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the-iceni-bitch · 3 years

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PLEASEEE write more for august walker! i'm in love with the banter in "welcome home, walker" and how he's grumpy but has a soft spot for the reader. LOVE UR OTHER WORKS TOO <33

Aww, I love Auggie! And it has been a bit since I wrote for him. Soooooo...

PDA

Pairing: August Walker x fem!Reader

Words: 2145

Summary: You and Auggie go out with the graduating cadets to celebrate your new assignment.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (innuendo, teasing, sex in a public place, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex), violence (fistfight, implication of gore and death), betrayal, protective!Auggie, TW- implication of impending date rape/mentions of drugs, SMUT, 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: This got away from me a bit if I’m being honest. I was just gonna do the teasing in the gym but I couldn’t stop myself, so please enjoy this little impromptu fic! And please feel free to send me an ask if there’s a character or kink or anything you’d like to see more of!

Check out my masterlist and join my taglist here if you want!

You didn’t know how he got you in this position. You could practically feel him beaming over you as you struggled to get out of the hold he had you in.

“You keep moving like that, you’re gonna make me hard, sweetheart. You want me to fuck you right here on the mat?”

August ground his crotch against your ass to illustrate his point and you let out a moan. Your arms were bent back at your shoulders unnaturally as you scrabbled for some purchase to get out of his grip.

“Fuck off, Auggie. You know the only reason you’re on top right now is because I didn’t get any sleep.” Maybe if you arched your back a little...

August groaned in your ear as your ass rubbed against his growing erection.

“Shit, Y/N. The director is right there.”

You turned your head as much as you could to see Sloane standing at the gym entrance, surveying the cadets as they practiced their sparring. You wiggled your ass again, making Auggie growl at you.

“You’re not giving me a lot of options, baby. You know my brain doesn’t work when I’m sleep deprived.”

He grumbled and you felt him start to loosen the hold he had on your arms. You grinned to yourself as you wrapped one arm behind his neck, gripping the hair at the base of his scalp and rolling forward. You heard him give a small sound of surprise as you flipped him over, knocking all the air out of his lungs when you slammed him into the mat and wrapping your body around his shoulders, stretching him to the point of pain.

“Damn it, I thought we were done.”

“I don’t remember tapping out, sweetie.” You gripped his wrist and stretched his arm even further as you squeezed your thighs around his neck.

He wheezed for a second before a wicked grin spread over his face. “Y’know, when you get me in these holds, I can smell you, and it drives me fucking crazy.”

You almost loosened your hold at his admission but caught yourself at the last second. “August...” you growled in warning.

“I know you’re soaked under these sweats, sweetheart.” He turned his head as much as your hold would allow, running his nose along the inseam of your sweats until you released him with a hiss.

“Fine, it’s a draw.” You mumbled, drawing yourself to your feet as he chuckled darkly. “Equipment room in 5?”

“Walker, Y/L/N, with me.” Sloane gave a beckoning motion and the two of you moved to follow, sighing with frustration.

You moved with the director as she marched back towards her office, shooting each other apprehensive looks as you considered what she may want to talk to you about.

“Good news you two.” Sloane announced as she closed the door to her office behind you. “We finally managed to get the heat off you from Interpol, and you’re set for a new assignment in Brazil.” She handed you your files detailing the op. “Looks like there’s a Syndicate group operating there, moving weapons through the black market there. You ship out in two days. Please do your best to remember, Syndicate members are assets, not targets.”

“Right, boss.” You murmured, flipping through your ID docs. August just grunted beside you.

“Alright, I heard the two of you are going out with the graduating cadets and trainers tonight to celebrate the end of the course. Don’t overdo it.” She gave you a knowing wink before you turned to leave the office.

“I think she knows about us.” August whispered as the two of you headed to your lockers.

You just laughed at him. “Auggie, honey, we’re the worst kept secret at Langley.”

“Y/N, Walker, I hear congrats are in order! We’re gonna miss the two of you in training!” Melissa managed to find out everything as soon as it happened, you didn’t know how she got stuck in training instead of the field. “I’ll make sure everyone buys you a round at the club tonight.”

You groaned at that, those goddamn trainers would have you passed out if they got their way. You slammed your locker closed and turned back to August.

“Meet you at the club, baby. Make sure to do your reading first!” You called over your shoulder as you headed out.

You arrived at the club 4 hours later to see August looking incredibly uncomfortable in the middle of a group of rowdy cadets. You tutted to yourself as you approached him, he always had a stick up his ass.

He saw you then, and his face relaxed as he walked to meet you.

“You’re late.” He grumbled as the two of you headed to the bar. “You know how much I hate talking to these kids.”

“Relax, grandpa.” You smiled before turning to order yourself a gin and tonic. “You gonna dance at all tonight, or just stand there glowering?”

He scoffed into his scotch as you grinned at him, moving closer and rubbing your foot over his calf suggestively.

“Don’t you start something you’re not prepared to finish, beautiful.”

Just then, Melissa arrived with a tray full of tequila shots, and you let out a groan. This was the second time you got cock blocked today, and you were starting to get frustrated.

“Look what I’ve got for you!” she said gleefully as the two of you winced at her.

“Melissa, I’ve told you a million times, I don’t do tequila.”

“C’mon, it’s your last night with us, just a couple.”

You took a deep breath and grabbed a shot for yourself, giving August a shrug before tossing it back. He hissed between his teeth as he downed his own.

“Fuck me, you sure this isn’t rubbing alcohol? Jesus, Melissa!”

She just handed the two of you two more with a giggle, and clapped her hands when you swallowed them. Before you knew it she was dragging you towards the dance floor, your head fuzzy from the tequila as you instructed August to watch your cocktail. He gave you a grin before turning back to the bar, but that quickly changed once he noticed movement in your glass.

August clenched his jaw as his arm shot out to grab the cadet that was wandering away from the bar, wrapping his fist around his upper arm with a vise-like grip.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” He growled, a menacing glare taking over his face.

“Get your hand off me, man.” The frat boy idiot actually looked offended as he glanced down at August’s hand.

Walker just tightened his grip as he patted the asshole down, cocking an eyebrow as he pulled a tiny baggie of tablets out of his breast pocket.

“Graham, right? What’s a senator’s nephew doing with… what is this? GHB? Molly?”

“Look, buddy.” The moron gave him a grin like he was his friend as August stared him down. “That piece of ass needs some loosening up. I bet she’s a tiger in the sack.”

August threw your drink in his face before hauling him outside. He considered letting you handle it yourself, but he wanted to let off some steam.

He didn’t say anything, just punched the smarmy bastard in the face. The idiot didn’t even try to defend himself, pathetic.

“What the fuck?! You broke my nose!” Graham held a hand to his face as he stared at Walker in disbelief.

“Yeah, that’s not all I’m gonna do to you.” He growled as he set to work.

Five minutes later he stood over his handiwork, wiping the blood off his knuckles as he let out a sigh. That had gotten a little out of hand.

“Fuck.” He muttered, pulling his burner out of his suit pocket and dialing. “Yeah, this is Lark. Send a cleanup crew to the alley outside Sketch. Yeah, some senator’s nephew.” He frowned over the phone. “Because it’s a fucking order.” He hung up, not bothering to wait for the Syndicate’s sanitation team before heading back into the club to find you.

He found you on the dance floor and a hungry sneer came over his face. He strode toward you and wrapped a possessive hand around your throat from behind, drawing you fast against his chest and growling into your ear. You whined as he pulled you away from the group, Melissa beaming at the two of you like an idiot.

“Have fun you two!” She called as August steered you around a corner.

He pressed you into the wall behind a column, his mouth devouring yours as he slotted his knee between your legs. You whimpered as he shoved a hand in the front of your blouse, squeezing your breast viciously before tweaking your nipple to the point of your pain as you arched into his hand.

“Fuck, Auggie. What happened?” You were panting with need as he moved his face down to bury in your neck, his teeth scraping over your throat.

“I’ll tell you later. Are you still drunk?” He moved his other hand to the apex of your thighs and groaned against your chest when he felt your slick coated folds. You weren’t wearing any panties.

“No, the dancing burned most of it off. Shit.” You hissed as he inserted two fingers inside you, stretching you open as he fumbled with his zipper. “Can’t even make it to the bathroom, huh?”

“Sorry sweetheart.” He mumbled as he freed his dick from his slacks. “Sure seems like you were expecting this, though.”

He moved his lips to yours and swallowed your cry as he dipped his hips and plunged into you. His hands wrapped around your thighs and lifted them to wrap around him as he started to move his hips. He tried to move slow so it wasn’t obvious what the two of you were doing, but those goddamn tiny whimpers you were making into his mouth were making it hard for him to control himself.

“God, this cunt feels better every time I’m in it. Fuck.” You were clenching around him with each thrust and your breath was coming in ragged gasps, letting him know you were close. “Jesus Christ, it’s barely been a minute. You’re so fucking sensitive.” He nipped at your bottom lip and stilled his hips for a beat as he teased you.

You slapped his bicep playfully and whined. “Shut the fuck up and move, asshole.”

He braced one hand on the wall and drew his hips back slowly before slamming into you. You buried your face in his neck to muffle your scream as you came apart. Your pussy fluttered around him as every muscle went rigid. He felt you sobbing against him as your muscles quivered in your release, his hips still setting a punishing pace as he fucked you through it.

