, taking the vodka bottle from the table and swirling it around. ‘I mean…I’d die happy anyway’.

The shuffle of her socks and sleep pants draw his attention and the smile that comes over his face when she comes walking back in, complaining about having to wear the dress all night is not subtle but he can’t find it in him to care much when she reclaims her spot, head cozy on his thigh as she takes the vodka from him.

‘Yea…I think I could die happy’

———

Hey!

I am really sorry for the hiatus I took. A lot happened and I have not been that good, but I’m here! And I’m so sorry it took so long to get this out. I’m only just now able to catch my breath from the ass beating life has given me lol

🖤

-Hancock’s Spouse

#fallout 4 #hancock #fallout #john hancock #fanfiction #sole survivor #fo4 #ghoul husband #fanfic #fallout 4 companions #sole survivor x hancock

44 notes · View notes

cricutdrivers0 · 1 month

Text

How to Make a Banner Using Cricut: Quick and Easy Guide

Hey guys! Do you want to know how to make a banner using Cricut? Don’t think that it is the toughest task that takes a lot of time. I am going to make it easy for you. Through this blog, you will learn step-by-step methods of creating banners.

I made a birthday banner with Cricut and wanted to elevate my cousin’s birthday. For this, I used some materials which I am going to discuss in this blog. You can go through them to find the tools and supplies you need. In addition, you have to decide what you want to create and what kind of design you want. After that, you can start making your design on Cricut Design Space accordingly.

Let’s get started creating a Cricut banner to elevate your special occasions, like birthdays, anniversaries, and other festive seasons.

Step 1: Gather Tools and Materials

So, are you ready to learn how to make a banner using Cricut? If so, let’s gather the materials and then proceed to make this beautiful birthday banner with Cricut. Here is the list of materials that I used to make this birthday banner on my cousin’s birthday:

Cricut Maker

Knife Blade

Strong Grip Mat

Chipboard

Permanent Vinyl

Scissors

Scraper Tool

Masking Tape or Painter’s Tape

Now that we have gathered the necessary material let’s move on to the next step: creating a design. Go to the Cricut Design Space and create or upload the banner design. After this, you have to follow the second step, which is applying the permanent vinyl to the chipboard. Be ready with your vinyl, and let’s get into it.

Step 2: Applying Vinyl

I was worried about the difficulty and time-consuming process of painting chipboard, so I decided to cover my banner in vinyl instead. I am also concerned about whether the color will match or not if I apply it after cutting the chipboard.

Therefore, I applied permanent vinyl to the chipboard before I cut the words. You should also use the scraper tool to remove the air bubbles from the materials. You can also remove the excess vinyl using your scissors.

Okay, so we have applied the vinyl on the chipboard; let’s insert our Cricut mat into the machine.

Step 3: Insert the Cricut Mat

Once you have applied the vinyl to the mat, you need to insert it carefully into your Cricut machine. Here, I am using a Strong Grip mat.

You will also need painter’s tape to secure the chipboard on the mat. Apply the tape all around the corner. In simpler terms, you will need to keep the chipboard from shifting from the mat.

Let’s start cutting now!

Step 4: Start Cutting Your Design

Now, it is time to reach the point where you will finally learn how to make a banner using Cricut. To do this, you have to navigate to your Cricut Design Space and click the Continue button. But do you know which blade you have to install in your Cricut? It is your knife blade. It works amazingly.

But there is only one thing that I don’t like about this blade, which is that it cuts but consumes so much of my time. Each letter takes me 20 minutes. Now, imagine what the time will be for those thirteen letters. OMG😱!

Now, let the Cricut cut your birthday banner. Since then, you can turn off your sleep so that it doesn’t interrupt your cutting.

Finally, the complete guide on how to make a banner using Cricut ends here. I wish you the very best if this is your first move! Make sure you have the right tool and design to support your project.

So, whether you want to make a banner for your birthday or anniversary, this easy-to-follow guide will help you quickly create one.

FAQs

Question 1: Which Cricut machine is the best for creating a banner?

Answer: In my opinion, all Cricut machine models are capable of making a great-quality banner. They all cut different types of materials. However, the ability to cut a large number of materials varies between different Cricut models. In short, the Cricut Explore, Maker, and Joy series are the best options for your banner. Look at your budget and find the machine that suits you the best.

Question 2: Can I draw an image on Cricut?

Answer: Yes, you can draw anything using your Cricut machine, and it is easy to do when you want a simple image. For images, you can go to your Cricut Design Space; there, you will find thousands of images for free. This is the best feature I like about Cricut. So, get your materials ready and place them on a Cricut mat to create the design.

Question 3: Which materials should I use for making banners with Cricut?

Answer: Vinyl could be the best material for making banners with Cricut. Vinyl is the best choice for indoor and outdoor use, and it is waterproof. Its fade-resistant features allow it to last longer. Also, it is durable and budget-friendly, so you can use it to make banners.

Final Words

So, it doesn’t matter whether you want a banner for your birthday or anniversary; this easy-to-follow guide is helpful for everyone. The guide focuses especially on how to make a banner using Cricut. First, gather the materials that I have mentioned in this blog and start cutting and creating your design. You will be done within a couple of hours. Simply, everyone can make it themselves.

Source: how to make a banner using Cricut?

Visit here For more Information: Cricut.com/setup

Cricut explore 3

Cricut Design Space

#how to make a banner using Cricut?#birthday banner with Cricut #cricut.com/setup #cricut explore 3 #design space cricut #Cricut Design Space

0 notes

heartsoulrocknroll · 5 months

Text

AEW Dynamite Winter Is Coming 12/14/22

Death Triangle (c) vs. The Elite Match 4 in the Best of 7 Series for the AEW World Trios Championship -- Here we go!! Beautiful tilt-a-whirl backbreaker from Omega to Pac, followed by a stomp from Matt from the top, as Pac remains in the backbreaker position. Pac has Matt in position for a German suplex. Fénix walks the top rope for a kick to Matt, then Pac lands the German suplex on Matt! Penta springboards off Pac's back into a slingblade!! Nick has hurt his ankle or foot. Nick is taken to the back. Fénix tags Penta. Matt rolls up Fénix! Penta comes into the ring. Matt hits a Northern Lights suplex on Penta, while keeping Fénix's legs trapped, and lands in a pinning predicament on both guys in one fluid motion! Beautiful snap dragon suplexes by Omega! Pac with a beautiful springboard cutter from the apron into the ring on Omega! Penta lands a package piledriver on Matt on the apron!!!!!!!! Oh my god!!! Lucha Bros isolate Omega. Reverse Spanish Fly by Fénix from the top! Made in Japan by Penta!! Backward frog splash by Fénix! Omega kicks out! Pac misses a Black Arrow attempt on Omega. Nick is back! He tags in and gets some offense in! Penta produces the hammer out of nowhere and nails Nick's injured ankle!!! Fénix locks in an inverted knee bar, also wrenching down on Nick's injured ankle!! Nick taps!!!! Hell yeah!!!!! 3-1 baby!!!! This rocked again!!!! I don't know what it is, but something about Death Triangle using illegal weapons to repeatedly beat The Elite really hits the spot for me.

After the match, Kenny suggests that, for the next matches, they make the hammer and all other weapons legal. "We are sick of playing by your rules, so let's just make it to where there aren't any rules at all." No DQ!!! Hype!!!!!

MJF IS BACKSTAGE WITH ALEX MARVEZ!!!!! He proceeds to blow my mind again. What's new???

"Ricky Starks, buddy, you did it. You finally did it. You cut your first great oratory exposition. And we were all rooting for you, man. Everyone saw the potential you have. You know what they're calling it, Marvez? Get this, they're calling it a star-making performance. Isn't that cute? (Lmaaaooooo). Isn't that great? You know what's funny? The first time I ever appeared on AEW Dynamite, I was already a star. And then after that, I just proceeded to hit home run after home run. I am batting a thousand, all hits, no misses. Just curious, Ricky. How many at bats did you have before you finally hit that homer? And then you've got the people claiming you made yourself a star when that couldn't be further from the truth, Richard. I did. Because at 26 years of age, I am the most talked-about name in this business. I am a star maker. So you're welcome for the rub, Rick. And then you had to go ahead and talk about your upbringing. (Whiny voice) 'Oh, I had it so hard. I grew up poor, I had to leave and move into the dumpster fire known as Texas, I grew up with a bobble head that was so much bigger than my body, I had to live out of my car, I had to eat out of a dumpster with raccoons.' I don't care. None of that matters. The only thing in this lifetime that matters is are you or aren't you the AEW World Heavyweight Champion. And of course the smooth-brained simpletons watching at home love you, Ricky. It's because they relate to you. Much like you, their lives suck. But instead of fixing it, all they do is whine and moan and complain. 'Why me, why me?' It's because you all suck. And then there's me, Ricky. You said when I grew up, I had it easy. And guess what? He was right. I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was born rich, I was born attractive, I was born funny, I was born witty, I was born pretty, and I was born better than you and every single putrid person on this planet, and I ain't apologizing for it. And then you wanted to talk about taking pressure off my plate. Well, granted, it took you a while to get to your point, you know. You kind of meandered and mumbled for seven minutes. And every single time he got lost, he'd go (mocking Starks' pose, whiny voice), 'Give me a break! Give me a break!' How about you give me one, Ricky? So let's talk pressure. Because tonight I'm under none. See, I'm already the guy. I'm already the man that has the Dynamite Diamond Ring. I am already the AEW World Champion. I am already the guy. Everybody hates my guts. Everybody wants to see my downfall. No one's rooting for me, therefore I have no one to let down. But you, Ricky Starks, I do not envy you, my man. Not even a little bit. See, everyone around the world wants Ricky Starks to win the big one. His mother, his family, his fans, God, everyone is rooting for Ricky Starks to win the big one in his adopted home state of Texas. Can you do it, Ricky? Or will you let everyone down? Now that? That's pressure. And tonight we are going to find out what happens when pressure is applied to The Pebble. Will he turn into the diamond everyone claims him to be, or will he simply turn into dust?"

GO. OFF. MAX!!!!!! Another Wednesday, another Dynamite, another promo class with MJF. Damn. This was perfectly constructed and perfectly delivered. He addressed all of Ricky's points in an organized, logical fashion. He delivered with incredible conviction, every word and every inflection perfectly placed. When he said "Isn't that cute?" about people calling Ricky's promo a star-making performance, I laughed out loud. God help me, I am in love.

Jericho says the Giant Swing is inhumane and should be banned. Lmao.

BCC with a promo. Wheeler Yuta says he has learned to fight like he is already dead!!!

Chris Jericho vs. Action Andretti -- Andretti goes almost 10 minutes with Jericho and pins Jericho with a running shooting star press!!! Chris Jericho is having a terrible week!!! Good stuff here. The crowd is super into it, which sells it even better. Jericho is later shown throwing a tantrum backstage.

Now we have a promo from Starks to respond to MJF. Starks says that when he broke his neck, he thought his career was over, so now he's winning the AEW World Championship, because he has no other options. Starks says last week's promo was nothing new, he's been doing that in his sleep. Starks says MJF has to find validation in ratings and being a draw. Starks says nobody gives a damn about that, but they do care about seeing Starks stomp MJF's ass tonight.

This was a little corny for me. Saying that MJF is obsessed with ratings and being a draw as if that is a bad thing and saying that no one gives a damn about that as if it isn't an objective measure of how much people care about MJF is... questionable.

Ruby Soho vs. Tay Conti -- This was alright. Tay with some surprisingly decent offense here, a pump kick and a Gotch piledriver. Ruby looks good here and gets the win with No Future.

MJF (c) vs. Ricky Starks for the AEW World Championship and the Dynamite Diamond Ring -- MJF with some taunting out of the gate. He mocks Starks' pose. He does the Flair strut. Nice arm drags by Starks! Thumb to the eye by MJF!!!!!!!!! Gut buster, stomps in the corner, and a back rake by MJF!!! MJF locks in an abdominal stretch, and he bites Starks' ribs! Wtf! MJF grabs the ropes repeatedly for leverage on the abdominal stretch when the ref isn't looking. Starks escapes the hold when the ref kicks MJF's arm to break his grip on the rope. Loool. Jumping lariat, tornado DDT, and sit-out powerbomb by Starks! MJF with a big stomp off the second rope to Starks' arm as Starks clutches the top rope!! Nasty, beautiful powerbomb on the knee by MJF!!! Starks kicks out! MJF stomps Starks' arm on the mat. MJF slaps Starks in the face!! This turns into a slugfest, both guys trading rapid-fire shots, and ends with MJF's thumb in Starks' eye!!!! AHHHHH PERFECT, I AM SUCH A MARK FOR A GOOD THUMB TO THE EYE, BROTHER. MJF rebounds off the second rope for a BEAUTIFUL rolling elbow!!!! Picture perfect shit, love that!!!! Starks responds with a spear! Both guys are down! The ref starts the ten count. Starks barely sits up at nine and covers MJF, but MJF was just lying in wait!! MJF kicks out and immediately grabs Starks' arm and locks in Salt of the Earth!!!!! Beautiful!!!! While applying the hold, MJF bites Starks' hand! Starks reaches for the rope, but MJF traps the other arm!!!!!!! NICE!!!!!!! Starks stretches his leg toward the rope, but MJF grabs the leg too! Starks finally manages to get his one free foot onto the rope to break!! MJF looks like he is going for Salt of the Earth again, but Starks counters with a roll up!! MJF kicks out! They trade side headlock takeovers! Powerbomb attempt by MJF, but Starks escapes! Superkick by Starks! Starks attempts Roshambo, but MJF blocks it! MJF pulls the ref between himself and Starks!!!! MJF steps out from behind the ref and quickly lands a low blow kick to Starks!!!! MJF rolls up Starks!!! 1, 2, 3!!!!!!!! GREAT, WONDERFUL, AMAZING, FANTASTIC!!!! I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!! Love to see MJF dictating the pace and using his signature heel moves. MJF's in-ring style has a nice, old-school flavor that really does it for me. Great stuff.

Danielson comes out after the match!!! He heads toward MJF, and MJF runs at 100 MPH down the ramp, over the barricade, and up the arena stairs through the crowd! I AM SO BEYOND HYPED FOR MJF VS. DANIELSON!!! GIVE IT TO ME NOW!!!!!

1 note · View note

robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Reforged-verse. Baxia had once eight saber-siblings. Saber spirits which trained and developed with her. They were known as the Nine Children of the Dragon. (Based on Fatal Journey where the final disciples in the tomb were the Nie Bros + 7 disciples. But i'm replacing Aituan with another saber spirit for Nie Zhonghui since he's a dual saber wielder! 9 sabers + Aituan! All the sabers are named after The Nine Sons of the Dragon.)

extra for this

There were things one didn’t do with a saber.

Even as indifferent a student as Nie Huaisang knew that, the same way he’d learned rules like ‘don’t stick your hand into hot coals’ or ‘if you jump out the window you will break a bone’. Sabers were tools, even if they had spirits of their own; they were meant to be wielded by their masters, not to act on their own.

It was forbidden for a saber to be used fully autonomously, in fact – sabers did not understand the way of the living, it was said, and hated evil without exception; they could not understand the complexity of human life, the nuances of human mercy, and therefore had no true notion of justice.

Nie Huaisang had always thought that that was bullshit.

It was nice to be proven right.

Are you sure about this? His brother – now a saber himself, and somehow that surprising shocking fact had quickly become normal, as if it was what he’d always been meant to be – wrote to him. It’s dangerous.

“Everything these days is dangerous,” Nie Huaisang said, and his brother wobbled his hilt in a way that signified agreement. “Our enemy hides in the dark, using weapons we can’t see; to match him, we must do the same.”

You’ve always been better at scheming than me, Nie Mingjue replied, and Nie Huaisang thought to himself that he could still hear the fondness that was always there behind his brother’s curt way of speaking, even though the lifeless sand through which they communicated carried no sound but its own. If you think it’s worth it, then we do it.

“It’s not as if they’re going to be completely without a master,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “You’ll be there with Baxia.”

I am no longer a master.

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “You’re no longer human. But you know human judgment, and human mercy, and wasn’t that always the only problem?”

Bloodlust was also a problem.

“Humans suffer from that, too. You were always able to hold yourself back before; I refuse to believe that you’ll succumb to a frenzy now. We will proceed.”

We will.

Out of all the sabers in the Nie sect, there were nine that Baxia trusted more than anyone. One was his own Aituan, because she’d raised Nie Huaisang from being little more than a baby himself, forging his personality just as he in turn shaped Aituan’s; the other eight were sabers from the same maker as her.

He’d been a little mad, that smith – he’d shown up at the Nie sect in the middle of a stormy night, his clothing without any signifier and his tongue cut out; it was only through the calluses of his hands that they had identified him as a smith, bringing him to the forge when he wouldn’t respond to anything else, and he had proven his worth there, crafting sabers so strong and powerful and beautiful that it had made several sect elders weep. He had made many of the sabers that eventually developed spirits, and one day he had locked himself into seclusion for a full year, emerging with nine nearly-crafted sabers, each one brimming with power and waiting only for a master to be completed.

He’d named them after the nine sons of the dragon.