“Shit, honey.” He murmured against your cheek as you came down. “You make it so easy.”

Your snort turned into a whimper as a particularly deep thrust had him kissing your cervix. “Fuck, Auggie.”

“Yeah, right there?”

You nodded vigorously as your face screwed up in bliss, leaning it back against the wall as he picked up the pace.

His cock was dragging against that sweet spot inside you with each thrust and it was all you could focus on. Your thighs squeezed around him as he brought you closer and closer to another orgasm. He loved watching you take it, getting completely lost in your pleasure. And knowing he was the one doing this to you was just icing on the cake.

“You close, gorgeous?” He asked, feeling his own imminent release looming.

“Shit, shit!”

He was extremely grateful for the loud music as you screamed in your release. He swallowed a shout of his own as his cock twitched and his cum spurted into you, painting your insides as his hips faltered and he collapsed against you.

“Jesus.” You whispered as you set your feet on the floor, August still sheathed in you as he softened. “Public sex, who knew?”

You felt his chest rumble against you as he gave a low chuckle, sliding out of you gently before he tucked himself back into his slacks. He ducked his head to give you a tender kiss as he drew down the hem of your skirt over your thighs.

“We should go back to your place.” He whispered after he released you, leaving you breathless.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but I’m totally fine with it. Lemme just say goodbye to Melissa.”

He grinned as he watched you saunter away, your gait a little wobbly as you tried to keep his cum from leaking out of you. He was really looking forward to your new assignment. The thought of being cooped up with you for several months was making him hard already.

Tags:

@slothspaghettiwrites @stargazingfangirl18 @starlightcrystalline @jack-skellingtons-stuff @drabblewithfrannybarnes @captain-asguard @harrysthiccthighss @bonkywobble @dslap65 @stanallstarks @macgruberrr @blackestpinkworld @wanderinglunarnights @sebslut @allinhishands

#natalie answers #natalie writes #request granted #request #send me asks #august walker #august walker fandom #august walker x reader #august walker x you #august walker x y/n #august walker smut #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill smut #smut #eighteen plus #mission impossible fallout

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

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Secret pt.2

A follow up to my fanfic about Geralt talking (and eventually confessing his love) to Jaskier in Polish, thinking that Jaskier doesn’t understand. @artistsfuneral came up with that glorious idea in this fic! Now, pt 2 is about how Jaskier learns the language, as requested by blue_midnight on AO3. Hope you enjoy!

(This fic also includes background, brief Lambert/ Aiden)

At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it’s Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. Why on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.

It must be some kind of language. Geralt uses it when talking to his horse a lot. Jaskier almost finds the behaviour endearing but then the witcher speaks in that tongue when answering many of his questions. Jaskier just wants to get them better acquainted but Geralt couldn’t care less about the offerings of friendship, apparently.

Even though the witcher can be a right bastard like that, one thing is clear from the very start: Jaskier can only wish to be half the man Geralt is, but the world thinks it’s Geralt who is less than human. Jaskier finds he can’t stand by and let it happen.

It’s a simple exchange. They both need each other to prove that they’re more than what everyone thinks they are. The transaction is uncomplicated: Geralt fights monsters for Jaskier to sing about, Jaskier softens the hearts and the minds. As time passes, however, it changes and becomes more complex: they share food, rooms and coin, start caring for each other in all the small but significant ways.

Five years pass and it’s a friendship in full bloom, but Geralt still often talks to him and snaps at him in that damned tongue, like he doesn’t think Jaskier worthy of knowing his thoughts. It’s never stopped angering him but at this point, he’s also intrigued in what Geralt wants to hide and why the hell it seems to concern him so often. (A certain feeling that shall not be named blooms in his chest at the thought and he squashes it).

Then there’s that one bath. Geralt looks at him as if he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world which, fair, Jaskier is interesting if he does say so himself, but not that much. It’s on that day that he decides to learn that bloody language, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt that winter and searches the vast library through and through. The librarians shoot him looks indicating their suspicion about him being a maniac but Jaskier is simply a man on a mission. In the middle of winter, his madness finally bears fruit – he finds an ancient book written in a language he has never seen. “Wiedźmiński bestiariusz” the title says. Inside, there’s a loose piece of parchment with the first few paragraphs of the book translated, including the title – “Witcher Bestiary”. The book is full of sketches of monsters and descriptions, the words containing several strange letters. Many passages aren’t readable anymore because they’ve faded with age but Jaskier treasures the book anyway. He spends the rest of the winter copying all the legible pages, indulging in life’s pleasures much less, which only fuels the rumours of his insanity. All the while, he hopes that this is the language Geralt has been using.

The answer comes surprisingly quickly in the surprising shape of another wolf witcher. They stumble upon each other in late spring in Redania. It’s such a funny coincidence that there’s no way Jaskier’s not going to make the best of it.

“See, master witcher,” Jaskier says as they drink ale together, “When I rummaged through my university’s library, I stumbled upon an interesting volume.” He forgets to mention the translated passages as he pulls out his copy of the book and lays it on the table in front of Lambert. The witcher’s eyes widen when they rest upon the title and Jaskier knows this is it. He grins and carries on, “It seems to be full of precious knowledge and wisdom, yet it’s written in a language I don’t understand. It concerns monsters, so I was hoping a witcher could assist me in decoding this tongue.”

Lambert says nothing for some time, only regarding Jaskier with suspicion. “Why would you want to learn it?” he questions.

“Call it academic curiosity.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. Hadn’t Jaskier spent so much time with Geralt, he would certainly squirm under the hot, searching gaze.

“It’s not a secret language of your guild, is it?” he asks to break the tense silence.

“It’s not,” Lambert answers, “But no one really bothered before, is the thing. Dunno what to make of you.”

Jaskier sighs and decides to reveal the malice of his intentions because, from what little Geralt told him of his brothers, he knows that Lambert will appreciate it. “Listen,” he says as he leans in towards the red-haired witcher, “just imagine how it’ll freak Geralt out when he finds out.”

Lambert lets out a delighted laugh. “Fuck, I wanna be there when it happens.”

Jaskier can’t make any promises of the sort, so he says nothing to that. Instead, he asks, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“We’ll see.”

Lambert’s reserve didn’t make sense at that moment but Jaskier almost wishes he didn’t find out why the witcher was so cautious about his enthusiasm.

It turns out the language is a demonic creation. Lambert starts explaining some basic words and phrases to him and it already makes Jaskier’s head spin – there are so many forms and conjugations that Jaskier’s task of achieving fluency in that damned tongue suddenly appears almost too daunting. Almost.

He still wants to see the look on Geralt’s bloody beautiful face.

Lambert lets Jaskier join him on the Path for a few weeks. Throughout that time, he teaches Jaskier a bit more, especially how to read in the language. The wonderful thing about it is that, once he knows all the rules of pronunciation, he can read everything out loud. The dreadful thing is that the pronunciation itself is so tough and tongue-twisting that it may as well be a form of diabolical punishment inflicted upon Jaskier for all the transgressions he committed.

Lambert laughs when he voices his frustrations. “Przyzwyczaisz się.” You’ll get used to it, the witcher answers, his voice producing the mad consonant clusters with ease.

“I doubt it,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath.

The two of them part ways as Jaskier pays for Lambert’s services with a song. Jaskier saw the wolf witcher take down a vampire in a truly spectacular manner, so it was no hardship. After Lambert leaves, Jaskier starts learning on his own. Whenever Geralt hunts, he reads out loud from his copy of the bestiary (and how Geralt never overhears it is truly beyond him. Melitele likes him calling upon her tits so frequently, it seems). He tries to decipher the words in the book using all knowledge he has, translating some more passages. He and Lambert also exchange letters but Jaskier fails at writing in the tongue miserably. The last one he wrote returns to him with a multitude of Lambert’s corrections and a short note from the witcher himself:

"Cały list do przepisania, skowroneczku." The whole letter needs rewriting, little lark.

Jaskier huffs at the nickname, ruffling his figurative feathers in indignation. Although a lark’s voice is beautiful, very much so, its plumage is too plain. Jaskier could never. He would be a blackbird at the very least. Or a siskin. A bullfinch, preferably. If Jaskier was honest, a peacock would best fit to describe his exterior, but the sounds peacocks make aren’t pleasant, so he would be willing to settle on some colourful songbird.

Damn Lambert, in any case. The witcher knows far too well how to rile him up. It’s a bit unnerving.

"Skowronek to nie jak ja." Lark doesn’t sound like me, Jaskier answers in the next letter.

"Rzeczywiście, tak ładnie nie śpiewasz." True, your singing isn’t that pretty, Lambert writes back.

Damn him indeed. Jaskier responds to that comment with a simple, efficient “fuck you”, to which Lambert replies “chciałbyś” you wish.

Jaskier can’t exactly deny this. He would certainly show his appreciation for Lambert’s fiery spirit if not for one little, tiny problem. The problem is so minuscule that Jaskier does everything in his power not to think about it. He seeks out lovers constantly and falls into the Countess de Stael’s arms almost every winter. She wants his attention now, as it’s a puppy love no longer, but during his stay at her palace, someone else always catches his attention. She kicks him out the moment she finds out. And so their romance goes, rinse and repeat.