Baxia, that queen amongst sabers had been the first of them claimed, Nie Mingjue having picked her up far too young; the others were cousins and uncles, each one loyal and talented and powerful. Their training-crazed half-generation uncle, Nie Zonghui, had claimed two for dual wielding; he was a terror on the battlefield, as were they all.

Some had died since they had picked up the saber. Others still lived.

None were currently relevant to Nie Huaisang’s plan, other than consenting to their sabers’ use in it.

Jin Guangyao had butchered Nie Mingjue’s body and hidden it, as if there were any place that Baxia could not track now that she had Nie Mingjue’s wisdom added to her strength. There were four separate places where he had put it, and per Nie Huaisang’s plan, each would be haunted by two of Baxia’s brothers and sister sabers, entirely without their wielder – enough cause a frenzy more than sufficient to draw the attention of cultivators all over.

All that attention would make Jin Guangyao very nervous.

Baxia – with Nie Mingjue to help her – would make sure of that.

And as for Nie Huaisang…

Nobody would notice him and Aituan, left behind like the useless children that they were. No one would notice him slipping into Jin Guangyao’s quarters for the evidence he needed, enough to force even Lan Xichen to face up to everything; no one would see the traps he’d lay for the man who’d hurt his brother in terrible ways and planned even worse, who had similar plans for his own son who was not yet four.

Nobody would know.

Not yet, anyway.

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #not sure how much I like this one

129 notes · View notes

kinda-iconic · 3 years

Text

Second Chances

Author's note: It's been a long time since I last wrote anything on here. This was partly caused by an issue on motivation, as I just wasn't feeling as though my writing was good enough anymore. However, I have tried to keep to it, and this is ultimately the result of my perseverance. This fanfic takes place between the events of 'Morning Sickness' and 'Truth doesn't always set you free'.

Summary: Adrian accompanies Amy to her first ultrasound scan.

Tagging: @bloodboundismylife @shelley-parah @nala-raines @lauren-raines-x @adrianadmirer @choicesfannatalie @purvishraick @flowerpowell @adriansbiss @tays-role-plays @caroldxnvxrs @crystalwillow @a-raines

Word Count: 2'703 words

Please do let me know if you would like to be tagged in future works.

‘If you could just lift your blouse up for me.’

Adrian glances around the room, the bitter scent of hand sanitizer burning his nostrils; the room is mostly bare, though as he focuses on his surroundings, he becomes more aware of its contents. The walls are plain, decorated only with the occasional information poster and a glove dispenser. The vibrancy of the lights compares to that of the sun, its fluorescent beams illuminating every corner of the room. As he continues to study his environment, the midwife approaches Amy's feet, adjusting the plastic on the end of the bed before pulling the curtain across.

Adrian focuses his attention on her, his brows knitting together as he observes her movements. A soft squeeze of the hand causes him to look away, luring his concentration back to the source of the distraction; Amy is lying before him, her petite form positioned comfortably on the hospital bed, her free hand resting atop her bare abdomen. She looks up at him, her brown doe-like eyes gazing worriedly into at his own, her voice no louder than a gentle whisper as she tries to provide him with words of comfort.

‘It’s okay, Adrian,’ she greets him with a tired smile, the pad of her thumb drawing soothing circles on the skin of his palm, ‘this is just standard procedure.’

He glances back at the woman, his expression indecipherable as he ensures that she is not privy to their conversation. Satisfied that the midwife remains indisposed, he raises Amy’s hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.

‘That doesn’t mean that I cannot worry.’

Before either one can say more, the midwife turns back to face them, her fingers clasped tightly around the transducer. She shifts forward in her seat, regarding the pair with a welcoming smile as she lays sight on Amy’s stomach.

‘That’s perfect,’ she reaches forward, carefully adjusting the fabric of Amy’s shirt before gesturing to the band of her leggings, ‘I just need access to your lower abdomen if that is alright.’

‘O-okay!’

Amy does as she is asked, moving her clothing downward before looking to her for approval. She is met with a satisfied nod in return, the woman’s smile growing more evident as she retrieves a collection of paper towels from the dispenser; however, as she moves to assist Amy with tucking them in place, Adrian interjects her, strategically placing his hand over the remaining material. She lifts her gaze to meet his own, looking at him in befuddlement as she tries to ponder on the reason for his interruption.

‘Mr Raines, if I could just-’

‘I would rather be the one to do it if that is okay with you.’

The midwife does not respond, instead choosing to remove herself from the conversation, putting herself at a distance so that Adrian is able to continue her work. She watches him closely, her emerald eyes widening in surprise as she takes note of the gentleness of his touch, his fingers moving bashfully as he tries to imitate her actions. As he moves to work on the area adjacent to her hip, Amy places her hand atop of his, interlacing her fingers with his own; he hesitantly meets her gaze, as if aware that his recent actions have caused her discomfort.

‘I just want to keep you safe.’

‘I know,’ she whispers, her words soft and comforting as she carefully reaches for her stomach, her fingertips softly tapping against her skin as she continues to cradle her small bump, ‘but Sarah isn’t going to hurt me, Adrian – all she wants to do is to make sure that the baby and I are alright.'

He sighs, the corner of his mouth tugging into a sorrowful smile as he reaches up to caress her cheek, his fingers entangling in her hair as the pad of his thumb presses against her bottom lip. He inclines his head towards her, as if suddenly remembering their present company.

‘I worry about you, Amy,’ he looks down at her abdomen, his free hand coming to rest atop her own as his thoughts continue to play havoc with his mind; though his gaze begins to soften, there is a hint of worry on his brow, as though his concerns for the future of his family are weighing on his mind more than he chooses to admit. ‘It is not the first time that someone has tried to harm you and our child,’ he shifts his gaze to the side, watching Sarah as she continues to busy herself, remaining blissfully unaware of the wariness in his tone, ‘and now that Gaius knows about the baby…’

He utters his maker’s name with bitterness, every syllable spoken like venom on the tongue; as if by instinct, his muscles begin to tense, his expression glassy and vacant as he decides to press on, the hand that was once resting on her stomach now travelling up to take hold of her hand.

‘I don’t like doubting the intentions of every passer-by that graces our door,’ he leans closer, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, ‘but it is something I must do if I am to keep you both safe.’

‘I understand,’ her voice is quiet, barely audible to the ear, ‘but not everybody is out to get us, Adrian. The staff here are only trying to do their job.’ She gives his hand a comforting squeeze, the tension slowly easing from his body at her touch, ‘Don’t you think that they would have hurt me by now if they were working for Gaius?’

‘I just-’

‘I know,’ she greets him with a loving smile, her nose slightly crinkling at the gesture, ‘and that’s okay! I get that you want to protect us, but…you cannot spend the next six months fretting day and night over something that may never happen.’

‘This is Gaius, Amy; if he wants something, there is no telling how far he will go to get it.’

‘Then that is a problem for future Adrian.’

‘Amy…’

She reaches upwards, blessing his skin with a gentle caress as she cups his face in his hands, ‘I know that all this uncertainty hasn’t been easy to handle, and I understand why you are afraid,’ she releases a joyful sigh, her voice slowly trailing into a whisper, ‘but this should be a happy time. We’re about to see our baby; we’re going to see our little one for the very first time.’

He matches her enthusiasm, his words spoken with reminiscence.

‘I…I know.’

He looks over at the midwife, his stoic facade slowly fading as he observes her for a moment, taking a mental note of the care she is putting into each individual task; he turns his attention back to Amy, his fingertips grazing her knuckles as he reaches for her palm.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for…at least not to me.’

He follows her gaze to Sarah; understanding that he has overstepped, Adrian takes a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before gathering the courage to correct his mistake.

‘You have my sincerest apologies, Sarah,’ he shakes his head in self-frustration, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as his eyes drift back to Amy, his voice laden with regret and embarrassment. ‘The last thing I wanted to do was to cause any offence.’

She waves her hand dismissively, causing him to cease in his apology.

‘It’s okay,’ her attention does not stray from the monitor as she proceeds to press several buttons, ‘you’re not the first father-to-be that has questioned our practices.’

‘That still does not excuse my behaviour.’

‘There is nothing to excuse, Sir,’ Sarah sits back on her chair, drawing the machine closer to the bedside; she removes a bottle of gel from its holder before tilting the nozzle towards Amy’s abdomen, her gloved hand shifting a stray piece of tissue from the substance’s future path. ‘Amy is an exceedingly kind and compassionate young woman.’ She adjusts herself slightly, as if trying to access a better angle, ‘it is understandable that you feel protective of her.’

‘I fear sometimes that I am being too protective, but whenever I stop, I cannot help but feel as though something might happen to her if I allow myself to let my guard down.’

‘I wouldn’t say that you were being over-protective,’ she smiles up at him, ‘I have been an acting midwife for two decades; the things that have been said to me…’ she sighs, her focus never straying from the task at hand, ‘let’s just say I have had a lot worse thrown in my direction.’

‘But you are only doing your job.’

‘And I am grateful that you see it that way,’ she pauses, as if thinking over her next few words with caution, ‘the difference in this situation is that your concern was over the safety of Amy and your child, whereas theirs were more to do with the duration of the examination or advice that I had given their partners about a change of lifestyle as the pregnancy progressed. Again, these were suggestions; I was not going to force them to make these changes.’

‘But you’re a midwife,’ Amy states in befuddlement, her brows furrowing in her confusion, ‘you have a duty of care to both mother and baby. All you were doing was telling your patients how they could improve their lifestyle to make pregnancy easier…’

‘Unfortunately, not everybody sees it like that,’ her smile remains, ‘but it is nice to hear that someone agrees with me.’

She moves over to the desk, collecting Amy's patient file from the end of the bed before settling at the computer; she studies Amy's notes for a moment, her eyes skimming through her information without so much as a second thought, ‘this is your first child, correct?’

A tightness consumes Adrian’s chest, his breath slightly hitching in his throat as her words begin to replay in his mind.

The baby would indeed be Amy’s first child, that much was true.

But it wasn’t his.

He lowers his gaze to the floor, closing his eyes as he tries to keep his emotions at bay. It is only when Amy speaks that he looks back up at her, desperate to hear the softness of her comfort.

‘It-it’s my first,’ she lifts her gaze to meet Adrian’s, her brown doe-like eyes awash with reassurance and understanding; she greets him with an adoring smile, her fingers beginning to re-entwine with his, the tenderness in her touch acting as a silent understanding between them. ‘I-I have never done this before.’

'Well, I would be lying if I said it was easy,' the midwife quips, 'but to hold your baby in your arms for the very first time? Totally worth it.'

The woman places the transducer onto Amy’s skin, the coldness of the gel causing her to gasp in surprise. She pauses her examination, her gaze lifting to study Amy’s expression as she removes the device from her abdomen.

‘Are you alright?’ She reaches for a tissue, dabbing at a splotch of gel that has started to drift from Amy’s midsection. ‘Did I apply too much pressure?’

‘No, I…’ she shifts slightly, her fingers grasping onto the paper towel-like sheet that is poking out from underneath her, ‘it’s just colder than I thought it would be.’

‘My apologies,’ Sarah responds with a sympathetic smile, pressing the apparatus back on the spot just below her navel, ‘I probably should have warned you before I applied it.’

‘It…might have prepared me a little bit.’

Adrian chuckles softly, instinctively lifting Amy’s hand to his lips; he places a delicate kiss on her palm, his warm hand gently encasing her wrist.

‘It will warm up in time, sweetheart.’

‘I wonder if you would say the same if it was squeezed onto your tummy,’ she glances down at her growing bump, her tired eyes focusing on the device as it starts to move across her abdomen, ‘does it make it easier to see the baby?’

Sarah responds with a curt nod, her focus never wavering from the task at hand. She continues to alter the path of the transducer, as if trying to ensure that every inch of Amy’s abdomen is covered.

‘In a way,’ she presses down slightly, her gaze lifting only momentarily as she addresses her patient, ‘the gel acts almost like a connector of sorts. It reduces the amount of air between the scanner and your womb, so I am able to get a clearer image of the baby.’

‘Would the air bubbles distort the picture?’

The midwife raises her brow, regarding Amy with an expression of curiosity. She tilts her head in Amy’s direction, her subtlety instinctively succeeding in drawing Adrian’s attention.

‘She seems to know a lot about this subject, Mr Raines,’ a nervous laugh escapes her, and Adrian is quick to notice the faint curvature of bewilderment on her features, ‘is there some incredibly informative new parenting book that I am yet to become aware of?’

‘Not quite,’ he greets her with a soft smile, his tone becoming more animated as he continues his train of thought, ‘Amy’s pregnancy, it… took us by surprise to say the least.’ He reaches forward, gently pressing his hand to the Bloodkeeper’s cheek, ‘neither of us are experts on child-rearing, so we thought that it would be better to listen to first-hand accounts before delving into any parenting books.’

‘Sometimes it is best to listen to those that are closest to you,’ she nods in agreement, delicately changing direction of her examination as she glances back at the screen, ‘may I ask who this person this?’

‘Most of the advice we’ve had has been from my Sister-in-Law,’ Amy looks up at Adrian, whose hand rests firmly upon her shoulder, his grip supportive and familiar, ‘although my Mom has given me a few pointers that might help.’

‘It is always good to receive another mother’s advice, regardless as to whether she is your own,’ she smiles warmly at the pair, her happiness only brightening as she catches sight of the screen; the midwife refocuses her attention on the couple, her voice laced with excitement.

‘Are you ready to see your baby?’

‘Y-yes.’

She turns the monitor towards them, her right hand still slowly moving across Amy’s abdomen; at first, all Adrian and Amy can see is darkness, but as they focus on the screen, a soft, grey image comes into view.

‘Is…’ he hesitates, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes linger on the picture, ‘is that…’

‘It most certainly is.’

‘Woah…’

They both continue to look at the image, their mouths agape in wonder as they process what they are bearing witness to. After a couple of minutes, Amy glances up at Sarah, her eyes beginning to glisten with tears.

‘That’s…that’s our baby?’

She nods, reaching over to adjust the tissue that is tucked into Amy’s waistband. Using her free hand, she points to the screen.

'There’s the baby’s head, and if you look closely…’ she pauses, slowly rolling the device back down its original path, ‘you should be able to see their arms and feet.’

Amy fixes her gaze on the image, her eyes widening as the child’s features become visible. She turns to Adrian, a single tear trickling onto her cheek.

‘That’s our little one,’ she smiles excitedly, a nervous chuckle escaping her as her tears continue to fall, ‘I…this is really happening.’

He reaches for her hand, taking it in his own before lifting it up to lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

‘Neither can I,’ he flashes her a giddy grin, his gaze never straying from hers, ‘I never thought that I…that we could…’

Amy shakes her head, a nervous chuckle escaping her.

‘It’s… not exactly something that I thought would be happening to me.’

‘I thought so too, at least not for me,’ he looks at her earnestly, his gaze softening in adoration as he studies her features; he reaches up to caress her cheek, the pad of his thumbs tracing soothing circles on her skin, ‘but I’m so glad that I get to do this with you.’

#choices: stories you play #playchoices #bloodbound #adrian raines #adrian x mc #choices fanfic #I did it!

51 notes · View notes

bonniebelleklyde · 3 years

Text

The Small Hours

Note: This fic takes place within what I believe we’re now calling the Mistletoe Universe. Chronologically, it takes place after A Storm to Weather and before Mistletoe. I would highly recommend reading both first to have a full context for this! Thanks to the lovely anon who sent in the prompt for this-- Logan returning the favor from A Storm to Weather and comforting Janus regarding an irrational fear.

Word Count: 2651

Pairing: Loceit (romantic)

Warnings: The warning is a spoiler! Check the tags if concerned.

Summary: In the small hours of the morning, Logan finds Janus in a rather unusual position.

When Logan rose before the sun—not an entirely uncommon occurrence—and made his way to the kitchen to brew a very strong pot of coffee, he was not particularly alarmed at the sight of a figure, obscured by the darkness of the room, sitting atop the refrigerator. He simply nodded in its direction.

“Good morning, Virgil,” he said before stifling a yawn. “It’s a bit early for you, yes?”

There was nothing but silence in response. That was...odd. Concerned that something was troubling Virgil beyond his normal levels of anxiety, Logan flipped the light switch and jumped a bit when the light revealed that it was not Virgil at all sitting on top of the refrigerator, but Janus.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I—what are you doing up there?”

Logan was hardly an expert in these things, but something was definitely off about Janus, even absent the fact that Logan had never seen anyone other than Virgil choose this particular seating arrangement. Janus was fidgeting with his gloves, a habit that Logan had come to realize as indicative of nervousness in the deceitful side. He was also noticeably avoiding eye contact and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Unsure how to proceed, Logan followed Janus’s lead and averted his eyes, waiting for some sort of response. When he received none, he furrowed his brows in confusion. Janus was not exactly known for holding his tongue.

“Is something wrong?” he tried again, endeavoring to communicate through his tone that he was not prying for curiosity’s sake, but rather attempting to offer whatever assistance might be required. Logan doubted he was successful in this endeavor—he was rarely successful in conveying any tone to speak of, his words always seeming to come out dry and hollow.

“No, no, don’t mind me. Nothing’s wrong,” Janus said in a voice so quiet that Logan suspected it would have been drowned out by the sound of the coffee maker had the logical side turned it on.

Logan cocked his head to one side, turning over Janus’s words in his mind for a moment before gently shrugging his shoulders.

“You know, one would think—given who you are—that you would be better at that.”

It was Janus’s turn to furrow his brows.

“Better at what?”

“Lying.”

Janus blinked hard, his mouth falling open in an expression that Logan couldn’t be sure indicated offense or shock.

“I am literal deceit.”

Logan nodded, a small smirk crossing his face. “My point exactly— literal deceit should be more…adept at deception, no?”

Janus scratched at the back of his neck and did not speak for several long moments. Logan cursed himself inwardly— he hadn’t meant to offend, but he almost certainly had. He had essentially just told Janus (to his face, no less) that the other was bad at his job.

“I’m sorry,” he said after it became clear Janus was not planning on providing any sort of response. “I did not mean to imply that you are always—”

Janus cut Logan off by gently holding up his gloved hand, a tentative smile on his face.

“I know,” he said simply. “And you’re right. It was a lie. But I don’t…”

It was Logan’s turn to interrupt. “Janus. I don’t intend to pry.”

Logan was reminded of the night when Janus had first become privy to the logical side’s irrational fear of thunder. He certainly hadn’t pried—had not mocked Logan or passed judgment in any way. He had not forced Logan to talk about his fear—a fact that Logan was exceedingly grateful for. No, Janus had simply…stayed. He’d borne out the storm beside him, with a steadying arm around Logan’s shoulders, for no other discernible reason than the simple fact that Logan had been afraid. Janus…Janus had been lovely. And he’d gone on to be equally lovely during the handful of thunderstorms that had occurred since that night. Almost immediately after the first crash of thunder sounded from each storm, Janus would materialize wherever Logan happened to be at the time. He wouldn’t say a word about the storm itself or about Logan’s silly fear. He’d beckon for Logan to sit beside them, and together they’d make their way through one novel or another, taking turns reading aloud to each other until either the storm had passed or they had drifted into sleep. Though his fear of thunder had never subsided, Logan became strangely fond of thunderstorms. Increasingly, he’d found himself wanting to…well. It didn’t matter what he wanted.

What did matter was that, through every embarrassing moment of it all, Janus was lovely. And while lovely was not a word Logan would ever attribute to himself, the very least he could do was—in the face of Janus’s obvious discomfort—afford the other his privacy.

There was a subtle change in Janus’s expression at Logan’s words. It seemed…softer, somehow. Logan quickly averted his eyes once again when he caught himself starting to stare. The last thing he wanted to do was make Janus any more uncomfortable than he apparently already was. He wondered briefly if Janus, too, was reminded of the storms. He became suddenly aware of how long the silence between them had stretched on for, and he coughed to dispel the strange tension hanging in the air. Remembering his motivation for entering the kitchen in the first place, Logan crossed the room to the coffee maker.

“Coffee?” he offered before chuckling softly when Janus wrinkled his nose. “Not a fellow caffeine enthusiast, then?”

“Oh, I drink plenty of tea,” Janus responded, his tone finally sounding a bit lighter now. “But I’ll never understand how you can drink that stuff—coffee is disgusting.”

Logan snorted in amusement as he began spooning out coffee grounds from his hidden stockpile. “Are you sure? You might find that you like mine— I keep the quality grounds well hidden from the others. You’ll find that the taste of coffee can vary quite widely depending on the type and origin of beans used to prepare it.”

“Is that so?” Janus returned, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Very well, I’ll try it if you like, but I make no promises regarding my reaction.”

Logan hummed in amusement, grinning as he got the brew started. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Janus nervously scanning the kitchen floor. Was there some sort of rodent about? Logan wondered idly but did not ask. Instead, he summoned a book—The Mystery of Edwin Drood—from its place on his nightstand, brandishing it for Janus to see before taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“I believe we left off on Chapter Three?” Logan asked quietly, turning to the appropriate page and looking to Janus’s face to determine whether this was the right course of action.

Janus’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and his grin widened just a bit. He shifted his position so that his back rested against the wall behind the refrigerator and closed his eyes.

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

Logan sported his own small grin as he lay the book out on the table in front of him.

“Excellent. Though I still don’t understand why you chose a book that is only half finished,” he remarked, his tone only slightly teasing.

Janus’s grin faltered at that, his eyes snapping open, and Logan worried that he may have inadvertently insulted the deceitful side once again. But Janus spoke before Logan could make his hurried apologies, his tone not offended but hesitant, perhaps even a bit nervous.

“I had thought…er, well…I thought that perhaps it might be interesting to trade theories about how it might have ended once we’ve finished. If you’d like to, that is.”

Logan was taken aback for a moment at the knowledge that Janus had selected this title because he was interested in discussing theories with him. That was…unusual. Logan was far more accustomed to his own academic musings being tolerated at best. The idea that someone valued them enough to actively seek them out…well, that was…that was quite pleasant. Logan felt something he couldn’t name—a warmth of some sort—bubble up in his chest, and he beamed up at Janus, not having the slightest clue why the other seemed so very nervous to reveal this incredible information to him.

“I think I would enjoy that immensely,” he said genuinely. “There are few things I find more satisfying than parsing out a good mystery, as you well know.”

Janus must have read Logan’s sincerity in his face, because the deceitful side’s apprehension melted away to be replaced by a brilliant smile to match Logan’s own. The corners of Logan’s lips were still tipped up as he watched Janus’s eyes fall closed again and as Logan began to read from the book.

Before long, he was interrupted by a buzzing sound signaling that the pot of coffee had finished brewing. Logan paused his reading and strode over to the cupboard to retrieve two mugs. When he’d poured both drinks, he looked to Janus with questioning eyes.

“Will you be joining me at the table, or should I hand this to you up there?”

He asked the question gently, kindly in a way that he hoped invited Janus to reveal whether there was some way that Logan could help him with his current predicament without pushing too forcefully. Janus averted his eyes and chewed at his lip.

“I…don’t normally make a habit of sitting up here,” he said slowly after several moments.

“No, you don’t,” Logan confirmed simply with a nod, leaning against the counter as he waited for the other to continue.

“It’s ridiculous,” Janus said through gritted teeth, clearly frustrated. “I don’t…I am being ridiculous.”

Janus’s face was bright red, and he seemed as if he was endeavoring to look anywhere but Logan’s face, and Logan turned his own gaze downward in an effort to minimize the other’s discomfort.

“More ridiculous than shaking like a leaf during every thunderstorm?” Logan asked softly, a small self-deprecating smile on his face.

At that, Janus’s eyes snapped up immediately to meet Logan’s.

“You are not ridiculous,” and something about the amount of sheer conviction in Janus’s voice stole every bit of Logan’s breath from him. “You are…”

Janus trailed off, either unable to come up with a word for what Logan was or unwilling to voice whatever word he may have had in mind.

“Well. Regardless,” the deceitful side continued, glancing away from Logan’s face once again. “I am being ridiculous. It really is so trivial, I…I should just come down…”

When Janus made no move to come down off of the refrigerator despite his words, Logan thought for a moment before offering, “Might there be anything I could do that would make coming down at all easier for you?”

It was clear from the hesitant look on Janus’s face that there was. In that moment, Logan wished he could be someone else—Roman or Patton perhaps, who were so much better at assuaging fears and dealing in emotions than Logan was. Janus deserved someone who was more practiced at this—who knew how to help Janus in the extraordinary way that Janus had helped Logan. Still, it was far too early for anyone else to be awake, so he supposed he would have to do.

“For what it is worth,” he said quietly, not having the slightest idea of what to say other than the simple truth, “I could never think you are ridiculous. You could tell me that you are up there to hide from the coffee pot, and I would think no less of you. You could tell me anything at all. I would never reveal the information to anyone else, and I would certainly never judge you.”

The words were inadequate, he was sure of it, but they were all Logan had. He watched with concern as Janus’s brow furrowed and his face contorted into an expression that Logan was not able to read. At the very least, Logan knew that Janus could be certain he was not lying. At long last, the deceitful side met his eyes once more with that same, unreadable expression.

“I’m afraid of spiders,” Janus finally confessed, his tone strained. “Virgil’s stupid pet must have escaped, because I woke up with the damned thing on my pillow, and it followed me into the kitchen.”

“Oh!” Logan responded, somewhat relieved that the situation was one that he could help with after all—and likely very easily at that. “I’ve actually assisted in retrieving it for Virgil several times. It should be no trouble doing so again. Do you have any idea where it might be now?”

Janus was hiding his face behind his hands now.

“I think it crawled under the oven, the last I saw.”

Roughly ten minutes later and with the practiced use of paper and string, Logan had successfully located the spider under the stove and seen it returned to its cage in Virgil’s room. Janus choked out a strained but sincere thank you, his face now an alarming shade of red.

“Thank me by coming down here and trying my coffee. I’ll make a convert out of you yet,” Logan teased, hoping the change in subject would lessen Janus’s embarrassment.

Logan lifted his hand in an offer to help Janus down from the refrigerator. Janus stared at the hand stretched out to him for just a moment before taking it and climbing down onto the counter and then finally to the floor. Logan found himself wishing—however irrationally—that Janus would forget to let go of his hand when his feet were once again on the ground, that Logan could remove Janus’s glove and interlace their fingers together, that they could—

Logan shook his head as if to physically shake that particular line of thought from his mind. He wondered briefly what it meant that he was thinking about such things with increasing frequency and resolved to consult Roman or Patton about the matter later. For now, he focused on keeping away the frown that threatened to form when Janus inevitably did let go of his hand.

“Alright,” Janus said with a small sigh as he took a seat at the table and looked toward Logan expectantly. “let’s get this over with.”

Logan smirked and handed a mug to Janus before taking the seat across from him. He nearly snorted his own coffee through his nose at the look of pure disgust on Janus’s face the moment the liquid had reached his tongue.

“I take it you’re not convinced?” he asked, not entirely successful in his effort to ward off a bout of laughter.

“This is revolting,” Janus said, glaring at his mug as though it had insulted him. “This is worse than what the others drink. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

Logan snickered and downed his own coffee in three gulps, more to prove a point than anything.

“Mark my words, I’ll sway you one day,” he promised, though not entirely serious.

“Can’t imagine how,” Janus said with a roll of his eyes before stretching out his hand. “Here, give me the book; I’ll pick up where you left off.”

Logan couldn’t help but grin as he handed the volume over. They had never before engaged in this strange practice of reading aloud to one another outside the context of a distraction from fear. Janus caught the grin and shot one back as he flipped to the correct page.

“May as well keep going. I’m eager to hear your thoughts on the identity of the murderer.”

There was that peculiar warmth in Logan’s chest again. This time, he simply allowed himself to bask in it. He would find clarity and answers regarding these strange and pleasant feelings Janus seemed to provoke in him later. For now, it was more than enough that they were there.

#fanfic #loceit #mistletoe #mistletoeverse #logan sanders #janus sanders #tw arachnophobia #romantic loceit

71 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

Text

Before the Night Ends

Dean/Castiel, 2.1k words, post-Wedding/pre-Honeymoon

ao3

It's been a wedding for the ages. Dean and Castiel finally tied the knot, with guests flying in from all across America, Heaven, Hell - even the Empty. But everything must come to an end, and after a wonderful Roadhouse reception Dean and Cas drove off in Baby and off towards their honeymoon.

Except, it's a long drive from Kansas plains to California beaches. They stop close to midnight at a motel along the highway, to sleep, celebrate their wedding night and that it's Valentine's Day, too.

There’s a motel off Highway 70 called Angel’s Paradise, first established in the early 1900s, and last renovated in 1982. The owners back then, who remain so today, envisioned heaven as some tropical destination. That meant each room, alike in their simplicity and functionality, would be redone along these guidelines. Walls plastered with paper-print palm fronds and blooming, pink flowers. Bathrooms tiled a light blue – like waters from the clearest ocean – and little soaps shaped like shells to match the shell-patterned shower curtain. They’d have an entertainment unit housing a small television set would double as a dust collector, various ocean-themed knick-knacks cluttered atop it, ranging from homemade to store bought. A wicker table situated between two wicker chairs, a wicker dresser placed next to the entertainment unit and a wicker bed-or-beds layered by their own palm fronds, matching the walls. Finally, tying the décor together was a little (wicker) side table near the door with a plastic conch set to catch keys or loose change or cigarette ash. Given these changes, any customer might imagine they were in Florida rather then Colorado, or it was June instead of February. Especially in the crown jewel of Angel’s Paradise, the Honeymoon Suite.

Except the Suite’s current boarders were very aware of where and when they are. Probably because they have yet to see their room for the night.

Dean tucks his hands into his elbows, shivering outside the Suite while Cas fiddles with its doorknob. “Come on,” he whines, “what’s the hold-up?”

Cas pauses, turning to Dean. “Sorry,” he says, “the lady at the counter – she said they were having issues since the last occupants. Something about them breaking the lock?”

“Fuckin’ a…” Dean hisses, bouncing now. An icy wind cuts across the parking lot, Dean defenseless to it because he forwent a heavier jacket and how thin the material of his suit was. Castiel looks marginally warmer than Dean, wrapped in his trademark trench coat. Still, Dean notices how his hands tremble while holding the key. Cas’s hand flicks to the left, Dean’s gaze catching the silver band wrapped around his ring finger. One day, he may get used to it. Dean hopes he never does and can experience the same flutter of warmth rippling through his heart from seeing it. He leans into Cas, Dean dropping his head onto Cas’s shoulder. “Who do I have to pray to for this door to open?”

“No one,” Cas declares, lock clicking in time with his words, “because it’s open!”

Dean curses under breath, smiling. “Great,” he says, “let’s get in there, then – hey… hey!”

Swept off his feet, Dean falls into the loving grip of his husband. Cas places one arm at his back, supporting most of the weight, while the other arm traps Dean’s knees, keeping his legs bent and Dean unable to wriggle himself free. Cas smiles down at him, laughing.

“You think this is so funny,” Dean scowls, holding onto Cas’s tie like it were a lifeline. “You little shit –“

“Mr. Shit, Dean,” Cas interrupts, kicking the door open and striding past the threshold, “I did take your last name, after all.”

“My mistake…” He huffs, burying his head in Cas’s chest while he uses the fingers not squeezing Cas’s tie to comb the hairs at his husband’s neck. “Dean and Castiel Shit… I can see the monogramed towels already.” Dean closes his eyes, purring like a kitten while he absorbs the heat that radiates from Cas. It’s inhuman how much of a furnace he was, especially after giving up his grace to live as a human, to be human with Dean. Like always, Dean’s smile widens at the thought. He tries hiding his rapidly flushing face, but Cas tears Dean off of him. He ungraciously dumps Dean onto the bed, blue eyes betraying his cool demeanor as they glow with mirth from Dean’s startled squawking. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to get the bags,” he says, moving towards the door, “Why don’t you get comfortable, I’ll only be a moment.”

Dean shakes his head, situating himself better on the bed. He sits at the foot of it, toeing off his snakeskin boots and then peeling off the dark grey dress socks he wore with them. While pulling at his tie, Cas returns with their bags. He doesn’t close the door after, and a blustery chill fills the space. Goosepimples erupt in scattered bunches up and down Dean’s arms. “Close the door!” he yells, dumping the tie onto the slowly growing pile of discarded clothing. His suit jacket joins his tie and socks and boots as Cas deposits their bags by the television. He then hits the door with his elbow, shutting out the wind. Cas gestures at the closed door with a flourish and wry grin. Dean scoffs, “Ugh, who’s bright idea was it to do this in winter?”

“The same man who, on his birthday, said,” Cas drifts closer, helping Dean unbutton his shirt, “and I quote, ‘If you think you can propose to me and not expect us to get married as soon as possible, then you don’t know what you’re signing up for… buddy’.” Cas eases the shirt off Dean’s shoulders, kissing the exposed skin right above his t-shirt. “For the record,” Cas adds, whispering into his collarbone, “I expected it. It was one of the reasons why I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Dean remembers. Their family, together, celebrating Dean’s birthday. His first birthday free from Chuck’s machinations, with a cake Jack spent all day baking and presents that lined the end of the table. He held Cas’s hand as he blew out the candles, mind blank because nothing he could wish for would match the happiness he felt in that moment. He tells Cas this after he asks what he wished for. And Cas, of course, proceeds to kiss him. Cas kisses him while Eileen cut the cake, while Jack helped plate them, and while Sam clapped Dean’s shoulders in warning to reign it in. Dean pulled back, gasping, unsure how he might respond to his then-boyfriend’s passion. Then Cas asked him that all-important, heart-stopping, mind-blowing question, opened a velvet box, and Dean knew exactly what to say.

“I would’ve waited,” Dean reveals, helping Cas with his clothes as Cas guides Dean’s legs out of his slacks. “Everyone knows how long I’ve waited to tell you I love you… I would’ve waited, even if we died and we had to get married in heaven.” Dean pecks Cas’s lips, divesting him of both jackets and his button-down shirt. “I’m glad we didn’t have to, though.”

“So am I.”