No matter whether Jaskier winters at the Countess’s court, Oxenfurt, or some other place, he always devotes much of his free time to search for any book containing the Witcher tongue, as Jaskier started calling it. There isn’t much anywhere, and Lambert’s letters are few and far in between. Jaskier can feel himself getting stagnant in his learning and he can’t afford it. Not now, after six years of gargantuan effort that he’s put in already. Not when Geralt sometimes says something to him in that quiet, warm voice, and he still doesn’t understand.

Jaskier seems to enjoy more of Melitele’s blessing than he really should because, just when he’s getting desperate, there’s a godsend dropped on his way on a lovely spring day.

Quite literally dropped, since that witcher falls from a tree Jaskier’s about to walk under as he’s on his way to find Geralt. There’s a cat medallion around the witcher’s neck, and his body is gravely injured. He’s unconscious and Jaskier takes the liberty to use his witcher potions to help him not die. After he finally opens his eyes the next day, he introduces himself as Aiden.

It takes Aiden two more days to stand back on his feet. Soon after he manages that, Jaskier makes him trip when he speaks in the Witcher tongue to him, and the poor Cat witcher actually falls to the ground when Jaskier mentions Lambert. Sensing some story there, he sticks by Aiden’s side for a week or two. They make fast friends and promise to write to each other frequently.

Aiden’s letters are just what Jaskier needs to improve. The witcher is more expansive than Lambert and a touch flirty, which is perfect. As their correspondence goes on, Jaskier grows to like him only more and more. Not that much, though; he’s still stuck in the merry old mess of admiration and friendly affection getting out of hand. At least he’s not the only one – the story that Aiden and Lambert share is there in the letters, between the lines, and Jaskier is clever enough to see it.

Jaskier and Aiden meet for a drink in Novigrad once. When they’re deep into their cups, they start whining about their predicament.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Aiden grumbles.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

Ten years of learning the Witcher tongue have passed when Jaskier finds Geralt fishing for a djin in the lake near Rinde. He’s known Geralt for sixteen years now, so it takes him exactly one moment to see through the sorry excuse of insomnia. Destiny can’t be trifled with like that, he knows, so he doesn’t let it happen.

When Jaskier sings his friend to sleep, Geralt wonders about deserving him, that silly witcher. As if it wasn’t Jaskier who could only dream of deserving Geralt. As if Jaskier wasn’t a cheater, a homewrecker and a bastard who shouldn’t even deserve to look into those warm, gold eyes that allow a peek into the heart of gold.

As they meet Yennefer, the chemistry between her and Geralt is so strong that Jaskier can almost see the sparkles fly. Jaskier holds his breath all throughout their stay in Rinde. After they leave and nothing happens, there’s no relief. Now the witcher and the sorceress can get together any time and Jaskier turns bitter at the ripe, sweet age of thirty-four.

He lets go of many things after that. The silly affair with the Countess, caring about what the educated think about his works. He lives, breathes and grows, at last, fuelled by the one thing that he’s driven by best – sheer, absolute spite. Jaskier’s learnt the Witcher tongue out of spite (among other motives that he refuses to think about), and out of spite he will survive now, no matter how much he worries about a purple-eyes sorceress being such a great match for the White Wolf that even he wants to write a ballad about it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask, of course, and Geralt doesn’t say. They keep travelling together and Jaskier basks in the glory of knowing exactly what Geralt says about him when the witcher thinks he doesn’t understand. It’s wildly satisfying indeed but only up to a point – until the day Geralt calls him beautiful. Jaskier accepts the compliment with a smile, since it is the truth after all, but he can’t trust his voice to answer. He tries to fight the idiotic hope blooming in his chest and blames the warmth in Geralt’s gaze on the firelight. He reminds himself that Geralt doesn’t see him that way because it’s only women that the witcher’s ever been interested in. Life goes on.

Then his world crashes around him as he hears the words about love leaving Geralt’s mouth. That is when he can’t hold it in anymore and his secret is out. Or both his secrets, really.

It’s so freeing that he’s heady. Or maybe the giddiness can be all on Geralt. Or perhaps on the fact that, when Jaskier bares his heart in the Witcher tongue, it touches the witcher’s heart to its very core. He can feel it, in the way Geralt clings to him, and he already knows he won’t find any words to describe it properly in any language he knows.

That's how he knows it's something worth living and loving for - it means too much for words.

***

A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! This fic is also available on AO3. Part 3 is coming, hopefully soon. It will be a 5+1 kind of thing about Geralt and Jaskier using the language.

Part 3

#myfic #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfiction #canon divergence

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christinaroseandrews · 3 years

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Marketing Matters - Strategy - Fanfiction

Strategy - Fanfiction

So this is a bit of a taboo subject in the publishing world, but I’m going to be upfront with you all.

We write fanfiction.

There, I said it.

Writing fanfic is also a viable marketing strategy for authors who are choosing to go the self-publishing route and not always for the reasons that immediately spring to mind. In addition, the skills, fanbase, and tricks learned while writing fanfic can also apply to traditional publishing. However, I’m going to give you one caveat right up front: many big name publishers don’t like authors who write fic. Or at least they say they don’t. It’s becoming more common, but most publishers and agents want authors to be focusing on original fic not fanfic. Several smaller presses don’t care as much, so long as your author persona and your fic persona are very separate and you don’t rub it in their faces. But the big name publishers may require you to pull your fanworks. So that’s something to keep in mind.

So now it’s time to break it down.

About Us and What we’ve done:

We’re probably best known as fanfic writers in the Hunger Games fandom, where we have a few well regarded fics. We’ve also dipped our toes into other fandoms including the MCU, Harry Potter, DBZ, and more drive-by one-shots in various fandoms than you can shake a stick at.

We also both were/are a part of the Sims 2 writing community and had a few well known stories there as well. ^__^ We may or may not have met in this fandom. LOL

Both of us have been part of these fandoms for years and were active members in them. Lark started in fanfic back in 1994/5 as a beta reader (which she then parlayed that experience into becoming an editor that summer). While Rose discovered fic in college in 2002. In these fandom communities, we met people that we now call friends in real life as well as mentors, betas, advisers, and cheerleaders. We learned skills that apply both to fic and to original writing. And, most importantly, we learned how to listen to our audience.

Let me stress that again: we learned to listen to our audience.

When we transitioned, we hit up the people we met in these fandoms to help us with various aspects of publishing life (either paying or trading favors for work done) and we’ve also given status updates about our original writing, along with links to our author tumblr in the authors’ notes of our fics. Nothing that will violate the terms of Ao3′s Terms of use - but links to our professional website/social media.

While we write fanfic less, we still dip our fingers in now and again.

Cost:

Time.

Straight up time.

The cost of writing fic is time, energy, and creativity. Time spent writing fic is time NOT spent writing original works that can be published. Time that is not spent editing or plotting or doing other sweat equity types of marketing. Which is why some authors refuse to write fic once they turn professional and it is completely understandable. Fanfic authors don’t get paid for their work and for some, getting paid is a big deal. Especially when most of your income comes from writing.

It’s a cost we willingly pay sometimes, but if a fanfic author you know also writes original works for publications. It does mean that updates may be slower and there is often less motivation to keep publishing stories -- especially if the stories don’t get much in the way of response/feedback.

It’s about return on investment.

Return on Investment:

I’m going to do this a little differently since sometimes the return isn’t monetary. This is also likely to sound really clinical and analytical; that’s because I’m trying to be objective and I may be going too far the other way. We write fanfic because we love it, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t give back to us too.

Monetary (Language of Flowers only):

Units sold: 20

Mailing list subscribers: 6

Social media followers: Twitter - 15, Tumblr - 60, Facebook - 8

Not Monetary but Cost Saving

Editors - 9

Cover Designers - 3

Mailing List Trades - 3

Skills Learned:

Editing (Line, Content, Story Doctoring -- Yes, all of these)

Proofreading (not the same as editing)

Creating Characters

Keeping Characters in Character

Plotting

Engaging an audience

Finishing what you start

How to handle ConCrit

How to handle Trolls

How to write to an audience

How to prevent plot holes

As you can see, the biggest return on investment of the time is in the skills section. Fanfiction is not to be taken lightly.

And as for me, Lark, I literally parlayed my experience working in fandom to actual paying jobs as an editor. I honed my skills as an editor on fanfic which I then turned around and used to get a job editing professionally. I did that multiple times for a bunch of different publishers/clients. I got my start in fanfic.

As an editor, one of the biggest problems I see with developing authors is a “sameness” in voice. AKA all of the characters sound the same. If you want to see this in traditionally published book action, then look at Laurel K. Hamilton... Her Merry Gentry and Anita Blake heroines sound almost exactly the same. (Which not coincidentally, sounds like how she speaks in real life.)

With fanfiction, you can’t do that. You’ll get called out for being OOC. So you have to learn to adapt your voice. (Or only write characters that sound like you but that gets boring after a while.)

So in my actual job as an editor, one I get paid to do, I legitimately tell my clients to pick a character from a show they like and use them as a template for a character they’re having trouble giving a good character voice to. And unsurprisingly, it works. It’s a good trick and it subconsciously teaches your brain how to create different characters/voices.

They other HUGE takeaway from the skills is in regards to concrit and being able to take it. If you want to publish for a living and not just half-ass it, you have to develop a thick-ish skin. And fanfiction can help with that. I straight up learned to deal with harsh reviews from writing fanfiction. But more importantly, I learned how to listen to what the person was telling me and then become a better author because of it.