They stand together in t-shirts and boxers, barely an inch of space between them. No one speaks, not that they have to, but the usually comfortable silence makes Dean nervous. His focus drifts from Cas and onto the plastic conch behind him. Then, he notices how the rest of the room is decorated. Dean giggles, “Wow… it’s, this place is…”

Cas nods. Dean needn’t say anything else. “You should’ve seen the inside,” he snickers, “the staff were wearing Hawaiian shirts and shark-tooth necklaces.”

“Hey,” Dean shoves him, “don’t diss Hawaiian shirts.” He collects his clothes and boots, bringing them over to their duffels. “I’ve got about three packed away in here, and I’m planning on buying at least a few more before our honeymoon ends.”

“Should they even be called Hawaiian shirts if we’re not in Hawaii?” Cas asks. Dean hears the mattress squeak, and guesses his husband sat on the bed. He digs through the duffel, Cas monologuing in the background. “Are they called Coloradan shirts since we’re in Colorado? If we buy them in California, won’t they be Californian Shirts? Or is it because they’re made in Hawaii, and then shipped elsewhere? Can you imagine it – shirt factories, dotting the beaches? Oh, I’d hope the workers making all these Hawaiian shirts are at least being paid a fair wage, given how popular they seem to be…”

“There’s no factories on any beaches,” Dean tells him, “and – hate to burst your bubble, angel – but I doubt Hawaiian shirt makers are paid what they deserve, regardless of where their factories are.” Cas hums in that same, sullen note he usually does when the beginning notes of Sarah McLachlan play and Dean can’t switch channels fast enough. He folds his clothes, setting them aside. Then, Dean sneaks his hand into his stack of clean boxers, finding the surprise he hid for his husband. “Hey,” Dean rises, “capitalism sucks, but we can’t let it ruin our trip.” Dean drops onto Cas’s lap, delighting in the tiny ‘oof’ that escapes from his husband. “Here,” he says, “I was saving this for later… but hell, we’re running out of time. I’d rather give it to you before the night ends than a day later.” Dean hands him an envelope, Cas’s name scrawled on the front. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“A card?” Cas asks, flipping the envelope back and forth, “Dean… you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“’Course I did…” Dean presses a kiss to Cas’s temple, ruffling his hair. “It’s Valentine’s Day… probably the first Valentine’s Day I actually wanted to celebrate in a long time, because I’ve got someone I love and want to celebrate. And sure, it’s not like we didn’t do just that… in front of all our friends and families… and a few exes… and uninvited guests –“

“The point, Dean?”

“Sorry,” Dean lays his head atop Cas’s, watching him peel away the envelope’s glue. “We’ll have tons more holidays and anniversaries to celebrate in the future… I just didn’t want our first Valentine’s Day to be overshadowed by our wedding. You mean so much to me that I’m not gonna just lump the two together like you’re some kid who was unlucky enough to be born on Christmas. You deserve it all.” Cas flips the envelope, shaking its contents free. A pair of red panties floats onto his outstretched hand. “Not just some stinkin’ card.”

Cas squeezes the panties. “Are you –?”

“About to show you how friggin’ fantastic married sex is?” Dean wrangles the panties from Cas’s fist, waving it about like a flag. “You bet. Let me slip these on and…“ He starts towards the bathroom, Cas slowly chasing him.

“You don’t have to,” his husband growls, “you can change here –“

“Cas, I won’t be long –“

“I don’t know if I can wait!”

“You’ll have to!” Dean closes the door on Cas’s face, laughing as he hears his husband bang against the door in protest. He yells for Dean, but Dean ignores him. Dean brings his hand to his face, covering his mouth with both it and the panties he carries. They smell like cherries. He forgot to tell Cas they’re edible. Cas will figure that out later.

He’ll also give Cas his real card later, as well. The one he wrote using all the words Dean was too afraid to say at the altar. Little details about the way Cas hogs all the blankets when he sleeps, and how his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and that Cas’s hugs chase away dark thoughts better than any drink might’ve. There were also bigger things he mentioned, in this card. About Cas and his unwavering faith in Dean, even at times where he didn’t deserve it. About the despair that bloomed whenever Cas left his side, a bouquet of horrid, wilted roses growing rampantly over his heart and piercing it with their thorns during those awful times it seemed their last goodbye truly was. About the love Cas inspired within Dean that changed his life, from the very beginning, from the touch of Cas’s hand on his shoulder. That simple act which broke him free from Chuck’s wheel again and again and again. Dean couldn’t say any of this in a crowded room. He doubts he can with only Cas. He already cried enough for one day. So, they’ll have sex instead. After they’ve burned through the remaining fumes that linger in their tanks, Dean will present the card, curl against Cas’s side with his head tucked underneath his husband’s chin, and listen while Cas reads how much he means to Cas.

But that won’t be until later. Now, Dean shimmies out of his boxers. He pulls the panties on, flicking the bow twice once it’s settled. “Are you ready?” Dean croons, jiggling the knob, “because it’s time to ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Cas pries the door loose, almost ripping it off its hinges as pull Dean forward into a searing kiss. Dean smiles into it, letting Cas take lead. Dean’s gift were the panties. Cas’s gift is putting in the work to get them off. Cas throws Dean onto the bed, his mouth attacking Dean’s neck. His hand trails down Dean’s side, tickling and teasing him.

He couldn’t have written a better ending to his story. Or imagine a better beginning to his next.

#dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel wedding

43 notes · View notes

fairymadnessyeah · 3 years

Text

Remus’ Dream

Sequel to Roman’s Nightmare

Find it in AO3 too

"Really, Logan? You are a saviour, A hero. Call me if you need anything," Roman says, and is out of the door a second later.

It doesn't really surprise Remus. His twin brother would rather do anything than spend time with him. Which he could understand, he would rather die than spend more time with his twin. They already spent all their childhood together, and that had been more than enough.

Remus didn't need his plastic basic bitch of a brother to have a good time. However, he didn't want to spend it with nerdy wolverine over here. The guy, Logan was it, looked like a strict square and teacher. And no matter how hot he found that, it usually meant he was no fun at all.

"Here, one of our other roommates made these as welcome present," he says and shoves a plate of cookies on his hands.

He follows the nerd to the living room, and the two sit down on the couch in front of the Tv. He munches on the cookies like he always does, gulping them down by the handful while the other stares. Logan waits until he is done with the snack to talk again. "I believe that to be a good host; I should entertain you. What do you find entertaining?" he asks.

"I like to open up bodies with a sharp object and take out the insides," he smiles.

"I see," he hums. "Do you do a downward, horizontal cut from the pectoral area, or is it more efficient to do so below the external oblique at the side of the body?"

"I know, it's disgust- WAIT, did you ask something about it!?" he exclaims surprised. Nobody wanted to hear anything about what he said. Just because he didn't hide about the real world like his brother, Roman. He always preached about unicorns and dragons and happily ever afters. But not him. Remus knew the reality. People were made of meat tissues and squishy organs filled with blood, and they would die eventually.

But people were stupid, and they all prefered the curtain that his brother presented. Well, almost all of them.

"Yes, I wish to know more about you and your interest. I promised Roman I would keep you company. So, do you use a scalpel or some other type of sharp object to open up corpses? Of which I believe you are doing legally," Logan says.

"I-I do... I'm a forensic scientist," he answers, still shocked by Logan's reaction. "And the cutting depends on how the person died. The last time I had to open somebody top to bottom, it turned out the man had been suffocated to death by being made to swallow arcade machine coins," he explains.

"Fascinating! How do you know he was forced to ingest them, and he didn't do it by his own volition?" he asks, interested.

"There were signs of force on his skin," Remus tells him, dazed and with stars in his eyes. He is starting to love the fact that his brother left him with Logan.

The two keep on talking. They went from Remus' job, and somehow ended in a discussion over what chemical would be better for blood removal. As the time went on, Remus started shifting closer and closer to the tie-wearing man. He would get lost in the movement of his lips, and those framed blue eyes. And when he moved close enough that he could touch the other man, his hands gained a mind of their own, and wandered around the nerd, like spiders wander around the rotting corpse of a fly trapped in their web.

He had been flirting and filling the conversation with sexual innuendoes. But it seemed as they had no effect on Logan. The man was either completely clueless over Remuses advances, or uninterested and trying to be polite. Remus was now draped over the other. He had his legs over Logan's lap, his head leaned over his shoulder, and his hand playing with his tie. His voice was low and sensual, and being so close to his neck was so tempting. He just wanted to lean in closer and take a bite.

"Excuse my forwardness, but are you romantically interested in me?" Logan asks, looking down at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Maybe~," he coos, and giggles in a flirty way. "What are you going to do about it?~," he challenges, and sees something flash in his eyes.

"I'll say that I feel flattered, and that your advances are well received. I too find myself very attracted to you," Logan tells him, fixing his tie. "However, I believe we must put a temporarily stop at the moment, before things progress further," Remus opens his mouth to complain, but he is interrupted by Logan before he can get a word out. "Your brother is my roommate, and while he can be infuriating, I don't think it would do any good if he was to find us in this situation. Our house-hold harmony could be broken, and that could lead to problems. I believe our best course of action will be to wait for him and tell him that our relationship will proceed romantically one, rather than platonically," he explains.

"You don't need Roman's permission to date me!" Remus complains. "I am the only one who has the final say on who I fuck! And I think it's time we move further into the bedroom, and you further inside me~," he proposes, and changes his position to be sitting on Logan's lap. He grinds down to drive his point across.

Logan clears his throat before speaking again. "As delectable as that sounds, I must decline your proposition. The house-hold harmony must be maintained," he is about to take Remus off his lap, when the man with facial hair stops him.

"But, what if this is his plan?" he points out, making Logan stop in his tracks.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my brother is hopeless stupid romantic, and a wardrobe malfunction is not going to take him all day. He ditched us here for a reason," Logan hums, taking in what he is saying. "Maybe, he wanted to play match-maker. I'm new in town, and you are single, right?" Logan nods. "It's the perfect plan, don't you think?" he doesn't, for a second, think that Roman would do anything like that for him. But if he can convince Logan, that he might, then they might get down to business .

"That quite the unusual plan Roman would come up with, but I can see how you might have arrived to such conclusion," he says, rubbing his chin thinking. "How do you suppose we should test this hypothesis you have created?" Remus grins get bigger.

"Well...~" he leans in closer, wrapping his arms around Logan's shoulders. "I might have an idea~," he whispers right above the other's lips, before closing the distance.

Logan both relaxes and tenses when their lips connect. His shoulders goes lax, but he holds onto Remus tighter. They don't synchronize well at first. But once they get a rhythm going, they just fit together. It's like finding the missing puzzle piece you been searching for years. Remus, who has been with his fair share of different partners, had never felt so much from just a kiss. He feels like pins and needles are stabbing him softly on his stomach. Logan's lips are hard but smooth, and he can feel how breathless he is due to the soft kiss.

When they separate to breathe, he can see pink dusting his nerd's cheeks and the dazed stare with which he looks at him. It is in that moment that Remus decides he is going to marry this man. No matter what his brother says, he is going to marry this nerd. Unluckily, his unrested body decided to cockblock him, and he let out a tired yawn.

"Are you tired?" Logan asks.

"Just a little, I been travelling since yesterday," Remus explains. "But it's nothing. We should keep going," he leans back in, but Logan stops him.

"We can continue this when you are better rested," he tells him with a soft smile, that makes Remus feel gushy inside. "Come, I will lend you my room for you to sleep," Logan takes him to the left side of the apartment, and to a blue door that had the name 'LOGAN' written neatly on the front.

"Have a good rest, Remus. I will wake you for dinner if needed," he tells him as he opens the door for him.

"Thanks, but before you go..." he wraps his arms around him, and gives him another kiss. The two get lost in each other's lips, and before he can stop him, he takes a bite out of Logan's neck, and then sucks on the skin. His nerdy wolverine is the most exquisite blood-red colour. He grins at his reaction before going inside the room.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he wakes up, is to the sweet sounds of his twin brother in pain. He steps away from Logan's room, that smells like ink and crofters, and goes to the living room. All the roommates are there. The guy with the bakery is cooking, and the painter is looking down at his brother on the floor. Logan is putting his book back in the library and the hickey he gave him still red and proudly presented on his neck.

"So, now that he knows, can we have that D appointment?" he asks as he wraps his arms around Logan's waist. His brother lets out a pathetic wheeze, and the emo pats his head in comforts.

He's got to admit, moving here was one of the best ideas he ever had.

#sander sides #remus sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #creativitwins #intrulogical #fluff #ao3 link #sequel

33 notes · View notes

yoongiverse · 4 years

Text

hireath

(noun) a homesickness to a home which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

summary: when home no longer feels like “home”

pairing: yoongi x female!reader

genre: angst and lots of it

rating: sfw

word count: 1.8k

warnings: foul language, very sad yoongi

index: bolded marks the date and time, bolded and italicized marks a flashback with the date and time, (e/c) means “eye color,” (y/n) means “your name,”

song: when i was your man by bruno mars

author’s note: this was originally a levi ackerman fic but because i stopped writing for the attack on titans fandom, i’ve since then decided to change the character to be yoongi! the prompt of this came from ! please enjoy… unless you’ve read it already

december fifteenth, two thousand twenty

eleven forty-eight p.m

after what seems to be millions of years, yoongi comes home from work. being an idol at bighit entertainment was not an easy job. he’s either dancing his ass off with the rest of the members in the dance practice room, having photo shoots for god knows what, producing more songs than he can count on his hands, for fucks sake he’s just over worked with whatever the hell the company throws his way.

walking into his decently sized condo, yoongi slides off his heavy winter jacket and places it into the shoe/jacket cabinet that was ever so placed in probably the best spot ever, right next to the front door. following his jacket, he slides off his work shoes and places them on their designated spot.

now free from the constricting clothes, he walks into his study to place his bag down, which was full of the songs lyrics he didn’t manage to finish because he was way too damn busy doing some other shit that bang pd made him do. weirdly enough, yoongi doesn’t immediately launch into the comfort of his bed; instead, he walks out of his study and into his living room, which lies a very comfy white couch.

instead of sitting down on the couch like a normal person, his gaze lingers on the very prominent dent on one of the couch seats, and right next to it is another dent,

before, the couch was a safe haven, meant for two bodies cuddling closer in the harsh winter temperatures, but now, the white couch is barren holding onto the memories of him and his significant other.

december fifteenth, two thousand eighteen

ten twenty-five p.m

very prominent spells of laughter echo through the living room of yoongi’s condo. here he was laying down on the white couch with his girlfriend (y/n).

“yoongi, stop!” yells his dear girlfriend of two years as he places small, fleeting butterfly kisses down the side of her neck. to (y/n) and even yoongi himself, as something as simple as placing small kisses down her neck, it was a big surprise to both of them since yoongi never acted so openly loving.

never did it cross yoongi’s mind that he would ever have a girlfriend, yet here he is. for someone as busy and straightforward as him, he always thought that people would never love him, much less like him, but somehow, fate always seems to surprise. for some reason, that thought always seemed to cross his mind ever so often and it just so happened to make yoongi have such an urge to kiss her that he did.

“babe,” yoongi begins, ceasing his kisses to his and her dismay. calming down, she looks down at him, curiosity gleaming throughout her beautiful (e/c) eyes. ever so quietly yoongi says “i love you,” and proceeds to hold onto her tighter while stuffing his red kissed cheeks into her shoulder.

with her heart so full, she responds back with “i love you too yoongi, so much,” and hugs him back with all her might.

present

breaking away from his trance, he scoffs at nothing in particular and walks past the couch to the kitchen. within a few steps from the couch, he makes it into his semi-used kitchen.

he really never had the time to use the kitchen since he was always coming home late and eating mediocre takeout food. but over the past few years, the kitchen seemed to be a place to wind down.

looking around the counter tops, he notices the little details floating around. he noticed the small container of sugar next to his coffee maker. the sugar definitely did not belong to him, he fucking hated sugar in his coffee and was an avid black coffee drinker. he also noticed the coffee mugs with stupid sayings like “a.m juice” and “dwight you ignorant slut” placed around the counter tops of his kitchen, and for sure those mugs did not belong to him.

he then notices the very lonely ring placed on the counter top placed on top of a pink sticky note. a single “i’m sorry yoongi” is all that is written.

moving slowly and with a blank mind, he takes the ring and simply admires where it came from.

august fifth, two thousand nineteen

four thirty-two a.m

“(y/n),” is all he says as he stops walking. behind him, tree leaves are blowing softly through the wind, chirping birds creating a song that he’ll never understand. people clear of the surrounding area, it truly was just him and her.

“yoongi?” she questions, turning around in what seems to be the most beautiful manner yoongi has ever seen. her hair lightly billowing behind her, her dress ruffling from the wind, and her eyes so clear, brightly gleaming towards his.

it was clear to her that yoongi was extremely nervous, something quite shocking to her as yoongi was somehow a professional at hiding his emotions. so to ease his nervousness, she places a soft hand on his bicep. this causes his downcast eyes to meet hers as yoongi brings his dark chocolate eyes up.

with a sigh, he composes himself and manages out “(y/n), i’m not the best when it comes to giving what you want. i don’t give you the hugs or kisses that you want. i don’t always give you the words you want. honestly, i don’t give you anything that you want. but you stayed with me. you stayed with me even through the tour even when i wasn’t there with you. even through it all, you’re still with me. and even if i don’t show it, you mean so much to me. you are the very reason why i am here today, you’re my rock, you’re my home. and i know i don’t say this enough, but i love you so much. i love you so much that i want to stay with you forever.”

he pauses as he goes on to take the black, velvet box out of his jacket pocket and kneels on one knee.

“will you marry me?”

present

he swallows back the pain and walks away heading to his bedroom. he opens the door to his bedroom and continues to walk to his closet. he debates on what to wear, ultimately deciding to wear a black t-shirt with matching sweats to shield himself from the winter’s cold.

with his newly acquired clothes, he walks into the bathroom dismissing the clear doubles of everything. the blatant fact that there are two toothbrushes, two cups, and nearly two of everything, leaves his thoughts quicker than they came in.

without paying too much mind he quickly changes into said clothes and walks out padding over to the bed, finally hoping he can relieve the stresses of the day.

walking over to the right side of the bed, he takes the covers and lifts them up giving him the opportunity to slip under. gazing to the other side, he notices the emptiness of it clearly remembering the times that the space next to him wasn’t empty.

without him wanting to, his steel eyes take in the lack of a body that no longer lays with him, memories flowing back up to his conscience.

january nineteenth, twenty seventeen

ten forty-three p.m

“you ready to go to bed yoongi?” (y/n) asks from the door frame of his study. pointing his gaze up to his girlfriend and admires her choice of clothing. all she wears is a shirt way too big that is definitely his and shorts that are way too short, but he doesn’t care.

“hm, i’m coming, head off to bed first. i’ll be there shortly.” he returns back without bringing his gaze towards her. he hears her pad off to the bedroom.

yoongi then begins finishing up his last piece of his song, as he starts organizing his studio desk, putting his headphones back where they belong on his stand, pushing his mic back into its own little corner, and most importantly saving the file before closing the browser.

once he deems the papers to be organized enough, he turns off the light as he walks out of his study and into the bedroom. let me just say, the view that he sees when he walks in should be painted because damn she was cute.

she was cutely holding onto his side of the bed, it was as if she was trying to catch his scent. her legs were tangled between the comforter and tucked up to her chest, hair splayed out behind her, hands placed so gently by her face grasping yoongi’s pillow.

snapping out of his thoughts, he walks over to his side of the bed. carefully, he lifts (y/n) up and wraps her legs around his torso. now, in the comfort of his wonderful bed and his significant other, he feels all of the stress and tension leave his body.

with a sigh, he takes a quick glance at the girl hugging his chest and places a quick kiss on her forehead. “goodnight (y/n),” he whispers.

“i love you,” he finally says.

present

quickly, he turns over, no longer facing the empty side of the bed, not wanting to deal with the fact that the love of his life is absent from their bed.

“she’s gone.”

“she never loved me.”

“where did i go wrong?”

“i wasn’t a good enough fiance.”

“i wasn’t good enough.”

he kept chanting over and over again in his head. spiraling through his mind were all the things that he’s done wrong as a boyfriend and the things he should’ve done. everything and anything bad floated through his mind, making him feel like such a shitty person for how he treated you.

now, yoongi was a man of action, never was he able to clearly speak out his emotions and the thoughts floating through his mind. it seemed to him and others that his actions were very simple, never really portraying his love for her.

(y/n) always seemed to understand. she never cared, every action yoongi did no matter how small they were, she understood the weight of them. she simply understood him, unlike everybody else he’s come into contact with.

but, he’s lost her. she’s no longer his. she’s no longer here.

she’s gone.

to yoongi, the weight of those words brings him down further than he’s ever been. it brings him down so far, a lone tear escapes his eye.

more and more escape his eyes and he doesn’t even notice it, too caught up in his thoughts to even notice. soon enough, he’s sobbing quietly in the expanse of his lonely room.

time passes and he’s on the brink of falling asleep with tears still damp on his cheek. right before he falls into slumber, he whispers out:

“i’m sorry (y/n)”

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fan fiction #bts x reader #bangtan x reader #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #agust d x reader #min yoongi x reader #myg x reader #yoongi angst #suga angst #agust d angst #bts angst #myg angst #agustd x reader

77 notes · View notes

chaotic-citrus · 4 years

Text

Harvest in Honnleath

I have absolutely succumbed to the pumpkin spice season and am in deep fall feels right now, so I was inspired to write this shameless fall fluff by @cozy-autumn-prompts‘ Hot Apple Cider prompt and @oc-growth-and-development‘s OCtober prompt for Day 8: Festival! Enjoy some seasonally fluffy Cullen Rutherford x Evelyn Trevelyan!

"Few celebrate the year's harvest quite like Honnleath."

When Cullen had spoken the words earlier, Evelyn had assumed it was little more than a case of hometown pride. However, as she took in the sea of decorative gourds so vast it nearly obscured the young children who wandered through it, the unyielding scent of cinnamon that permeated every inch of the small village, and a band so boisterous at times that she could hardly hear herself think, Evelyn finally saw the truth to his words.

Lanterns were strung between the homes lining the main square, candlelight bouncing over the revelry below as the sun's dying rays were swallowed by evening's arrival. A large, unlit pyre sat at the center of the square, the villagers having pitched all manner of tents and carts around it that each boasted their own promising aroma of a different delicacy within. Cullen had assured her that, despite appearances otherwise, most of these tents really just held different kinds of cheese (they were in Ferelden after all), to which Evelyn had (rather cleverly, in her opinion) responded, "I suppose some cheesy jokes are in order then!" Cullen hadn't seemed nearly as delighted by her joke as she had, and with a playful groan and roll of his eyes, he had walked off to fetch them something to drink.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that something besides cheese? Isn't that sacrilegious for your kind?" she teased upon his return, an eager smile gracing her lips as Cullen gently placed a mug of warm cider in her outstretched palms. Taking a moment to attempt to think up another pun, Evelyn brought the mug to her lips absentmindedly, instantly realizing her mistake as she hissed and recoiled from the scalding liquid. Cullen did a terrible job of stifling his laughter behind his mug, which only grew louder when he caught the glare Evelyn shot his way, emerald eyes unamused and pink lips still stinging.

"Careful, I can't have the Inquisitor injured on my watch," he teased, blowing gently on the liquid in his own cup as if to demonstrate the proper technique for cider consumption. "Cassandra and Leliana could have my head for that, you know."

"Ah yes, a grievous injury indeed," she responded sarcastically, admittedly chuckling at her own clumsy mistake. "Should we call for medical attention? I dare say a head as handsome as yours would be a shame to lose." Cullen quirked a brow at that, lips twisting into a definitive grin as he leaned in a bit closer. "If I recall correctly," he began, one hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "you're not supposed to apply pressure to a burn. With you talking like that, however, it's certainly tempting." At that, Evelyn watched his gaze fall blatantly to her lips, his warm chestnut eyes sparkling with mirth as she felt a rare blush prickling her cheeks at his forwardness. Blatantly pleased by the blush he'd managed to draw from her, he pulled away with a laugh and a smirk so handsome it bordered on insufferable. "How's that for cheesy?"

Evelyn felt a tug on her sleeve before she had the chance to respond, something that was likely for the best considering she'd opened her mouth before she'd had much of a witty response to deliver from it. Drawing her gaze from the spellbinding commander before her, Evelyn was greeted by a pair of young girls with enthusiastic smiles and arms full of more flower crowns she would've thought feasible for ones their size to manage carrying.

"Can we interest you in some of our fine flower crowns this evening?" the elder girl asked, gesturing to the crowns with a dramatic flourish as her younger friend did her best to display those she was carrying.

"These crowns make fine gifts indeed!" the younger girl added, spinning with the crowns in an act of showmanship Varric would've been proud of. "Crowns like these are the pride of Honnleath!"

"Are they now? Is there a story behind that?" Cullen asked, a gentle smile having settled across his features as he gingerly took the crown the elder girl was handing him.

The girls lit up at his question, both nodding enthusiastically before simultaneously shouting, "Of course!"

This was all the encouragement the girls needed before launching into a dramatic tale of a beloved statue that once stood at the center of town, one that with every passing festival was adorned with countless wreaths and decorations. After the villagers awoke one morning to its disappearance, the girls claimed the villagers eventually started to simply wear the decorations themselves, thus giving flower crowns their popularity.

Despite a cryptically muttered "I thought something was missing..." from Cullen as he looked around the square with a puzzled expression, the Commander returned his attention to the pair of girls as he fished into his pockets for his coin purse. Offering them a generous handful of silvers, he turned to Evelyn with a sheepish expression and flower crown in hand.

"I suppose I should've asked first, but-"

"Cullen, it's lovely. Would you help me put it on?"

The crowns were simple in nature, a smattering of white and purple wildflowers tucked haphazardly into a simple hempen braid to secure them. Cullen carefully placed the crown on Evelyn's head, meticulously placing the hair pins the girls had given him where he thought they'd be the most structurally secure. Fingers gentle every time he'd move her hair or slide a pin into place, he eventually stepped back and announced the completion of his work. The pride in his eyes as he watched Evelyn turn to a nearby window, moving to catch her reflection in its surface, was unmistakable as she let out an impressed whistle. While Evelyn had worn her fair share of intricate hairstyles to any number of balls at the Trevelyan Estate growing up, there was a charm to the clumsy attempt at weaving the flowers into her curls that she couldn't help but love. Satisfied with his work and clearly ready to proceed with the rest of the night, it was Evelyn's turn to stifle her laughter as the girls held out a second crown for Cullen before he could leave. Flushing slightly, Cullen did his best to dissuade the girls of his need for one, though all arguments seemed to falter when the girls pulled out their best wobbly lips and watery eyes. An increasing number of silvers lighter than it had been at the start of the night, Cullen eventually pulled his coin purse from his pockets again with a grumble, planting the flower crown on his own head with far less ceremony than he had Evelyn's as the girls skipped away, successful in their endeavor.

"Why do I feel like I've been swindled?"

"I think you look great. Very princely."

The distinctive sound of a blade striking flint drew Evelyn's attention next, one she knew well from countless nights huddled by a campfire over the course of her many Inquisition expeditions. Several had gathered around the unlit pyre she'd seen before, an older looking gentleman striking at a piece of flint rock twice more before a spark finally took to the massive pile of kindling. Drawn by the sputtering crackle of the growing flame, the commotion of the festival slowly died down as the rest of the villagers made their way toward the bonfire.

"This way," she grinned, giving a still-groaning-Cullen's hand a squeeze before falling into step behind the villagers, most of whom had queued up behind a set of large wicker baskets, each filled to the brim with... pine cones?

"They're for wishing," he explained, clearly having noticed her confusion as he plucked a pine cone for each of them from the basket. "I'm not certain what symbolism a pine cone has, but the wishing part likely started as a way to end the season of the harvest with a wish for another year of healthy crops. For as long as I can remember though, it's always just been tradition to end the Harvest Festival by tossing a pine cone into the bonfire and wishing for... well, whatever you want, really. I think I once wished for a growth spurt."

She laughed at that, the contrast between a gangly teen Cullen and the absolute snack of a man he'd turned into rather stark.

A moment of silence fell between them as Evelyn's laughter faded, both turning the pine cones over in their hands in quiet contemplation. Cullen was the first to break it, his voice soft as he fixed her with an attentive gaze that seemed ready to memorize whatever she said next.

"Do you have anything you'd like to wish for?"

She could still feel the weight of the coin he had given her the last time they’d been in Ferelden as she pulled it from her pocket, the gesture having been so kind she wasn't sure what more she could possibly wish for that he hadn't already given her. She flashed the coin at him with a wink. "What do I need a wish for when I already have all the luck in the world?"

Cullen chuckled at that, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck as he looked away with a flustered blush. "Yes, well... maybe I could commandeer your wish then, if you aren't planning on using it. Mine's hardly an easy request, so it can't hurt to use twice as many pine cones."

Intrigued, Evelyn wordlessly handed over her pine cone, cocking her head to the side curiously as she watched him turn to the fire. His voice was quiet as he spoke, wavering just slightly enough to betray how genuine the plea was as he murmured, "Maker, keep her safe."

Evelyn felt herself soften as she heard the care with which he spoke the words, warmth blooming in her chest and climbing up her neck to her face. For once, their complexions matched as he turned back to her, cheeks rosy for plenty of reasons beyond the glow of the fire behind him.

"Well,” he started, his tone light and teasing as his blatantly blush-stained cheeks twisted up into a mischievous smile. “I figure after the damage that cider did to you, you need all the help you can get."

She let out an incredulous laugh and a scoff as she readied for a retort, but Cullen was faster as he grinned and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to him and silencing any argument with his lips on hers.

She supposed he was right after all - no one does a festival quite like Honnleath.

#CO-ZAutumn #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #inquisitor x cullen #evelyn trevelyan #evelyn trevelyan x cullen #cullen rutherford #oc-tober #cullen rutherford romance #dai

28 notes · View notes

beetlefursuits · 4 years

Text

Why Your First Fursuit Commission Was a Disaster! (or How to Prevent it)

Being approached by a stranger asking you to be THE fursuit artist they have chosen can make you feel AMAZING and eager to say YES!

Out of all the artists out there, they picked you!

The immediate assumption is that you can knock that project out and get some money in your pocket, while filling out your portfolio, gaining some experience, and having some fun!

But pause a moment, step back and think “Am I ready for this? Is this the right client for me? Do I even WANT to do commissions?”

Before you jump into business with someone, consider the following list of reasons that this project (or this client) might not be the correct fit for you.

Six Tips For Success in Choosing Which Fursuit Commissions to Accept (and which to avoid!)

#1. Will I ENJOY Doing This Project?

Is this REALLY something you want to make?

When a new project crosses your eyeballs and you get that excited glow, you can immediately imagine how great it will be to show off the finished product in your portfolio.

But stop and REALLY think about the project you are considering, break it down into every aspect, every small detail that you will have to source and buy materials for, that you will have to construct and sew and cut and sculpt and paint, and then decide how jazzed you really feel about building it.

300 rosettes (you realize only after counting each one) will look amazing but consider sewing each one and how does that make you feel. Sew a test spot just so you can time yourself and feel it out.

Those cool markings? How will you do that? By machine? By hand? Do you have the fur for it in stock? Does it even exist and do you know where to find it?

How will you do the long hair to get that particular shape? Does it have Spikes? Horns? Both? What will they be made from? Have you done it before? Does that prospect of making something new excite you? Or do you feel dread?

If you are not starting it immediately, consider how interested you will still be in a few weeks or months once that initial glow has faded, the deposit has been spent, and what’s left is a pile of materials and the prospect of a lot of hard work.

If there is an aspect of the project that you do not like, consider that future clients will see this work and assume it’s the type of project you wish to do again.

#2. Am I CAPABLE of Completing this Project?

Building a commission is NOT like building a personal fursuit.

With a personal project, you do not need to discuss your ideas with others, you do not need to stick to a reference or plan, you can cut corners with sewing or final finishing, etc.

A commission requires a lot of back-and-forth discussion between the artist and the client. You have to consider the opinion of someone else. You need to accurately size it to a person you have never met and who cannot try it on during the process. Everything has to be finished and durable and clean.

Following are 4 quick tips to consider if you’re ready to accept client work:

Do you know how long it takes (roughly) to build a (non personal) fursuit?

Have you already made and sold artistic liberty/artist-designed/premade projects? When you are starting out, this is how you decide on your pricing and deadlines. It’s not good to enter into an agreement with no idea what to charge or how long it will take you!

Do you have a dedicated work space/guaranteed amount of time available?

Fursuit making takes a lot of space (Huge awkward foam rolls to store and fur to spread out while you pattern/cut. Duct tape dummies awkwardly starfish out their arms and legs all the time and don’t help at all with the sewing) and it’s much easier to work on commissions when you separate life and work areas.

If you currently have other major obligations besides fursuit making (such as work, family, health, and school) which already take (or have the potential of taking) most (or all) of your available time, then it might not be the right time to take full suit commissions. Artist-designed projects and smaller projects will offer more flexibility for unpredictable and limited time—and energy.

Are there a lot of new elements to the project that you have not done before?

Some things may look easy and then when you start building it you realize that it’s much more involved than you expected. This can be a huge drain on your time, your money, and your motivation (which just compounds those first two issues).

An example could be a character with 3 tails. It’s just 1 tail(X3) right? But will they all fit correctly together? Do you make and attach them as one tail or leave them separate? Will they bounce or sit weirdly? Do you now need to make a new ‘side tail’ pattern so they splay out in an appealing manner?

Or say you take on a particularly tall client and you suddenly have to research and develop all new larger hand and foot designs as your current ones do not fit them or the padding you normally make looks too small now and needs to be remade larger.

These are all aspects worth considering. To prevent taking on more than you can handle, my suggestion is to take on no more than one new aspect (that is preferably no more than 10-15% of the project) on each commission that you’ll need to research and develop. You will probably go over time and over budget on these new processes at first (as you gain experience you naturally find ways to craft things quicker and easier) so it’s best to not knowingly take projects that you do not yet have the skills and/or experience to fulfill.

Can you take criticism?

Paid artistic work invites criticism. Sometimes something you make does not work out. You loved it and the client hates it. Or it doesn’t fit. Or it fell apart. That is all part of learning and growing and trying new things. Can you take the corrections, make it right, and move on?