In fanfiction, unlike in the publishing world, the reviews are meant for the authors... not potential readers. If someone really hates your work, or worse, is apathetic to it. They just won’t comment. They’ll hit the backspace and you’ll never hear anything. Most comments, especially critical ones, are from people who legitimately like the story that you’re telling but have a problem with part of it. The comment may be harsh, it may even be mean. But it tells you something and it gives you an idea where you may be turning off readers. People aren’t always good at phrasing criticism constructively. We’re not really trained how to do that. But when someone tells you why something isn’t working for them or why they didn’t like something, listen. You don’t have to agree -- we certainly haven’t -- but listening and thinking critically about the feedback will help.

This can be seen in our first novel, The Language of Flowers, which started out its life as a fanfic. The story pissed several readers off. And we realized as we were writing it that we needed to explain something and we weren’t doing a good job of doing so. So the scene that every single one of our readers loved was born of that concrit. Our story is better and reached the top 100 in its categories on Amazon because of the feedback we got as fanfic authors.

Seriously, writing fanfic has gotten us to where we are today.

Takeaways:

My biggest take away is that writing fanfic is a great skills builder and audience builder.

Pros:

Skills. Oh so many skills. But the biggest is that you will be writing and no writing is ever wasted. It’s practice. Like an artist has to sketch or a musician practice. You’re honing and toning your writing muscles. And fanfic is absolutely valid for doing that.

Cons:

Time. Straight up Time.

Rating:

It’s been so long since I’ve done one of these that I don’t remember. But honestly, the rating varies. You get out of fanfic what you put in and what you’re willing to take from it.

(Note: This has been sitting in our drafts for about 4 years. I finally finished it up because I was bored and waiting to go to a doctor and didn’t feel like doing nothing.)

If you like our marketing posts, please consider supporting us here!

#marketing matters #fanfiction #writing advice #on writing #writing #long post #oh gods #this has been in our drafts forever #we love fanfic #we love fandom #fanfic is a gift #to both the reader and the author #don't disrespect the genre #queue me up

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

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So Honey, Sing [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account

He can count on one hand the number of times where Jaskier is actually, completely quiet.

During their first few months together, silence was the only thing Geralt seemed to want for. Without asking for it, he had acquired a companion for the road. One moment he was wandering through the Continent from contract to contract; then he wasn’t.

Jaskier talked: a lot. He seemed to make it his own mission to fill the silence as soon as it settled over them. Even when he wasn’t talking, he would just make noises; strumming chords on his lute, humming along. And when he wasn’t doing any of that, he would sigh. All of the time.

In the times where Geralt was on his own again, through either his own fault or not, the bard’s constant rambling about something or other that was had become a welcomed hum in the background was now gone. A deafening silence sat over him instead. And it chilled his blood and made his chest tight.

It wasn’t until Jaskier was gone did he realise how used he had grown to it. Walking on main roads where the only thing to listen to was the rhythmic clop of Roach’s hooves against the dirt, he began to notice little things in a desperate effort to fill the silence: birds singing and soaring overhead, a passing cart carrying tradesmen, exchanging the latest gossip about a nearby royal family. On one occasion he caught himself humming a tune; one that seemed pointless, just a string of notes after another, until he realised it was one of Jaskier’s songs.

And to this day he swears that even Roach laughed at him.

He still heard the songs. Bards throughout the Continent sang them; and Geralt found himself having to retire early for the night each time another rendition of Toss a Coin started to belt through the tavern or inn.

They weren’t Jaskier.

Jaskier’s words would come out of their mouths, and it turned Geralt’s stomach.

None of them were Jaskier.

But his bard is back at his side. Geralt is intent on keeping him there. And Jaskier doesn’t seem like he’ll be moving away any time soon.

Yennefer has Ciri. The girl has magic coursing through her veins just as easily as blood does: magic that she hasn’t been able to temper or control just yet. He hasn’t seen it for himself, but in their short time together before finding Yennefer and Jaskier again, Ciri told him all about it.

Yennefer has a house in one of the more affluent districts of the town – because of course she does. He doesn’t think of how she managed to acquire it, or even who from, but it means that both her and Ciri are well out of earshot of a certain bard and his affinity for making his pleasure known.

At a particularly well-aimed thrust, Jaskier throws his head back. A groan wrenches out of him. “Just like that,” he moans, tightening his legs around Geralt’s hips. “Like that, fuck.”

He’s been wringing noises out of his lark for a while now. Jaskier’s ability to talk only gets worse during moments like these. But the words that come out of him are pure filth; words that send a tremor up through Geralt’s spine. Jaskier has been plying him with them ever since he got back. His bard has a siren’s voice; but combine that with a sly coy smile and a knowing look, then Geralt is truly lost whenever the bard is within a mile radius of him.

Hooded eyes look back at him. A small smile curled along the length of his lip – one that refuses to budge no matter how fiercely Geralt kisses him. There’s no winning with him. If he tries to ignore him, or gods forbid say that he’s too tired, then he’ll pout and sulk. If he gives in, Jaskier will just have more evidence to assure himself that he truly does have Geralt wrapped around his finger.

His hands skim over Geralt’s shoulders, sliding down to the Witcher’s chest. One hand settles over his heart; Jaskier’s fingers curl in slightly, nails just resting against the skin. The other ventures lower, placed just against Geralt’s abdomen, feeling muscles move and flex underneath his palm.

One of them had the idea to stuff a pillow between the headboard and the wall. Geralt didn’t see the point in it at first, but he’s never aware of his own strength at the best of times. And how much stronger he can get if a certain bard keeps goading him with hooded eyes and a slight fucking smirk painted across his face.

And Jaskier will not have the madam of the house knocking on their door, telling them to be quiet or, gods forbid, kick them out.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hands, pinning them on either side of his head.

Words pour out of the bard’s mouth. None of them make any particular sense, anymore. He occasionally gathers fuck, harder, more. But everything in between is just frantic, gasping nonsense.

Geralt sets his lips against the column of the bard’s neck, nipping at the skin there, but burying his own grunts and noises. Jaskier tilts his head back. Choked-off moans litter the air. Not loud enough to seep down through the floorboards and bother those drinking below them. Not loud enough to creep through the walls of the rooms next door. But loud enough to keep whatever stalks around inside Geralt’s chest content.

Jaskier’s fingers curl, brushing against his own. He could get out of the hold. Geralt’s touch can be firm, but it’s never harsh. If the bard truly wanted to get out, he could.

But with how firmly Jaskier’s legs are hooked around his waist, one heel pressing into the small of his back, encouraging and aiding each grind of his hips, it doesn’t seem like the bard wants to move anywhere anytime soon.

Jaskier does, though, turn his head. His lips brush against the shell of Geralt’s ear. What words come are rasped, but manage to punch him right in the gut.

“You feel so good. Fuck. Will you finish in me?” Jaskier asks. Even without removing himself from Jaskier’s neck, he can tell that the bastard is sporting a coy smirk. His bard knows how to talk – and he knows how to strum together words to get a rise out of Geralt. Jaskier’s teeth scrape against his earlobe. “I know you want to. You’re getting close, aren’t you?”

“Jaskier-”

The bard tilts his head, letting Geralt have the whole column of his neck. “I want you to. Fuck, I want you to.” He’s been meeting the Witcher thrust for thrust since getting inside him almost gods only know however long ago.

But now, Jaskier splays out his legs as much as he’s able to. The movement gets Geralt deeper. A moan wrenches itself out of both of them. Glancing up at the bard, he can see the man’s eyes slip closed. His tightens his hold on Jaskier’s wrists.

“Geralt,” he gasps. “Please. I’m close.”

He doesn’t move from the bard’s neck. Even in the low light of the room, he can see bruises and nicks starting to come through. “Then come. ‘m not stopping you.”

“I want you to finish with me, you clod.” Jaskier’s cock is between them, wholly forgotten about but leaking all over the plain of his own stomach. When the Witcher doesn’t respond, content to just keep going with what’s he’s been doing, Jaskier turns his head, nudging Geralt away from his neck. “I want you to come in me.”

Jaskier has gained this innate ability to control him with words. He’s as much as a siren as Geralt has ever encountered.

With words and noises and the fact that Jaskier keeps tightening himself around Geralt, it doesn’t take long for the bard to get what he wants. Geralt’s hips slam against him one last time before he stills. Warmth floods through his whole body, curling his toes and lifting his head from the pillow. Geralt lines the length of the bard’s neck with kisses, switching from gentle pressing of lips to teeth.

With his hold on him loosened, Jaskier slips his wrists free. He pats Geralt’s shoulder. “Right, this is lovely and all,” he grunts, “but you’re quite heavy. Get off of me before I suffocate.”

With a huff of a laugh Geralt moves, all but collapsing on to the other side of the bed. He keeps close to Jaskier, reaching out and throwing an arm over the bard’s waist. Jaskier’s hand settles over his forearm, fingers ghosting over his skin. Geralt watches his chest heave, his breathing slowly starting to even out. A small smile is still splayed over his face.

He watches Jaskier pad over to the other side of the room. In place of a bathtub, the innkeep offered them a small basin of hot water and some clean towels. Jaskier has his own collection fo oils and salts because of course he does. And Geralt will make quips about it all he likes, but he appreciates the smell of orange blossom or lavender buried in the bard’s pores, or the way his skin feels after being freshly scrubbed with ocean salts.