If you feel that you currently cannot emotionally/mentally/physically handle potential setbacks/obstructions/times where things just don’t go your way; stick with non-client projects that are easier to control and fit to your schedule (premade suits. ears and tails. fursuit props.) and revisit commissions further down the road.

#3. Is the Client Displaying Red Flags?

Knowing which clients to turn away is a valuable skill.

As your business grows, it pays in your time, resources, and sanity to know when to refuse a commission (or when to cancel a commission) and to do so as early and gracefully as possible.

If you watch for situations like these, you can focus on cultivating happy, excited, and RESPECTFUL clients who love your work and your preferred artistic style. Not those who try to cut corners or denigrate or manipulate you for their own goals.

Here are 6 ‘red flags’ to consider when picking or accepting client projects.

The client complains (a lot) about their previous artist(s)

Simple, constructive, and legit complaints are one thing (the client says “Artists tend to get this marking wrong so here is how I really want it.” or “My last artist used these materials but it broke so can we try something else.”)

If instead the client immediately gossips about/trash-talks previous artists to you, it shows a lack of social boundaries and the high potential that they will then trash-talk about you/your work in the future.

Poor Quality Reference art.

This one is not a deal-breaker as long as it is not paired with an uncommunicative and/or demanding client.

If the client wants a “sly grey wolf” then we may proceed as long as we both understand that it will be my personal version of that idea and might not match what’s in the clients head.

If the very specifically-desired concept involves complex unclear markings, specific tattoos that are not consistent across the reference, the client’s desired fursuit and the reference do not match, a blurred photograph of a scratchy OC reference, etc; IE ANYTHING you cannot make heads nor tails of.. then ask them to clear this up with a favorite reference artist first and get back to you.

(And If YOU are your favorite reference artist, make sure to charge appropriately for the extra service!)

The client is a child or cannot/will not prove their age.

Children cannot be held to a contract in the USA and most fursuit artists require their clients to be over 18 (many are starting to ask for proof such as a photograph of a legal ID). You may choose to proceed with the project but the contract, payment, and all discussion needs to go through the child’s legal adult caretaker.

A client who micro-manages you and/or your work through constant criticism, proposed changes, or ‘redlines’ of your work.

These clients (though generally well-meaning) are honestly hell on the self-esteem. The occasional suggestion or constructive criticism (as mentioned earlier!) can be very helpful in determining the angle to take on a project or future projects.

But CONSTANT red lines and complaints and ‘suggested changes’ to your work (that they keep suggesting because they don’t even KNOW what they really want from you) means that NEITHER of you is going to come out of it feeling very happy about the art. Cancel and refund them and move on. I promise that it’s worth it.

The client disagrees with the quoted price/requests a discount/attempts to change the commission parameters.

“No” is a complete sentence.

To elaborate on that further; not everyone who asks for a discount is like this but be warned that there ARE potential clients who look for bright new fursuit makers, with the intent to jump on them early and obtain a new commission at a low price by (knowingly or unknowingly) taking advantage of the artist’s inexperience.

I am going to give a fictional example of this situation to show how insidious it can be:

You are still unsure about fullsuit commissions but you say on social media that you’re thinking you could try a head? An acquaintance says yes! Me! PLeeeeese. They seem excited so you agree for an introductory price. This new client chats a lot and seems friendly.

Could they get feet?? Feeling on-the-spot you agree since they’re ‘friends’. You’ve not made feet on commission yet so you underestimate the difficulty and under-charge. The client seems happy tho. They discuss a few changes they want to the head (that they’re sure they mentioned in the initial quote). Maybe you forgot??

This all takes some time and meanwhile they show you some reference art they just got done of a different character and ask to move the commission to this since you don’t have THAT much done yet. Also how much for hands?? They find you at a con and offer to buy you a drink. You restart the work.

A few more rounds of these (or similar) behaviours. The client starts to complain how long it’s taking. Maybe they drive other potential clients away with their actions or threaten an artist beware on you. And eventually you realize you’ve been manipulated and bullied into taking on a complicated fursuit that you had no intentions of making and have very severely undercharged for. Not fun!!

Instead of this situation coming to pass, hold your ground in the beginning and refuse to ‘add’ to a commission or to change a commission after it’s been paid for and/or started. This muddles what you’re working on and allows the client an opportunity to keep changing things forever. (instead treat the add-on as a brand new commission to be started only after the current part is finished and paid for)

Do not entertain those who think you’re not worth the price you’re asking for. Do not give ‘friends discounts’. Friends want to see you succeed!

Other artists warn against working with them.

Get to know other fursuit artists! We are usually happy to vouch for good clients and warn about any particular issues you may experience with others. Sometimes there are issues that prevent one artist-client relationship but can be managed within another and eventually other artists might recognize which clients to refer to you (and you to them).

If you are wondering how to start this type of discourse, there are public groups on Facebook or considering joining a fursuit artist’s Patreon and/or Telegram chat! Many fursuit makers have one (or both) of these with various mentoring tiers.

As an example, all of my patrons are given a link to join my Telegram chat where you can share your work and receive critique from a like-minded audience. At higher tiers you can join my Discord to share and chat in real time.

If there is a fursuit artist that you admire, ask them and see what they offer!

#4. Do I Need The Money?

Fursuits are maybe NOT quite the jackpot they might first appear to be

Fursuits are deceptive. It sounds like a great deal to gain several thousand dollars in one simple cheque, but, if you are not careful with budgeting, if you undercharge, or under-estimate how long it will take; you can find yourself falling into a state of using future projects to pay your current project materials, shipping, taxes, etc; as well as your regular life expenses like rent, car, insurance, utilities, loan repayments, etc.

The simplest practice is to prevent this entirely right from your first commission! My suggestion is to first take on smaller projects with a quick turn-over. This keeps you flexible to increase your prices or change your practices as needed. Then when you have enough savings to keep yourself afloat (so that you will not need to dip into your fursuit deposit money even if things don’t go exactly on schedule), you can take larger projects with longer turn-around times and higher price-points.

If you do find yourself in a situation where you NEED the money immediately; the issue is that you will be much more motivated to take on more difficult clients, less fulfilling projects you don’t really like, and overall accepting a worse deal for you for the reward of immediate payment (which then exacerbates the issues by giving you more work for the future and then pushing you further into the hole). Sadly, getting out of this situation can be very difficult.

Sparkle Kreations writes:

In my earlier business years, I found myself in a deep hole; I struggled financially day to day, I had over 80 clients on my list, and I was overwhelmed by the amount of work to be done. There were solutions, all very challenging decisions laid out before me. One path was the one most recommended, was that I go out and get a full-time job as I slowly refunded everyone on my list (a viable decision, advised to me by furry and non-furry alike) while I continue living and paying my living expenses. Another path was that I completely close off all large commissions, only taking on a few quick/small commissions to keep a bit of income flow, closely budgeting every dollar that I spend as I worked on my queue and knocked out my commissions until they were all complete. So I chose a hard path to regain my business name; I started by being completely honest with all of my customers and offering refunds if they chose. I then worked 6-7 days a week/8-10 hours a day, for about 5 to 6 years. I watched my budget closely, avoided going to conventions so I could instead refund customers. I now run a successful business that is financially stable, with a comfortably-sized queue, where myself and my assistant comfortably work a 5 day/35 hour work-week.

Finally, keep in mind that what really matters is not the $$$$ on the cheque but actually how it distills into $/hour. An artist is limited by the hours they are able to put into the work and a sexy $$$$ fursuit deposit might not actually gain you more in the end than several smaller $$$ projects with quicker overall turn-around times. Track your time and choose the most profitable options to promote and pursue.

(For much more on the physical realities of running a business, read my previous blog article “What I’ve Learned From The Past Decade Working as a Professional Fursuit Artist”)

#5. Can I communicate effectively with others?

Good communications are key with all client-artist interactions.

Can you stay calm, be professional, and set expectations? Poor communication (on either artist or client end) can easily snowball into angry clients and artists, stress and anxiety, emotional withdrawal from your work, misunderstandings, and even artist bewares.

There are several important aspects to communicating effectively:

Can you stay calm and professional even when the client is combative?

At some point, you will have a difficult client. When this happens, you need to stay professional and work through the issues with them. If you cannot agree then you might need to part ways. You must do so with the grace and assurance that you did everything possible to fix the situation. If you think “Taken out of context, will this screenshot look bad?” And the answer is “yes,” then you need to step back, collect yourself, and rewrite your reply.

Can you set expectations?

As the artist, you can choose your commission methods, but you need to be VERY CLEAR to the client what those methods are, what your expectations are (for them and for you), and how the commission process will proceed. Before you take any clients, figure out what you what you want out of the commission process. Do you want to take on clients for money? For the satisfaction of a job well done? For the social challenge of managing an artist-client relationship? Or the artistic drive of working to a specific goal and schedule? Aka WHY do you want to take commissions??

If you have not developed your own drive and are not familiar with your own commission process then you are not ready to move a client through that process

Are you ready to directly and clearly (and repeatedly if needed) communicate your policies to a client through the design, payment, construction, delivery, potential changes or repairs of the commission?

If you need payment by X date or they’ll be dropped from the queue, you need to inform them of this. If they have an issue with the work you did (and you need them to ship the item back asap so you can fix it before their warranty runs out), you need to inform them of this urgency and what failing to act by the deadline will result in.

Don’t leave it up to the client to know your policies. Your policies/procedures should be on your website Terms Of Service (TOS) that you had the client read and agree to, but a little refresher (plus a reasonable and clear deadline, if applicable) allows everyone to move on informed and aware of the consequences.

Do you have a method to communicate with your clients and be available for them to discuss issues with you?

I’m not saying be available 24-7 (an important self-care aspect is having certain hours of the day and/or the week to yourself without any work concerns) but if the client has an issue, how will they communicate that with you so that you can respond in an effective and timely manner? Do you prefer Telegram? Email? Twitter? Decide how you want to conduct business matters and let clients know where/when to contact you.

Do you have a method to update your clients and ask their opinions?

Depending on how you like to work, you do not need to ask a client’s opinion on every aspect of the build. However, showing your work and giving updates on the progress will make the client feel happy and secure in their commission choice.

One easy method for updating that I like is to keep a Trello board of projects where the client can always see the current progress of their commission. Telegram is a popular group chat client. It’s nice for sending pics/videos to clients and the ever classic email is perfect for initial quotes and longer back and forth discussions.

Can you always be honest with your clients?

It’s hard to run an entire business by yourself and you might promise too much or underestimate how long something will take or you life circumstances change and you now have less time to work. When these things happen, you need to be honest and transparent to your client. Explain the issues you are having (in simple, appropriate terms), apologize, and try to work with the client on a solution.

If you are going through some things that might affect work or deadlines, let them know. Keep in mind though, this doesn’t mean you have to share ALL of your struggles if what you are going through will not affect them. Just share what you feel they need or deserve to know.

#6. Do I have other artistic or personal goals right now?

Are commissions even right for you?

If you have other things that are important in your life right now, it’s perfectly acceptable to focus your time on them instead of commissions.

Depending on your stage of life, you might still be in school. Or have a family. You might have another job or a hobby you enjoy. You also might just have other artistic goals that existing commissions do not fit into right now. People love your canines but you want to try cats instead. Or cosplay.

Or you don’t know what you want to do yet but agreeing to a many-month long contract is not that.

The desire for quality fursuit work from reputable artists is high;

if you are active in your community, your peers might try to convince you into taking their project.

It’s great that they love your work! But if the project is not in the direction you wish to go, does not offer enough money in compensation for sacrificing something else you want to do instead, or you do not feel like you can dedicate the time needed, it’s okay (and probably necessary!) to say no!

The ultimate goal in taking client commissions is to have them bring you MORE satisfaction and fulfillment than they take away; Be that in monetary, social or artistic terms.

Figure out your personal drive in being a fursuit artist. Create and run a thoughtful, intentional, and passionate business; whether you decide to take on 30 clients, 1 client, or zero clients.

Above all, have fun with it! Bring those characters to life without losing your own.

#Tips #Health&Wellness

33 notes · View notes

codevassie · 4 years

Text

a heart he couldn’t control (destined to love and hate and damn forever) Part 5

CV: Long time no see! I’ve been pretty busy between my big bang and work lately, so it took a lot longer to edit this than I thought it would. My big bang is done, but work is still in full-swing, and school is about to start back up, so who knows when part 6 will be out. Hope you all have been doing well lately and that you enjoy this part! Thanks!

And thank you to An who put up with me ranting to them for hours while I was writing this part. I appreciate you always and forever!

CW: Kidnapping Mention, Trauma, Weapons, Yelling, Attempted Violence, Murder Mention

@winterwynd @escalatingtoofast @prox-xima

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Roman fled the forest in an increasingly agitated state. His fists balled at his sides, borrowed cloak billowing in his gait, Roman's eyes matched fire as he marched out of the witch's territory and for hours through the rest of the land, passing through the fields and into the town. It was exhausting, but, by the time he'd arrived, Roman had made up his mind what he would do.

Because, by gods, he was not giving up. Never.

If what Virgil had said was any indication, Roman knew someone else who wouldn't either.

Roman rapped quickly on the man's door. Patton, surprise coloring his features, opened it wide.

"Prince Roman?"

"You knew Virgil would be in the witch's woods," he said, getting right to the point. "And you knew this cloak has magic. What else do you know?"

At that, Patton startled, looking about before ushering Roman inside. "Let's talk in here."

Roman let himself be coaxed to the living room in it's dim glow and warmth. He barely registered it, despite the wary and rather chilly expedition he had taken before arriving here. He turned again to Patton, looking for answers.

"You must be freezing, Ro!" Patton exclaimed, reaching to take his hands. Roman let him, heating his frozen fingers between Patton’s own. As he did so, Roman took his chance to implore the man for answers.

"Please, Pat," he said. "I need to know everything. Whatever I can–so I can save him."

Patton looked up. His eyes, usually bright and cheery, were tired. He smiled, but it wasn't all there. Roman gave pause.

"Why don't I brew us some tea for this conversation?"

Roman frowned. He didn't want tea; he wanted answers. Despite this, he nodded.

Something told him he needed to slow down for Patton. The man needed time, though Roman's mind insisted he had none to spare.

That wasn't princely, though. He must treat everyone with kindness, with care. And though his brash nature urged him to demand answers now, he could tell it was a more delicate matter than previously anticipated.

"Of course, Pat."

Patton led them to a table, sat Roman down, then set about in the kitchen to prepare tea using flowers from the same basket he’d carried that morning. Roman clutched Virgil's cloak close as he waited.

When there were two mugs between them, Patton sat carefully across from him, the man gave a smile.

"It's a long story," he said.

"Tell at your own pace," Roman replied. Patton looked down at his mug, wrapped between two hands. Roman took a sip of his own. A pretty weak brew, but it was delicate on his tongue.

"Did Virgil tell you I have magic?"

Roman's eyes widened. He choked a bit on his tea, and Patton had to hide a smile behind his hand.

"I guess that's where I'll start then. I have magic, Ro. Have all my life."

"Why would you tell me?" Roman asked, practically sputtering. He'd never been afraid of magic, no, but his citizens didn't know that! Patton could have just sent himself to the gallows! Roman was the prince.

"You must know about Vee's abilities by now if you went to the witch's land to find him. And, even if you didn't, I can tell you're a good guy." Patton shrugged. "I've had magic where it's illegal all my life. I think I know by now who to tell or not."

"Oh… kay," Roman responded, sinking back into his chair a little bit. He couldn't relax, not when Virgil's freedom was at stake, but he was less concerned for Patton now at least. The guy may seem naive, but he was right. He'd been keeping this secret and keeping himself safe all his life.

"So, like I was saying, I've got magic. I wasn't snatched up by the witch at a young age, though, for whatever reason. Maybe that's because there's a lot more magic users out there than we're led to believe, and we just don't know it because we're all hiding in fear. Or something else. I don't know, but I grew up here, in town."

"And it was a pretty happy childhood, I'd say. My parents weren't afraid of me–only that I might be found out. I learned early on how to control it all though. I put a lot of time into it, just so they didn't have to worry, you know? Virgil says I'm pretty powerful, but I don't know how much of that is natural talent or training. I used to practice so much just to make sure I wasn't found out. Magic comes so easily to me now because of it."

Patton lifted his drink, took a small sip before putting it back down. It seemed more something for him to fiddle with than drink, something to give him a moment to collect his thoughts. Roman mirrored him and took a drink as well.

"But it gets lonely, being so different. I didn't know anyone with magic. It was coincidence, that day I met Virgil, but I kept coming back. I was so curious about this boy in the woods with magic. At first, it was astounding. He lived where he could do magic all the time? Everyone he lived with had it too? A family of magic-makers, how about that?"

"Magic-makers?" Roman asked, amused. Patton shifted.

"In school or in town, sorcerers or magicians were always something people talked about with… such hatred. It's what we are, I know. And they aren't bad words. But I sort of like magic-makers, you know?"

"Oh," Roman said, biting his lip at his insensitivity. "Of course. Sorry."

Patton shook his head. "No need. Like I said, they aren't bad words."