Jaskier wrings a cloth, making quick work of cleaning his abdomen and chest. At a particularly long stretch of silence, he glances over his shoulder. A small frown creases into his brow. “What?”

Geralt shrugs. “What?”

“What? Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re nice to look at.”

Jaskier hums, seemingly mulling the words over. He grabs a different cloth, tossing it haphazardly in the vague direction of the bed. By the time they’re both mostly cleaned up, and Jaskier has burrowed back beneath the sheets and down-feather duvet, another bout of silence settled over them.

It’s not one to be filled, though. Not with mundane questions or comments about the weather or the affairs of things in the world. He’s had enough of that with whores in towns and cities, biding more time for more coin.

It’s a comfortable sort of silence.

Jaskier settles next to him; an easy fit, as Geralt lifts his arm when the bard is close enough. When he shuffles near, lying over and claiming one side of the Witcher for himself, Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders.

Sleep will always be shy of him. It’s barely out of reach, but he’s happy enough to just wait for it to come to him. Staring up at the wooden beams of the roof, he lets his fingers sketch idle, unrecognisable patterns along the ridge of Jaskier’s spine.

The contract that brought him here seems like it happened years ago. The town had a selkie problem. An oxymoron if ever he heard one. Selkies don’t cause problems. Humans do. Apparently some fool of a farmer thought it wise, in order to keep his new bride from the water, to hide her coat in the nearby forest. But selkies need the ocean like humans need air. The poor girl looked close to death by the time Geralt wandered into the farmhouse.

After spending an hour or so trudging through matted thicket and undergrowth, he managed to find the coat and return it.

The selkie didn’t talk. He didn’t think that she knew how to. But the look on her face as he handed the coat back was enough to tell him everything. She left the man for the coast, with a faint promise that she’ll be back once the ocean’s water had brought some life back into her.

And she didn’t leave him alone. There’s a healthy, chubby-cheeked baby boy back in the farmhouse for him. He’ll be too busy looking after the sprog to really notice the days going by, waiting for his wife to come back.

It’s an odd change. Saving a life, rather than taking it. Then again, he never really encountered a selkie who wanted to put a knife through him. Ones that were aggravated definitely threw things, sure. But he never knew a bad-natured selkie. Only their bad-natured mates once they realised, with a justifiable horror, that it was their doing that made their loved ones so sick.

It played on his mind the entire walk back to the inn; but a coy-eyed Jaskier, armed with oils and a fine-toothed comb sent any thoughts that didn’t concern him away. He left the selkie and her husband and child behind him, back in that farmhouse that sits on a hill overlooking the nearby sea.

A hum of noise floats up from downstairs. People are still drinking and singing, with no intention of stumbling back to their rooms or homes just yet. At one point in their journeys together, he worried about people hearing them. Vile words and hissed curses under people’s breath were just as familiar to him as Jaskier’s voice was. But the bard didn’t have to experience it. If he kept a reputable distance, he could avoid having his name spat by ingrates.

Not every territory was particularly welcoming of his kind – or anyone who would warm his bed. This town gladly housed him, though. The farmer was one of the key providers of beef and milk to the town: and if he was struck down with grief, where else would the town or its neighbouring villages get its food.

Jaskier has lapsed into one of his rare silences. His eyes, bluer than the summer skies Geralt used to see over Kaer Morhen when he was a pup, scan the expanse of Geralt’s chest. Sleep is something that stays to the shadows of the room, pressed up against the walls, but will stalk forward the second he lets it.

Something must be starting to pull at the bard. His hooded eyes slip closed every couple of minutes or so. But before his head can roll to one side or another, he blinks awake, and keeps to his scouting mission.

Scars litter the Witcher’s skin. He lost count of how many he had a long time ago; and he’s gathered more since. Jaskier seems keen, though, on mapping each one of them out. Long fingers skim along the knotted ridges of scars that never quite healed right. Ones that he got that he had to treat himself, with no healer or mage in sight until the next town over. Others, ones that were treated, are just simple bright lines against his skin.

Some of them are more sensitive than others: and Jaskier knows the location of all of them. When Jaskier’s fingers ghost over one, Geralt quells the shiver that shakes up through him. “I swear you didn’t have this many the last time,” Jaskier hums. His fingers follow the fault line of one scar to another: one that sits on a pectoral.

Geralt doesn’t so much as look at the scars, but more at Jaskier’s fingers. They’re long; good at plucking lute strings and skimming over skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. A low hum rumbles out of his chest.

Jaskier sets his chin on Geralt’s collarbone. “I might just have to start wrapping you in cotton,” he mutters. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lip.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but the bard must catch his meaning. If you even suggest it again, I’ll kill you.

A lazy smile settles over Jaskier’s face. He’s seen it before: a contented smile that comes after nice things. It appears after a tankard of properly brewed ale, or a hearty dinner after rationing on the road; at the promise of an inn’s bed after walking for days or weeks on end.

Or after a particularly good fuck.

Geralt reaches up, tucking some of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. It’s grown longer in the last few weeks. A smattering of a beard is joining it. Though, they’ve stayed in a good number of inns and taverns in the last couple of weeks, and not once did he pick up a blade to cut his hair or shave.

And Geralt isn’t complaining. The look suits him. If he looks closely, he can see the faintest beginnings of grey hairs starting to poke through. That’s when something cold starts to creep into his chest.

Why the thought of it never hit before still perplexes him. But now, with the bard back by his side, it’s only in these quiet moments that his thoughts run wild. He avoids most interactions with people because of the fact that they’ll wither away and die.

Jaskier gently pats a hand on the Witcher’s chest. “Where did you go, just then?” his says, his voice barely more than a rumble.

His bard was always good at reading people.

“Nowhere,” Geralt answers, hooking two fingers under Jaskier’s chin, lifting his head slightly to press a kiss to his lips.

Jaskier hums, opening his mouth to slightly to let their tongues brush against each other. When he pulls back, he sets their foreheads together, staying close. “If you’re still moping about what happened on that mountain,” he says lowly, “I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“Good luck with that.” Geralt nudges Jaskier’s nose with his own. “And I wasn’t. I just...”

Jaskier lifts a brow. A silent prompt to continue.

Geralt sighs. “I was just thinking about you, I guess.”

“You guess?” Jaskier pulls back slightly. “You either were or weren’t.”

“I was,” Geralt amends. The fingers skirting over the bumps of Jaskier’s spine still. “I...I just can’t believe that you’re back here, with me. That I managed to find you again, talk to you, convince you to give me your forgiveness-”

“-It’s my forgiveness to give,” Jaskier sighs, weary that this must be the hundredth time that this very conversation has been brought up. But it’s an ever-present whisper in the back of his mind. Sometimes it tells him that Jaskier didn’t actually mean it, when he said he forgave him. Sometimes it’s that Jaskier will just leave in the middle of the night, and Geralt will be faced with the decision of trying to find one person on a Continent that stretches on and on for leagues in either direction.

Jaskier cups his cheek. His thumb skims along the ridge of his cheekbone, gently, but enough that a small tremor runs through Geralt’s spine. “I’m here,” he says firmly, “with you. And I’ll never leave.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t talk much with people – a fact that many have just come to accept over the years. But he doesn’t actually look at people either. Or not in any way that matters. When he looks at Jaskier, a million different things stand out – the small flecks of gold in his eyes, the scattering of freckles over his nose. He leans into Jaskier’s touch. “I know. But sometimes it just...doesn’t seem real.”

Jaskier plants a chaste kiss to his lips. “Well it is,” he says firmly. “You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily, Geralt of Rivia. I’m with you now forever.”

A huff of a laugh escapes him. “Gods have mercy on me.”

“Oh, they can’t help you now,” Jaskier grins, leaning forward for a longer, deeper kiss.

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia x jaskier #geralt of rivia/jaskier #geralt of rivia x dandelion #geralt of rivia/dandelion #geralt x dandelion #geralt/dandelion #joey batey #henry cavill #yourqueenforayear #agoodgoddamnshot #the witcher net #netflix the witcher

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carriies · 4 years

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𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 — it looks like CARRIE LARK is late to class once again . how do they expect to get their degree in CRIMINAL JUSTICE by skipping class ? it’s a wonder that they made it to their FRESHMEN year . then again , i heard that they were COMPASSIONATE which may give them a pass with professors , but they are also NEUROTIC so maybe not . all i know is that they remind me of CHEWED GLITTER PENS, CRYING IN THE BATHROOM AT A PARTY, PLEATED SKIRTS, so watch out . oh look , SHE just walked in ! [ sabrina carpenter, cis female, nineteen ]

from the basics.

name: carrie lark “roberts”

nicknames: some people call her lark or even nancy drew, but she likes carrie just fine.

age: nineteen

hogwarts house: ravenclaw

sexuality: bisexual, though she rather not think about it

pinterest ! !

did you mention a mystery ?

growing up in the foster system, carrie has was a bit of an outcast. she was quiet and polite, surely, but had a way of getting into trouble. her curiosity often times led her to breaking rules and for a couple of years, she bounce from foster home to foster home.

this all changed when she turned 10 and started living with the roberts, a police detective and a lawyer. they saw beyond the “troubled child” labels and gave carrie a space to grow and cultivate her interests in a, mostly, healthy way.

high school was not the best for carrie. she didn’t mind being a loner, had been used to it by then. but she kept herself in constant pressure of getting the highest marks, being in all the clubs and, mostly, just being the best. this resulted in a breakdown that made her almost lose her senior year, only being saved by her incredibly high SAT marks.

now that carrie is in college, she is determined to become a new girl. no more odd interests or pushing herself to her limit all the time. which of course would be easier if her campus wasn’t dealing with their very own murder mystery.

personality wise, carrie is an incredibly kind and friendly person, though she can also be a bit timid. she tends to overthink every situation and is constantly looking for clues of what other people expect her to be. this leads to a bit of a competitive and neurotic nature. if there’s a prize to be won, carrie will fight for it. she is extremely clever and witty, though only her close friends can see her sardonic humor come to light. she is also curious as fuck. someone just needs to tell her to relax a little bit.

extras.

carrie started taking art classes because she was obsessed with antique crime scene sketches. however, it soon shifted to something a bit terapeutic, and her notebooks are all filled with non scencial drawings and doodles.

her favorite tv show is the x files, and her favorite snack are homemade cookies.

once tried to die her hair red and failed miserably. we don’t talk about it.

has an old blue truck she calls bessy.

was a a track champion in high school before senior year, when she dropped all her clubs.

not sure if this makes sense, but she is an amy march trying really hard to be a meg.

wanted connections.

rivals! carrie strives for perfection, so having someone to play off against her would be really fun, it could be something that started friendly but has since spiraled out of control.

investigation buddies of course! carrie suspects chris is not guilty and is willing to put in the work to prove she is right.

friendships, please. unlikely friends that force her to chill for a bit, chaotic friends that allow her to go fully feral... all typed of friends.

a one night stand that she really regrets, as it’s not the sort of thing she usually does.

something a bit cheesy mayhaps,,, friends to lovers anyone?

enemies! people who just hate each other for no real reason, and are constantly antagonizing each other.

#whittonintro

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the-end-of-art · 5 years

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A satisfying sort of chaos

Advice to Aspiring Comic Book Creators by Gene Luen Yang

I turned forty last year.

When I was a kid, forty seemed like a lifetime away. I didn’t think about forty all that much, but when I did I imagined I’d have life figured out. By the time I got that old, I’d have cracked the code.

My actual fortieth year has been a blur of ink and airplane trips and diapers. Most days feel chaotic, but it’s a satisfying sort of chaos. And while I definitely haven’t cracked the code, I have learned a few things along the way.

That’s why, when I get asked for advice by aspiring cartoonists, I feel that I have something to offer. The following is for those of you considering a career in comic books. I hope you find it helpful.

1. Decide what’s more important to you: expressing yourself or earning a living through art.

Money and self-expression aren’t mutually exclusive in the long run, but in the short term they usually are. Books are a difficult way to make money. Independent, creator-owned comic books? Near impossible, especially when you’re just starting off.

If your primary objective is to make money through art, I’d suggest switching to a related field: animation, graphic design, web design. You’ll most likely be using your talents executing other people’s visions, but these sorts of jobs can still offer enough creative elbow room to be satisfying.

Don’t get me wrong—becoming a successful animator or graphic designer can be just as difficult as becoming a successful cartoonist, but at least you’ll have a chance at working for a company that offers health insurance.

But if what you really want is to get a deeply personal vision out of your head and onto paper, get a day job. Get a day job you like, one that leaves you with enough time and energy to work on your dream project on the side. As I’ve expressed in a previous post, I’m a big fan of day jobs. I’ve taught at the high school or college level for my entire cartooning career. My day job isn’t just a source of income, it’s also a source of inspiration for my books. Interacting with a variety of people on a daily basis naturally leads to stories.

2. Explore different ways of making comics.

When I began drawing comics, I drew on Bristol board, using a brush and a bottle of ink. Why? Because that’s how Stan Lee and John Buscema told me to do it in their book How To Draw Comics The Marvel Way. After meeting other cartoonists, however, I realized that The Marvel Way isn’t the only way. If you talk to ten cartoonists, you will probably find that they use ten different sets of tools. Heck, if you talk to one cartoonist at ten different points in her career, you will probably find that she’s gone through ten different sets of tools. There is no one right way to make comics, and art tools are personal. Experiment, read books besides How To Draw Comics The Marvel Way, get pointers from friends. Especially that last one. Nothing educates you on cartooning like having cartoonist friends. Which brings me to my next point:

3. Find a community of like-minded people.

I was lucky enough to fall in with a shockingly talented group of cartoonists when we were all in our twenties: Derek Kirk Kim, Lark Pien, Jason Shiga, Jesse Hamm, Thien Pham, Ben Catmull, Jason Thompson, and a bunch of others. We used to hang out once a week. We would draw together, critique each other’s writing, talk shop. I never went to art school, so my friends were my comics education. I learned about storytelling from them. I tabled with them at conventions. I even got publishing deals through them. Derek Kirk Kim introduced me to my current editor.

Making comics can be a lonely affair because you spend most of your days cooped up in your studio, alone at your drawing table. But the truth is, success often occurs within the context of a community. You have to find that community, grow it, and nurture it.

4. Go write. Go draw. Right now.

Have a groundbreaking idea for a graphic novel? That’s great, but I’ve got to be honest: Ideas are cheap. Everybody has at least one groundbreaking idea for a story. Most people have several.

But most people don’t have the determination to do something about it. If you actually sit down and write your story, if you draw it out in panels, you put yourself several steps ahead. Set goals for yourself. Give yourself a few weeks or a few months to mull over an idea, to do sketches of it in your sketchbook, to talk to friends about it. But once those week or months are over, you’ve got to move on to the actual writing and drawing, no matter how scared you may feel. You have to force yourself to do it.

A great idea that’s still stuck in your head might seem big and important, but in reality it’s a small and feeble thing. A successfully executed great idea, on the other hand? One that’s made the journey out of your head and onto something tangible? That’s powerful enough to change the world.

So go do it. Punch your excuses in the face.

Go write. Go draw. Right now.

(https://www.tor.com/2014/07/15/advice-to-aspiring-comic-book-creators/)

#gene luen yang #comic book #graphic novel #asian american #comics #writing #art

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thegoldenlark · 5 years

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LFRP: U’larkin Ode

The Basics –––

Server/World: Mateus - Crystal

Age: 25

Race: Miqo’te - Keeper of the Moon

Gender: Female

Orientation: Demisexual / Heterosexual

Marital Status: Single

Physical Appearance –––

Hair: Raven black at the roots & fading to gold at the ends; Straight by nature though often wavy and framing her face. It’s newly short, chopped off by the Sworn in an act of emotion at the death of her long-time friend and companion, Kazuki.

Eyes: Brilliant emerald.

Height: 4 fulms, 10 ilms.

Build: Athletic and muscular. Rockin’ a six pack.

Distinguishing Marks: 3.72 inch scar that adorns her permanently blushed - or perhaps, sunburned! - cheeks that match her freckles, emerald eyes that almost appear to glow

Common Accessories: Her sword & shield (most times, wouldn’t be caught dead without them!), her sword earrings, a long, white ribbon she ties around her waist and in a bow at the small of her back

Personal –––

Profession: Sultansworn Paladin & Ex-Free Paladin [ would return to this upon leaving the Sworn ]

Hobbies: Training early in the morning, watching [ and painting ] the sunrise, painting, sketching, finding the best coffee or pancakes in the city

Languages: Common

Residence: Apartment in The Goblet

Birthplace: [ u n k n o w n ]

Fears: Being unable to protect the innocent and defend those who cannot defend themselves; Losing those who are close to her because she failed to protect them; Becoming weak or untrained

Relationships ––

Partners: None

Companions: Kazuki Matsume (deceased), Rhys Harper

Children: None

Parents: None - To her.

Siblings: None

Other Relatives: None

Pets: Her Chocobo, Hughes, is pretty close to her! And he’s very friendly. Just don’t pet him in the wrong places.

Traits –––

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

L O Y A L / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information –––

Smoking Habit: None Drugs: None Alcohol: Socially - Though never too much, as she’s cautious about being impaired in case something were to go wrong or someone were to be in need of aid.

RP Hooks –––

SWORN TO PROTECT: Larkin Ode swore to protect under the Oath at a young age, and has upheld that promise for as long as she can remember now. If you are a Paladin or have worked in any field that would warrant the Sultansworn or Free Paladin to work around you, you might have encountered Larkin’s protection.

TRAINED TO UPHOLD: In her ode to the promise of protection, Larkin serves as a trainer to new recruits of the Sworn and the Free Paladin who enlist her skills. If you have ever sought out the skills of a Paladin trainer, Lieutenant Lark might have been the one dispatched to you!

THE MASKED FIGHTER: In her time learning to fight as a Gladiator, Larkin fought in The Sands under a mask and an alibi. If you were a Gladiator or went to The Sands for entertainment at any point, you might know her fighting style or recognize her small stature from her time spent rising through the ranks there.

SWORN TO DEFEND: And protection is something she provides very well. In her time at The Sands, Larkin made some extra cash serving as a bodyguard for hire. It wasn’t much, but it made her what she needed to survive.