He shrugged, put his head in his hand. "Now where was I?" Patton said. "A family of magic-makers. Pretty cool. I couldn't imagine something so nice. But sometimes things that sound nice like that aren't all they seem. As we got to know each other, Virgil told me more and more about the witch. And, I don't know. One day, I asked if he wanted to leave with me."

Roman furrowed his brow. "There's a catch here, isn't there?"

"Believe it or not, no," Patton said. "I studied up on anti-tracking spells, protection spells, other hiding spells, and one day he simply snuck out and left. We were both so worried–I was counting ways she could have found out, could have hurt him. But she didn't. We were pretty careful over the years and were able to hide from her."

"Until I ruined everything," Roman grumbled.

"I-" Patton faltered, looking torn. "I don't actually know that part yet, bud."

Roman closed his eyes. Of course he didn't.

"Here," Patton said, voice getting softer. He placed a hand over Roman's–kind, even when Roman hadn't yet explained, even when Patton knew enough by now to blame him. Roman opened his eyes to soft blue ones, forgiveness sure and true. "Why don't I tell the rest of mine and then we'll get to your story?"

Roman could only nod. Patton smiled, but somehow it made the prince feel worse.

Patton had every right to be angry with him. Yet Roman let him proceed.

"When I couldn't find Vee in the library this morning, I knew there was only one place he could have gone. I magiked my way right outside the witch's territory, since she has wards blocking teleportation. I ran into you and pretended to pick berries. Then I went and found Virgil." Patton looked down, a shadow falling over his face. "Sure enough, she's got him. After everything, she's got him again."

"You were pretending to pick berries?" Roman asked. "I guess that makes sense. You were pretty far out into the woods."

Patton smiled, shrugged. "I got a good bit of berries out of it. And these flowers for the tea," he said, gesturing to their mugs. But he wasn't into it. It was easy to tell why.

"You deserve to know why this happened," Roman said.

Patton looked up, eyes vulnerable. "Why did this happen, Ro?" He didn't even sound accusing. That made it all the worse.

"Well…" Roman said, searching his mind to find the best way to start. "Three years ago, I found the witch's cave."

-/-

Keep going north. When you find the boulders, you will approach the mountains on your left. Be careful, though, because the witch will use spells to throw you from the trail. You can only approach the caves with her blessing, so make sure you have something to offer.

Roman looked down at his hands.

He had nothing to offer. Nothing but his life.

He was going to get his brother back.

Roman looked up. The cave rested before him.

"I would advise against doing what you're about to do," someone said. Roman spun around, sword at hand. It was a little heavy, a bit rough around the edges, but it was the best Roman could budget around odd jobs and a need for food.

There, in the shadows, sat a figure, legs dangling over the cliff the cave sat on. Roman wasn't sure how he hadn't seen them before.

"Are you the witch they say lives here?" he asked, looking him over. He wasn't particularly remarkable. Drab brown hair hanging loosely over his face. A short cape hanging around him, useless against the elements–even more useless than the torn cloak Roman wore.

The other chuckled. "I am not. And you don't want to meet her."

"She has my brother," Roman said, swiping his sword down. Maybe he was a threat, or maybe he wasn't. He wasn't the threat Roman had come looking for though.

When the figure stood up, however, Roman raised the weapon again, just in case. No one could stop him from getting inside. Roman had come too far, had waited too long to be stopped now.

The other stepped into the light, eyes glowing–really, glowing–a yellow-gold color. His hair still hung, long and heavy, over one half of his face.

He was just a boy. Maybe around Roman's age.

Perhaps… another boy the witch had stolen? Like his brother?

"So you're Remus' brother," the boy said, looking him over. His eyes were calculated, skeptical, far older than Roman had ever seen–and he'd witnessed the eyes of poverty and fear, of boys growing up in the streets, of wise old women, of tired teachers, of girls without voice or choice in the hands of unkind families. "You're Roman."

"You know my brother?" Roman asked, unable to help the wonder that crept into his voice. It had been so long since he'd heard anything of Remus. A part of Roman had started to fear he had made him up. Another part, that fate had befallen Remus, and Roman would never see him again.

He was only here now on a whim. The people in town said the witch had boys who did her bidding–that any time someone entered her forest, one of them would appear, eyes alight with power, to scare them off.

Something had told Roman this had to be it. And he was right.

"Remus belongs here," the boy said. "You do not. If you don't want the witch to kill you, then you should go."

Roman crossed his arms, sword tucked uncomfortably in his armpit. The boy followed it closely with his eyes, and Roman could feel the judgement. "I'm not leaving!"

"And what will you do? You're hardly a fighter, are you?" the boy said, gesturing to the sword. "Even if you were, no one can leave the caves alive."

"Then I'll die trying!" Roman proclaimed, uncrossing his arms, and the tip of his sword hit the dust.

"Noble words," the boy said. "Though more stupid than anything. You'll definitely die in there. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

"Yeah yeah," Roman huffed, turning back towards the cave's entrance. "Any other words of warning, or can I go save my brother now?"

"Your brother doesn't need saving," the boy rolled his eyes. "But go ahead and try."

"I will," Roman said, nose stuck into the air. Then he rushed into the cave, not looking back.

Finding his way through the passages and the dark was a lot harder than Roman had thought. He honestly hadn't expected the place to be so– well, big. Caves were usually one big cavern, weren't they? Enough room for a dragon and its hoard, plus a damsel or two. They weren't this big convoluted mess, with openings all around, some connected and some didn't, some went in big circles, spitting him back out into where he'd first arrived. And no torches! Where were all the torches?

Roman was just lucky he had packed one with him for the forest, though there must have been oil all over his bag. It was worth it to light his way.

And it was worth it when, at last, he found a room that was lit on its own–in different colors, no less! Roman knew magic when he saw it.

He stomped out his torch and placed it down in the corridor. Roman tried approaching slowly, quietly, but, as soon as he saw the only occupant of the room, he gave up all pretense and ran.

"Remus!" he shouted, rushing straight up to his brother. "Oh my gods, it's you. It's really you!"

Remus sat at a stool, surrounded on all sides by vials and vials of potions–the source of light for the room. It wasn't quite bright enough to show his face, still cast in shadow, but Roman would know his brother anywhere.

Though older, now with a silver streak adorning his hair and the wispy start of a mustache, it was Remus. Roman was sure of it.

"Remus!" a shrill voice interrupted them, someone outside. Roman turned, coming face-to-face with her as she walked in. "I have something wonderful to try out tod-"

She stopped, surprised for a moment before rage narrowed her eyes. "Who. Are you?"

Roman raised his sword, stood in front of his brother. "My name is Roman."

She blinked, mouth coming up in a sneer. "Is that supposed to impress me? What are you doing in my home?"

"I've come for my brother. You took him and now I'm here to rescue him," he said, trying to sound confident.

Roman may come off as brave, noble, stupid, arrogant–what have you. On the outside, that may be. But, really, Roman was scared.

He couldn't fight. Not with the sword he was carrying, or his fists, or with magic he hadn't inherited. Roman had no plan to get out of there and nothing to offer but himself. And he was scared.

But he was there for his brother, and he wouldn't leave him.

"That's adorable, little- what did you say your name was again?"

Roman shifted, gripping his sword tighter. "Roman…"

"That's adorable, little Roman. But, you see, Remus is a part of my little family now, and I would so hate to part from him. And, you must also see, you are a stranger. Breaking into my home."

Roman blinked. "What?"

The witch sighed, blowing at a strand of hair that had fallen into her face. Was she… pouting? Wasn't she supposed to be this terrifying witch or something? What was going on?

"I think the only course of action here is self-defense," she said, resting a hand on her chin. Behind Roman, he heard Remus whimper.

"Just let me take my brother and go," Roman demanded. "You stole him from me, from our town and our lives. If you require a trade, then take me instead. Just let Remus go."

"Take you?" the witch sneered. "What would I need someone like you for? You don't have any magic."

"I-" Roman went to argue, but she had a point. What could he offer? "I could learn. Or I could do other jobs. Anything- please."

"Oh, begging won't get you anywhere, sweetie," she said, swiping her hand out from her chin. "Sorry, but you just don't have anything I want. That's okay though, because I can just kill you, and Remus will stay, and it will be like you were never even here. Sounds great!"

"Wait, but there must be something!" Roman said. He could hear his brother mumbling behind him. What was he saying? Why wasn't he helping? Maybe together they could take down the witch! "Remus, help me!"

"He can't hear you, but nice try," the witch said. "He stopped responding a month ago."

"Stopped…" Roman said, trying to process the words. As he did, anger flooded his system, and he raised his sword. "What did you do to him?"

"Oh goodness. Explaining myself is a drab," she said, tossing her hand about. "Goodnight, little Roman."

She raised her hand in front of her. Roman flinched, head turned away, arms up in defense, eyes nearly closed as he waited- waited-

Where was the pain?

Roman squinted his eyes open, peeking out from behind his arm. Why wasn't he dying?

From what he could see, the witch should have been killing him–her arm was outstretched, palm facing him, but there was a look of shock on her face. It was different to the surprise when she'd found him there. It was as if someone had come in and shaken her, rotated the earth beneath her and told her to find her way home. Something had upset her to her very core.

Shit. And of course it had to have been Roman.

This wasn't going to be a painless death, was it?

"Sit down," she commanded, not moving an inch. Roman hesitated, but then she swatted her hand down, marched straight towards him in a fury. "I said sit down!"

Roman scrambled backwards, finding a stool much like Remus' and sat. He felt sort of ridiculous there, waiting on her to kill him, but he was in no hurry to die.

"Dee!" she shrieked, far from the calm and composed she had been before. She whizzed manically around the room, pulling books from shelves, flipping through and tossing them aside. Someone appeared in the door.

"Yes?"

It was the boy from outside.

"Where is the book on pacts?" she asked, flipping through another before shaking her head. "What am I doing? Getting ahead of myself."

She tossed it aside, though instead of crashing against a wall or cluttering to the ground, this one was caught in the hands of the boy–Dee, apparently. He placed it on the desk, though that was all Roman saw before his vision was filled with the dragon witch again.

The witch clutched the sides of his head. Roman gasped and went to rip away, but she held on fast, claws digging in as her furious eyes scanned his face.

What the heck was she doing?

"I knew it," she whispered, eyes alight with a dangerous mixture of magic and excitement. "I knew it!" she screamed, tearing away once more.

"What?" Dee asked from across the room, looking as confused as Roman felt. "Did you See something?"

"Where's the book, Dee? I don't have all day."

"I was studying it," he said. "It's on my desk."

"Well, go get it," she urged. "Now! Now!"

Dee scrambled out of the room, looking just the slightest bit miffed. Still, he obeyed without question.

Once he got back, he handed the book over. The witch slammed it on one of her many tables and flipped through. Beside him, Remus started to mumble again, and Roman's attention drew to him.

Focusing on him now, Roman could tell what was off. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was looking down, rocking slightly, nails digging into his forearms. Roman wanted to reach out, stop his brother from hurting himself, but was afraid that any movement might mean his doom.

He wasn't the only one noticing Remus though. A shadow fell over them, and, when Roman looked up, he found Dee standing there.

The boy reached out to his brother, gripped his hands and slowly messaged his knuckles. "Hey, Remus. Let's not hurt yourself, alright?" Slowly, Remus' hands relaxed and fell away. Dee kept them enveloped in his own hands as he turned back to the witch. "Did anything today work?"

She didn't pay any mind. Dee frowned slightly and turned back to Remus.

"We'll find a way to get you back," he said, almost too quiet to hear. Roman watched on with wide-eyes. When Dee looked his way, he narrowed his own. "What?"

Roman shook his head quickly. "Nothing."

Dee rolled his eyes, placed Remus' hands down. "Make sure he doesn't do that again." Then, he walked back to the witch.

Roman… really didn't know what to make of Dee.

"Perfect!" the witch suddenly exclaimed, snapping Roman's attention back to her.

"Are you sure that will work?" Dee asked. "I mean, it is-"

"Watch and learn, Dee. This is why you are the pupil!"

She approached Roman. He watched on with a wary eye.

"You want your brother back, yes?"

Roman's eyes widened. His jaw almost dropped, but he elected to nod instead.

"And I'm assuming you want to live in the process?"

"Preferably," Roman squeaked. Oh gods, what was going on?

"And wouldn't you like a big castle and lots of adoring citizens and to never be hungry again while you're at it?"

"I- sorry, what?" Roman asked, suddenly very confused. He hadn't said anything about… castles? citizens?

"Oh, goodness, just say yes, darling," she said, but while her words were similar to the bored voice from earlier, she now looked more insistent, impatient.

"Um, sure," Roman decided, not ready to get on her bad side. Especially since things seemed to be going sorta okay now.

"Perfect," she said, smiling plastically. "Now, just one more question!"

"Yeah?" he asked, apprehensive. Things couldn't be going this well. There had to be a catch. There had to be some sort of-

"Are you willing to trade your one true love in order to get this?"

Roman's eyes widened, his breath caught, choking on it as he sputtered. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Trade your one true love, or I kill you and keep your brother. Sound fair?"

"No!"

"Then what will it be?" she asked, leaning an elbow on a nearby table. She tried so hard to look nonchalant about it all, but Roman could see the sparks in her eyes, the tap of her foot. Something was going on here.

Yet, Roman had no power to stop it.

"I just don't get it. Why do you want my one true love? Why give me a… castle? Citizens?"

"It's a hefty bargain we're making," she said, shrugging. "And I don't have to explain what I want him for. You just need to say yes."

"But… I-" Roman looked down at his lap. "I couldn't do that to somebody."

"You sorta have to, hun," she said. "Must I remind you, him or death?"

Roman looked over at his brother. Remus, for the first time, was looking back. His eyes were wide, no longer glassy, but their old green. He seemed to be searching Roman, expression just a tad confused, like he was trying to match him to somewhere- someone.

It didn't matter if he remembered Roman. It didn't matter if Remus never spoke a word to him again. Roman had come this far to save him- Had hunted every forest, had searched every town, had trekked for two years now, far and wide, in search of his brother.

He'd already been willing to offer up his own life to save him.

Was he willing to offer up someone else's?

Roman closed his eyes, already knowing the answer. It pained him–more than words could say. But he knew.

"Alright," he said. "I accept."

The witch squealed–actually squealed–before placing her hands on his head again. At the contact, Roman's eyes snapped open.

"Then the pact is made," she said.

The next thing Roman knew, he was encased in a sparkling dust.

And when he awoke, he was in a castle.

-/-

"That's how you became prince?" Patton asked, baffled. Roman nodded, looking sheepish.

"That's how I became prince," he agreed. "Though, technically, Remus is a prince too. Just not many people know about him."

"Has he- gotten any better?" Patton asked, concern shining in his eyes.

"I'd like to think so," Roman said, shrugging. "But it's hard to tell. The only time he's been really cognizant was yesterday… when we went to find Virgil."

"So, that's Virgil then? Your one true love." Patton asked softly. Roman looked down at his tea, now cold, and he swirled it in the mug.

"That's him," Roman sighed. "So she came and took him."

"I suppose that's how she got past our wards. Pacts are already strong magic, but, by the sound of it, yours contained love magic too."

"Virgil said it might not have been love magic,' Roman said. Patton pursed his lips.

"While it's possible, I don't think that's likely. A pact like that–it's really strong. Trading one life for another would have been enough if it was your life, but it was someone else's you were bargaining. That paired with the fact she was using love magic as her tracking method, she would have to trade you something massive. I'm guessing that's why she made you prince."

"Isn't that like dark magic or something? Can she do that without repercussion?" Roman asked.

"There's no such thing as dark or evil magic," Patton said. "Just dark or evil ways of using it. I'd consider a lot of what the witch does as such."

Roman’s heart sunk. "Would you consider selling someone else's life away as it?"

Patton snapped out of his thoughts, looking troubled. "Roman," he said with a frown. "You are not evil."

"It was a pretty evil thing to do though," he remarked, trying not to look Patton in the eye.

"You are not at fault here," Patton said, voice oddly stern. Roman looked up to Patton's serious expression. "The witch looked into your future, saw something she wanted, and twisted you into letting her have it. She presented it like you had a choice because that's what a pact entails, but you really didn't have a choice at all, Roman. You had to save yourself and your brother."

"But Virgil," Roman argued.

"We're going to save Virgil," Patton said, and he sounded so certain in that moment, like there was absolutely no question to it. "And he wouldn't want you to feel guilty about this, Ro."

Roman shook his head. "He already told me he was angry. Back in the woods, he yelled how I sold his life away. He hates me, Pat."

"Virgil…" Patton sighed, sloshing his mug around. "Virgil is afraid right now. He thought he was finally safe, and now he's right back in the place he never wanted to go back to. He's alone, and there's nothing he can do with that stupid sigil on his arm-"

"Sigil?" Roman asked. "What sigil?"

Patton looked up, surprised, before nodding. "I guess he didn't tell you. The witch gave him this sigil on his arm. It's warped protective magic–makes it so he's trapped there, can't even leave if he wants to. More like possessive magic, if you ask me. Like I said, no evil magic, just evil uses."

"So that's why he wouldn't leave with me," Roman said, nails tapping the table. "I figured there was something."

"Yes, but the thing is, only the caster can take the sigil off."