GATHERER: Larkin is a gatherer by nature - She had to be. She’s wandered Eorzea before her time serving her people, and will sometimes take time off of work to gather for those who are in need. She also makes beautiful flower crowns with the flowers she collects!

COFFEE & PANCAKES: Can you make coffee? Can you make pancakes? Can you make... Both? You’ve already gained Larkin’s friendship. Seriously. It’s that simple.

WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR ––––

RP! Wow, so insightful, I know - But I’m highly open to pre-established ships (anything from friendships, you knew her from The Sands, you’ve seen her defending the city and spoken to her on duty a couple times, etc.) to strangers establishing a relationship of any kind, etc. - But let’s talk it out first! I will never go into an RP with an assumption of any kind. Let’s let that go where it will/discuss where we’d like it to go first ^^ !

Plotlines & long-term relationships (of any kind) are a favorite of mine, but I am not one to turn down any form of roleplay. One-offs are totally fine with me, short slice of life is great from time to time, and anything else you might have in mind!

Friends & contacts in game! I’m still relatively new here, and I’m very slow to do content (juuuuust started Shadowbringers, heh); So any new contacts would be great! I’m pretty open to chatting with new people and love to get to know the community ^^

OOC Details –––

I live in EST & am usually around to chat, even if just through Discord!

I’m a bit socially anxious so I love when people approach me, but I’m going to do my best to reach out to others too.

I have a lot of availability in the summer as I work a remote job in the esports field, but come August, I will return to being a full time student in my final year.

I do ERP, but limited as I and my character are demisexual (there’s gotta be some relationship building! Angst! You know, the heart wrenching stuff).

I’m working on my screenshot and gif skillz, so that’ll hopefully develop as time goes on! Thanks for reading down this far! ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚

Contact Information –––

Discord: Will usually give upon request ^^

Discord and Tumblr DMs are the best way to contact me~

[UPDATED - 07/27/2019]

#Larkin Ode [ The Golden Lark ]#Larkin Ode #Miqo'te #Mateus #ffxiv LFRP #crystal LFRP #mateus LFRP #ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv rp #ff14 rp #crystal rp #sultansworn #paladin #lfrp #balmung lfrp

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lousylark · 5 years

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blue lace

(Part 7. Read the previous part here, read the first part here. Check the “blue lace” hashtag for updates/other chapters. This is one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy. <3)

NOTE: at this point in the writing process Lark decides to start writing in present tense. You are not going crazy. Sorry.

Oak Tree Town - West Park. Midday.

In hindsight, with her pencil balanced between her teeth and a healthy smattering of charcoal painting the outside curve of her hand a steely gray, perhaps she could’ve tried to look a little bit less scrambled. But Klaus’ “good afternoon” has caught her in a moment of deep creative gusto, and trying to get an inspired artist to compose herself is about as fruitless as trying to get Bessie back in the barn before the spring sunset.

“I’ve interrupted your work,” he observes, his eyes trailing her up and down, no doubt taking in her disheveled appearance.

“Not at all,” she lies, waving her hand dismissively. “I could use a break, anyway.” Even as she says it, her heart stutters in protest. On the one hand, she rather loves talking to Klaus — on the other, her fingers are itching to finish these festival designs.

“How long have you been working out here?” Klaus asks, though he still seems hesitant to fully engage in the conversation. She bites back a smile — he is far too courteous, and she is too easily readable.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” she says, running a hand through her hair. “Maybe a few hours? I’ve got to get these designs done for White Day.”

Now his interest is piqued. It must push him over the edge of politeness, because he leans a little over the bench to look at her sketchbook.

“White Day designs?”

She hums, opening the sketchbook fully so that he can see her work. “It’s kind of a long story, but, um, we’ve decided to throw a little festival for White Day this year.”

“Isn’t White Day in, what, a week?”

She smiles. “Precisely. Which is why I’ve been sketching out here all morning.”

He looks at her with concern painting the corners of his eyes. “Minori, you do realize it’s the middle of the afternoon, yes?”

She blinks once. Twice.

“Is it really?”

“Indeed.”

She flips over her wrist to check her watch. Sure enough, the digital time reads half-past two.

She can’t help but bark a loud laugh at herself. “Ha! I definitely need to take a break. No wonder my stomach has been growling for the past half hour.” She sets the sketchbook aside but doesn’t close it. Instead, she pats the bench next to her legs, and bravely ventures, “Would you want to sit with me for a minute or two? I could use the company. Unless you’re up to something important, of course.”

“Nothing more important than entertaining a lovely maiden such as yourself,” he says, and his eyes are so sincere that it makes her heart warble in her chest, despite his exaggerated speech. “I was just walking home from the inn.”

He rounds the bench to sit beside her. She allows herself to relax into the sloping wooden back — careful, of course, not to jump when her arm brushes his. She can’t pinpoint exactly when being around Klaus turned her into a middle school girl, but here she is — damn him and his enchanting snowflaked hair.

They sit in easy silence for a few moments. She subtly tries — to no avail — to rub the charcoal from her hand, grateful that Klaus seems distracted enough by the finally-lovely spring weather to pay no attention to her.

The West Town Park is one of her favorites she’s ever designed. The flower pots, though all but barren at the moment thanks to the grueling winter, are filled with annual plants, and a modest fountain stands in the middle of the greenery. The flowing water provides a peaceful and inspiring background noise, hence why she often comes here when the weather is nice enough to design outside.

She sighs. While she’d much rather sit here thinking about nothing with Klaus’ thigh grazing hers, there’s work to be done.

“Maybe you can help me,” she says eventually, taking up her sketch book once again.

He looks at her with teasing eyes, apparently forgiving her for breaking the peace. “I thought you were taking a break?”

She grins. “Well, yes — but a lovely maiden such as myself ought to take advantage of the smart gentleman sitting next to her, should she not?”

His chuckle tells her all she needs to know. “Fair enough. But I would ask that you allow me some paper, as well.”

She tilts her head to one side in curiosity, but acquiesces nonetheless, tearing a corner of one of the pages out. As he reaches to take the paper from her, his pointer and index finger brush against her hand. She knows the touch is intentional from the way he lingers a bit even as he already has the paper in hand. She bites back a smile, hoping that the warmth on her cheeks isn’t too obvious.

He pulls a pen out of his coat pocket. Clicks it. “I’m certainly no artist. But I do find painting to be calming.” As he puts the pen against the paper, he continues, “Now, do tell me how I can be of assistance.”

She explains to him the concept of Otmar’s lunch auction — how it works, how she might tweak it to be more socially acceptable in this age, and what sort of decor ideas she’s been toying with for the past few hours. He listens without interrupting, instead nodding every so often to indicate his attention isn’t lost on other things.

“I think I’m settled on a 1950’s ice cream social theme,” she says, flipping her sketchbook to show him some decorative designs. “Raeger has a popcorn machine, which we could use to make some extra cash along with the auctioned lunches. I really want a cotton candy machine, too, but I don’t know if I could find one in time.”

He looks up from his drawing — which he’s keeping carefully concealed from her gaze — to say, “You know, I’m taking a trip to the city tomorrow. I could look for one for you.”

She smiles. “Seriously? I could pay you back. You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do that and more for a lovely maiden such as yourself.”

Again, she’s struck by how he can so effortlessly say such flowery things — and how strangely sincere he manages to come across. If any random man on the street called her a “lovely maiden,” she might be tempted to whip out her pepper spray. But Klaus, with his warm eyes and his gentle mannerisms, emotes only politeness and authenticity.

And on top of that, she hasn’t the faintest clue how he can flirt so brazenly and not betray even the slightest bit of embarrassment. She can can only wield such a talent when she’s had at least two glasses of wine.

He must detect her inner floundering, because he very graciously changes the subject.

“Your sketches are beautiful, Minori.” He points without touching, because it would smear the charcoal (and the fact that he must realize this only makes her even more smitten with him), to her sketch of a vintage cotton candy machine. “I believe it was Marian who recently told me you studied fine arts at university? I was convinced you studied agriculture, given your natural aptitude for it.”

She smiles at the compliment. “No — I got my degree in design and applied arts before coming here.”

“From where?”

She pauses. Her answer to this question always gets interesting reception.

“Uh, you know — a place in Wine Country.”

He raises an eyebrow. Looks up from his drawing again. “In Wine Country?” His realization is slower than most — she watches as the gears turn in his brain, as the thought formulates first in his mind and then on his tongue. “You went to L’Université de Beauchamp, then?”

Her eyes don’t leave her sketchbook. “That was some pretty good pronunciation.”

He smiles, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that she’s seen in other reactions before. “You must be kidding.”

She shakes her head. “I half wish I were.”

“Oh, perish that thought,” he says, setting down his drawing for the first time to lean toward her and rest a hand firmly on her knee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just strange, that…”

He trails off, but she can fill in the blank well enough.

“You’re wondering how I went to a prestigious art school abroad and ended up in a tiny town like this?”

“Again, I meant not to offend.”

She smiles gently at him. Tries to ignore the burning sensation his hand on her knee is causing.

“I would never accuse you of trying to offend me, Klaus.”

“I’m glad, for I should never hope to in my life.”

A bird squawks not far off, startling the both of them. He withdraws his hand from her knee, and she leans back into the arm rest of the bench just a bit. Her heart is dancing in her chest, like a bumble bee that keeps running into a window. She takes a deep breath in an attempt to wrangle it in.