"So we find another way!" Roman insisted.

Patton smiled, then gestured to the other room. "That's what I've been trying to do. Everything about sigils, protective charms, casters–I've been scouring my books. I haven't gotten far with the time I've had."

"Then perhaps an extra set of eyes will help," Roman suggested.

Patton smiled, though it came out tired. Suddenly, Roman was very aware of the time–and of the less than ideal past 36 hours. To think, just yesterday Remus had been dragging him through the corridors in search of Virgil's library.

Roman hadn't slept in… well, quite a while. Hadn't eaten either.

"I would appreciate the help, Roman, but I think we both need some food and rest first," Patton said. Roman couldn't bring himself to complain. Suddenly, he felt dead on his feet. All the adrenaline that had kept him going was gone.

Sleepily, he bobbed his head.

"I have a guest bedroom down the hall to the right if you want to go lay down," Patton suggested. Roman knew that if he laid down now, he'd be out the whole night, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Thank you, Padre," he drawled lazily.

Patton giggled. "I'll leave some food in the fridge in case you wake up."

"You're the best."

That only made Patton giggle more, though it faded into the background as Roman disappeared up the hallway, heading to the door on the right as was instructed.

He thought about Virgil.

He thought about his brother.

He thought about Patton and the dragon witch, and he even thought about that boy, the one Remus always mentioned. Dee.

And when he collapsed onto the mattress, Roman thought of nothing at all.

-/-

It took time. A lot of it. But Roman and Patton did their research.

They scoured Patton's books inch by inch. "I don't have nearly the collection I imagine the dragon witch does, but you never know what we could find!"

They didn't find anything.

When they moved over to the library, Roman was met with a host of memories, good and bad. The place was still a mess. There were no coughing guards in the corner. The anxious bookkeeper was nowhere to be found.

Roman thought it was his duty to tidy things up, after everything that had happened, so he set about to right the shelves and pick up the piles of books. He unfolded the bent pages, hoping their creases would flatten a little if put back correctly.

It wasn't nearly as difficult cleaning it all up as Roman would have thought. Being a public library and all, the call numbers were neatly written out on the spines. It was just time consuming.

It took a day to set that right, then he joined Patton in looking through some of the folklore section. Books on magic were prohibited, but, according to Patton, myths came pretty close to the real thing.

"The palace won't be looking for you, will they?" Patton asked on their third day of search–Roman's first joining him in folklore.

Roman frowned. The palace would definitely be looking for him.

"This is more important," he said, flipping a page. He saw Patton stop what he was doing out of the corner of his eye.

"Roman, you're the prince."

"I got that title through magic, which is illegal. Not to mention selling away the man I love to his former abuser."

"Roman," Patton stressed, voice serious. Roman looked up. "You are the prince now. You have people counting on you."

"Like Virgil counted on me?" Roman asked, knowing he was being petty, knowing he was only digging the hole further underneath him.

Patton shut his book. "You don't lose some and give up, Roman. And you don't have one bad thing happen and forget about the rest of your duties. What about your people? What about your brother?"

Roman breathed out slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "What do you want me to do? I can't be everywhere at once."

"Just go check in with them, Roman. Let them know you haven't been kidnapped or something."

"I'll never get out of that castle alone again. I'll always have a guard, and how am I supposed to investigate magic with a guard? How am I supposed to go back to the witch's forest?" Roman shook his head. "I can't go back. Not yet."

"Why?" Patton asked. Roman, brow furrowed, looked up at him.

"What? I just said why."

"No. Really, why?" Patton asked, voice filled with such genuine curiosity, understanding, patience. Gods, why did Patton have to be so… good?

Roman focused on the shelves behind Patton. He closed the book in front of him, standing up.

"I have to save Virgil," Roman said. He was worried for him. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't get Virgil out of there. But, as for being prince…

"I can't be prince if this is how it happened."

With that, Roman turned away, slinking along the aisles until he was out of sight.

Book still in hand, Roman figured he might as well find somewhere else to read. As he walked the library, however, it became exceedingly obvious to him that there was only one place he wanted to go.

When he approached the front desk, he imagined it was any sort of normal day. Virgil would shout from the back, saying he'd be right out to help the patron. Then he'd stop in his rush as soon as he saw Roman, shifting his weight to one leg and going "Oh, it's you," while trying his best not to look too happy about it.

Or Roman imagined it was the day Virgil was ducked behind the desk, and as soon as he heard Roman's voice, hit it in his surprise. Roman had been so concerned at the time, but had laughed it off at Virgil’s embarrassment.

None of that happened this time. The library was so quiet. Much much too quiet. Libraries were supposed to be quiet, he supposed, but there was something very wrong about this.

Roman leaned on the counter like he normally did, then slid to the opening, ducking behind the desk. It felt weird being on this side. He sat down in the chair, opened up the book, but his eyes were on the papers and pens strewn about in semi-organized fashion.

This was Virgil's work space. Was this an intrusion? Should Roman leave?

Roman sat forward, placing the book down next to a stack of new stamp cards–all clean and new. There was a mug of black pens, a couple purple ones scattered about. Roman picked one up, remembering the purple in Virgil's magical cloak. It was still tucked away in Patton's guest room, safe and sound.

That was the color of Virgil's magic too. Roman wondered if it was his favorite color. It sure seemed to be. Could he control the color of his magic? Were the patches purple because of the magic or because they had been purple to begin with?

When Roman went to put down the pen, he noticed something else in purple. Just a scrawled out word, but one Roman recognized, one too unique to be coincidence.

It was tucked between a stack of papers, but it was easy to pull out. At the top, all it said was 'Dee.'

Below was a list with various vague remarks. Each was punctuated with copious amounts of question marks.

In fact, the only one not emphasized with a decent portion of question marks was at the bottom.

Lo's book.

Roman blinked at it, words processing. One, two, three–it clicked.

He shot to his feet, rounded the desk and took off into the library again–back the way he’d come. Roman had to tell Patton-

Because he knew where they had to go next.

#sanders sides #prinxiety #roman sanders #ts creativity #virgil sanders #ts anxiety #ts #writing updates #ahhcc #tw kidnapping mention #tw trauma #tw weapons #tw yelling #tw attempted violence #tw murder mention

19 notes · View notes

bl4cklabyrinth · 4 years

Text

GiGS October 2020 Cover Feature Translation Part I: Hiro [Vocal] Interview

Disclaimer: Please do not retranslate my work into other languages, as my translation may not be accurate. I am no Japanese or English native.

Photo from here.

Starting things off is a solo corner where I talk to each of them about their latest album “V”.

First up is Hiro, who has been leading MY FIRST STORY as its obligatory frontman.

Not only does he breathe life into their music with his unique, high-toned voice, but he also writes the lyrics to all of their songs. That being said, how did he go about creating this album?

- Hiro, you’ve been writing the lyrics to all of MY FIRST STORY’s songs. Is that something you decided on yourself, or was it something that just came about naturally?

Hiro: I guess I just kind of went with the flow. I’ve always thought that the lyrics should be written by the vocalist, and that the only things I could do in this band were to think of melodies and write lyrics. Because of this, I felt like I had to do what I could. None of the members wanted to write the lyrics either, so I ended up taking on the job.

- I think one aspect of it is that the words coming from the singer himself are more easily conveyed. Having said that, what is important to you when writing lyrics?

Hiro: They aren’t exactly like the punchlines used in rap, but I try to include words that would catch the listeners’ attention and get stuck in their heads even if they were just doing a quick listen. To incorporate hooks, so to speak, in key parts of the song. It’s words like those that leave a strong impression.

- I think being catchy comes with leaving a strong impression. The lyrics you write also always match the taste and deepen the worldview of the song.

Hiro: I’ve never written lyrics before everything else. I listen to the track first, then I quickly jot down the image that comes to mind and the words I could possibly use in the song. I’m the type of person who decides on a theme before I start writing, so the lyrics I come up with naturally complement the music. I guess my songwriting process is kind of like writing an essay or a paper. I don’t just write whatever I want to say at the time; rather, I set a theme and work from there.

- Some people have trouble settling on an image and take some time choosing a theme. How about you, where do you stand?

Hiro: I probably fall among the quick decision makers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t reconsider my choices and change the theme during the writing process. I listen to the song, quickly decide on a theme, then immediately start on the lyrics. The thing is, it takes me quite a while to continue writing after that (laughs).

- I see (laughs). So is adding lyrics the last step in the production process?

Hiro: Yes. I only start writing after the backing track is completed and the melody is set. For example, when words come to me while thinking of a melody, I would sometimes include them in the lyrics if I like them enough, but I won’t start writing the whole thing until the melody is finalized.

- More than that, it’s impressive how your lyrics reveal your inner weaknesses, your pain, and your negative side.

Hiro: I don’t really mind showing that side of me; on the contrary, I have nothing else to write about. I’m also not very good at writing the inspirational, “Let’s do our best!” type of songs. Coming up with those kinds of lyrics frustrates me and tests my patience so I find them difficult to write. However, I was thinking of adding some of those lyrics in the album. Teru composed “Akashi”, and since it’s one of the more cheerful songs on the album, I thought it would be best to make its lyrics positive. So, I decided to give it a shot.

- With the line “Moving forward in the right direction will be my testimony”, “Akashi” is a song that gives the listener a push in the back. Another thing is that your lyrics have the perfect balance between English and Japanese.

Hiro: I guess you can say I find it easier to write lyrics in English. With English, I don’t have to worry too much about the appeal of the words, and there aren’t as many expressions to use either. With Japanese, for instance, the word “ai” (love) connotes all sorts of things such as “itoshi” (dear/beloved), “koishii” (missed/longed for), and “mederu” (to cherish/admire). With English, however, there’s only the word “love” (laughs). It’s straightforward on its own, and you can get your message across depending on how it’s translated. That’s why it’s easier for me to write in English.

- It just occurred to me that you seem to have the tendency to perceive words based on their rhythm.

Hiro: Ah, you’re right. That’s true.

- In that case, it must be easier to write in English.

Hiro: Yeah. English makes it easy to attach words to a melody in a way that sounds good. It’s nice to listen to a melody that’s in sync with the lyrics, right? Getting results like that is simple when you use English. I also think there are a lot of people under the impression that English sounds cooler. I want to make everything as catchy as possible though, even when writing in English, so I try not to use difficult words whenever I can.

- That’s part of the charm. Even so, you added more Japanese lyrics to “V”, didn’t you?

Hiro: That’s right, I did. We’re a Japanese band after all, so writing lyrics in Japanese is still the ideal.

- It’s an advantage to be able to use Japanese and English in a similar way. Speaking of which, when did you write the lyrics to the songs on “V”?

Hiro: It varies from song to song. I wrote the lyrics to “Underground” about a year ago when it was composed. The way this song was made was unusual. I started on the lyrics early because the demo was up sooner than expected and I didn’t want to have a hard time later on, but as it turned out, I didn’t make it in time… or something like that (laughs).

- I see (laughs). On that note, more and more artists are writing about their thoughts on the coronavirus pandemic, but there aren’t any songs like that on “V”, are there?

Hiro: There aren’t. Actually, some of the songs on “V” were made after the coronavirus started spreading. “Starting Over” was composed quite a while ago, but the lyrics were written around the time the pandemic broke out. Same goes for “Daimeiwaku”. Nonetheless, I never thought about writing a song on the coronavirus. I feel like the nuance of the lyrics would be a little too strong for the album. We wanted the whole album to be poppy and catchy, so adding a song about corona would only get in the way of that. I experienced and thought about a lot of things over the course of the pandemic just like everybody else, but I still don’t know what the right thing to do is, and I felt like it wasn’t my place to write about it given the current situation. It’s okay to talk about it during live MCs and stuff like that, but I didn’t want to etch it permanently on something as timeless as a song. That being said, I don’t think I’ll be writing about corona anytime soon. Even if I were to sing about it, it would probably be expressed in a very abstract manner.

- I understand. Every artist is entitled to their own opinion on the subject, so I think those who choose to sing about it and those who don’t are both doing the right thing.

Hiro: I’m in no way trying to invalidate those who sing about corona. As you mentioned, it’s all a matter of perspective. I don’t like singing about topics that directly concern the world… like political discontent. It’s difficult to write about those kinds of themes; I’d rather write lyrics that express my thoughts on a variety of themes and hope that those who are listening can relate them to their own feelings and sentiments at the time.

- There certainly were songs that resonated with me when I listened to them as the pandemic went on, even though they were about something completely unrelated to it. Now that we’ve talked about the lyrics, I’d like to ask you about the songs. How was the recording process for this album?

Hiro: I was away from MY FIRST STORY for a while since quarantine started and I couldn’t hold shows or go to the studio. A long time had passed since I last recorded, so in a good way it felt like I was singing someone else’s songs. That was good for me, because it naturally set forth a new direction and brought out singing techniques in me that I had never used before. Still, I wondered what would happen if I made those kinds of songs with MY FIRST STORY, so I consulted with Nob and our engineer to see how it would turn out. I asked during the recording session, “How would it sound if I sing it like this?” Everyone thought it was unexpected but good when I tried it out, so we just decided to proceed in that direction. It’s this kind of approach that led to more versatile songs this time around. I’d like to believe they fit in with the current era where listeners look for all sorts of things in their music.

- The fact that you were able to present multiple facets in a single package proves that you produced something next-level. “Unexpected but good” is great, because the appeal of a song is more important than the direction it takes.

Hiro: I’m not so sure about that. Most of the songs on “V” were made by Nob, so they were kind of like “Nob’s vision + myself”. It wasn’t all me. I’m glad it all worked out in the end.

- You need a great deal of singing experience to be able to adopt that kind of approach, so I’m sure you sing a lot of different songs on a regular basis. Come to think of it, in the interview with your instrumentalists for the GiGS September 2020 issue, it was mentioned that you sing quite a few songs at karaoke after your live shows.

Hiro: I do (laughs). I find other people’s songs more fresh – or rather, more refreshing. Unlike MY FIRST STORY’s songs, I don’t get the chance to perform them very often so I can sing them pretty casually. I love it. That’s why I sing a ton of artists’ songs when I go to karaoke.

- About singing casually, you’re the type of person who likes to have fun while singing other artists’ songs and doesn’t always stick to his own style, right?

Hiro: Right. To put it another way, there’s a pattern to those who always choose to stick to their own style. I believe that each song has its own merits – ballads, for instance, have a certain charm to them. If you ignore that and sing every single song in the same way, those listening will eventually get bored. Of course, there are advantages to doing that as well, but there’s a part of me that wants to make the most out of things and try different forms of expression in my songs. That’s been in my mind for a while now, and I feel like I was able to expand my range even further with “V”.

- The variety of expressions and range of the songs are wider than ever and they’re really worth listening to.

Hiro: There’s this thing the members often tell me: “Whatever song it may be, it will be MY FIRST STORY as long as Hiro is the one singing”. Teru was the first person to tell me that. He said that around 2 to 3 years ago, and from then on, I stopped being so conscious of my own identity. That was the biggest thing that helped me expand my range.

- Truth be told, the entire album has a touch of Hiro’s personality, all the while showcasing its breadth. Now, if you had to pick a song from “V” that left a strong impression on you, what would it be?

Hiro: There’s really a ton of them this time. It’s like Nob had a theme for each song when we were working on “V”. There were songs that paid homage and some that had a subject matter. I didn’t really pay attention to it, but I was able to see that person’s point of view and the music he’s playing objectively, so I have a strong sense of trust in that. The songs on this album were all new and innovative, so as we got to the later songs, I got a little confused about how to sing them and that made recording pretty difficult. Nob and our engineer pulled it off really well, and I believe we ended up with great results. Among those songs, if I had to choose one that left a particularly strong impression… “Aikotoba” was probably the hardest one to make.

- Bringing something new to the table, “Aikotoba” is a song that has a guitar-rock lyricism to it that’s a bit different from the symphonic ballads you’ve done in the past.

Hiro: That’s true. This song needed to be sung with a nuance that hadn’t been there before. I listened to a lot of music under the so-called guitar-rock genre, and that was the best way for me to get rid of my own tendencies. At any rate, I had to be mindful of singing the song smoothly.

- There are many other notable songs as well. For example, I was strongly drawn to your voice in “moonlight” that seemed to transcend even gender.

Hiro: From the moment I heard the demo for “moonlight”, I knew I wanted to put it in the album. It had a lot in common with “mine” from the “Mukoku” single (2019.8.14) which I thought was a must-have in this album, so I had to make this song just as compelling. I enjoyed recording the song, and I had a great time writing the lyrics as well. I honestly thought that I would struggle with the lyrics, but everything went smoother than I expected, so I have to say that I had the most fun working on “moonlight”.

- We haven’t seen much of it in MY FIRST STORY’s discography so far, but it’s great that you’re able to enjoy songs like this now.

Hiro: I was a bit surprised myself that I was able to make “moonlight” so easily. I’m glad that I discovered a lot of things I wasn’t aware of during the recording of this album, and I’m sure this will continue on for MY FIRST STORY in the future.

#my first story #マイファス #Hiro #print #2020 #this was such a struggle to finish #not bc it was hard #but bc it was so boring to translate #this interview is old news compared to his roj feature #can't wait to start on the other members #sighs

7 notes · View notes