“Anyway,” she says, hugging her sketchbook to her chest. “After college, I came back to Norchester and tried to make it as a designer for a bit — but I wanted to do everything: interior, exterior, clothes, graphics for businesses…I couldn’t settle on any one thing. When I saw the ad for Oak Tree Town, it just seemed right.”

“And it was that simple? You just decided to try your hand at running a farm?” he asks, pulling out his drawing again. For once, she thinks he can read him pretty well: though his drawing allows him to play a charade of nonchalance, she can tell by the crease in his eyebrows that he is indeed interested by her story.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and shrugs. “Well, you know — I guess it wasn’t too out of left field, to be honest. I didn’t want to be stuck in the monotony of an office job, and I visited my grandfather’s farm a lot when he was still alive. It was my main source of inspiration for my art when I was growing up.”

“So perhaps there was a little bit of fate involved,” he muses.

“Perhaps — though I think everyone I tell the story to perceives it as more of a mid-life crisis.”

He pauses. Looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Minori, you’re clearly very young. I doubt it qualifies as mid-life, or even quarter-life.”

She giggles, nudging his knee with hers. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you think you’re an old geezer — which you’re certainly not. You can’t be more than thirty-five.”

“I’m at least ten years your senior,” he supplies, nudging her back. “Which, for all intents and purposes, makes me the wise old man you can turn to for support and advice.”

“And help in scoping out a cotton candy machine.”

“Of course; I assumed that fell under the support umbrella.”

She smiles. Can’t help it. She hasn’t had a case of puppy love like this in years. He doesn’t have snowflakes in his hair like he did the morning at the Guild, but the early Spring sun is shining on his dark hair just so, and she wonders if she’ll have to draw another portrait of him later just to get the image out of her head.

He returns to his drawing, and she opens her sketchbook up again. But just when she thinks the conversation is moving forward, he asks the one question she always dreads answering.

“Do you plan on moving back to the city, then? If you can?”

He asks with a closed heart. She can’t read him at all now, hard as she might try. So she purses her lips. Focuses on the fountain in front of them.

“Yes.” Then, following the pang in her heart, “No.” And finally, “I have absolutely no idea. You certainly ask the hard questions, don’t you?”

“I find the hard questions considerably more interesting than small talk, if truth be told.”

“Oh, same here, though I’m usually on the opposite end of the interrogation table.” In an attempt to divert the conversation, she asks, “How about it, then? Do my answers to your burning questions warrant a look into the mysterious Mr. Schultz’s background? How did you pronounce the name of my alma mater so flawlessly?”

She thinks she’s teasing — but the way his face drops as soon as she mentions his past makes her feel suddenly as if she’s overstepped a boundary.

Before she has the chance to apologize, he points to some of her sketches. “Your drawings are in charcoal. What kind of color scheme were you imagining for the festival?”

She brushes off his not-so-subtle topic change and willingly bounds back into more comfortable conversational territory. They spend a long time sitting on the bench, discussing her plans, sometimes lapsing into silence as she makes a few modifications that he helps bring about.

As she’s adding some finishing touches to a rough balloon archway blueprint, she glances up again at the little West Town park. She does love designing these parks in town, and she can’t believe she’s lucky enough to lead the life she does. And yet —

“Here’s the thing,” she says, resting her pencil against her mouth. “What I have right now, in this town, is a dream. I get to farm, and design, and schedule my day…but it isn’t sustainable.”

“And why not?” Klaus asks, putting down his drawing for a moment.

“We’re bound to run out of parks eventually. Oak Tree Town is only so big.”

He crosses his arms. “Oh, I don’t know. What with the growth that you and the other farmers have provided, I can only see our humble little town getting bigger.”

“Then we run into an alternative problem,” she explains. “If the town gets bigger, I’ll be busier. I’d have to have some extra help at the farm — someone to help cook or clean, or even with the crops or the animals. And I can’t very well ask someone to do that for me when everyone in town has their own livelihoods to think about.”

A tiny pause. Minori thinks Klaus is just thinking about what she’s said, but when she turns to look at him, he’s donning a peculiar little smile.

“You ought to be careful, Minori,” he says, not breaking eye contact with her. “If you talk about needing someone to help with the household chores, the young bachelors of the town will suddenly remember you’re on the courting market.”

Her eyes widen. For just a moment, she wonders — dare she say hopes — if Klaus counts himself among the ‘young bachelors’ of the town.

Surprisingly enough, this time she manages to come up with a coquettish quip of her own: “Well, we’ll see who wants to buy my lunch at the White Day auction, I suppose.”

“Will it be tied with ribbon? How shall I identify it?”

Her heart leaps. He wants to buy her lunch! She manages to suppress the stirring in her stomach well enough to respond, “I’ll tell you on White Day — if you find me a cotton candy machine.”

He chuckles. “High stakes.” He brushes something off his pants, then looks at her pointedly. “You’ll have your cotton candy machine, or I’m not an honest old geezer.”

She smiles. “I’ve never met an old geezer as young as you, Klaus.”

“It’s what in the heart that counts, Miss Awald.”

A beat passes. Then he says with a hint of regret in his tone, “Well, I really must be off — though I’ll admit I’d rather stay here and interrogate you than get back to work.”

“It’s fine, I should get back to work, too.” She gestures to her sketchbook. “Thanks for all of your help.”

He stands. Yawns. She notices for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, and wonders if he gets enough sleep. Before she can advise him to get some rest, however, he speaks again.

“I fear I didn’t help so much as provide a listening ear, but if that was helpful to you, then it was my pleasure.” A quick bow, and then, “Oh, and I almost forgot. For you — though I fear I didn’t quite do the subject’s beauty justice.”

He hands her the little drawing he’s been working on throughout their conversation — a drawing of her, as it turns out. She takes in the curves of the sweeping ink lines, the way that he’s captured her hair pulled over one shoulder; the blush on her cheeks and her nose from sitting outside for so long. He’s even managed to include the freckles, like a child’s band-aid splayed over the ridge of her nose.

“Oh,” she breathes, “Wow. You’re too modest, Klaus —”

But Klaus is already far away, walking back toward his home, and he gives no acknowledgment that he heard her compliment.

She looks down at the drawing again — the sketch isn’t perfect by any means, but the attention to detail leaves her breathless. Her heart thumps in her chest.

“Dessie,” she breathes, “I’m smitten. Lillie and Raeger are going to have a hay day.”

Iris and Mistel’s house. Evening.

Elise is grateful that the weather has warmed up, or else her walk to Iris’ house would’ve been rather treacherous. After all, she is nothing if not a gracious guest, so she’s brought with her to the ladies’ night two trays: one with cheese and one with chocolate eclairs. Throughout her walk, the silver trays have become rather heavy — Cookie, of course, insisted that she allow him to plate the meal on paper plates, but she was adamant that she’d be able to carry the silver platters to Iris’ house without her arms getting tired.

It turns out she was painfully wrong — but she would never admit that aloud.

She finally arrives at Iris’ door, grappling with the trays for a moment as she tries to free a hand to knock. When she finally succeeds, it takes a few moments before there’s any answer.

Finally, the door swings open to reveal a giggling Agate, clad in pink pajamas with pandas all over them.

Her smile drops slightly, however, when she sees Elise.

“Oh, um — hi, Elise!” she greets, quickly recovering. Her smile is back, though there’s a touch of questioning in her eyes. “What’s up?”

Elise is quick to realize the bittersweet truth: while Minori was very kind in inviting her to the ladies’ gathering, she obviously didn’t inform any of the other guests. Her appearance is nothing but an awkward surprise.

“There’s been a mistake,” she says cooly, taking a backwards step away from the door. “Do excuse me for interrupting —“

But then Iris appears behind Agate. Since she’s much taller, she can look right over the her head to survey the situation.

“Elise! I’m so glad you could make it,” she says without missing a beat, opening the door further so she can enter. She looks elegant, almost matronly, in her long, lavender nightgown. Her hair spills over one shoulder, curling gently at the ends. “You got my invitation, then?”

Elise never received any such invitation, but she is not so foolish as to forgo Iris’ gracious save.

“I did, thank you,” she lies, nodding politely to Iris. “I brought a plate of cheese and some chocolate eclairs — I hope that’s sufficient.”

Agate’s eyes widen to the size of tea saucers. “Omigoddess, chocolate eclairs?!” She all but snatches the two trays from Elise’s arms. “Oooh, yes!”

Without another word, she turns and squeezes past Iris back into the house. Elise hears her stomp up the stairs and yell, “Angela, Elise brought chocolate eclairs!”

Iris looks over her shoulder, watching the young safari girl disappear. Then, she turns back to Elise, still smiling softly.

“Forgive me,” Elise says. Now that her hands are free of the platters, she crosses her arms over her chest. She feels like a jester standing before Iris in her day clothes, which consist of a frilly pink shirt and black dress slacks. “Minori asked me to come a few days ago. I wrongfully assumed the invitation was a group effort. I shall return home forthwith.”

Iris smiles. “Nonsense. We’d love to have you. Truly.” She looks genuine enough, but Elise still isn’t sure she trusts her.

She sighs, weighing her options. She can either stay here and masquerade at a party she wasn’t really invited to, or return home and eat broiled fish and asparagus under Madame’s leering gaze. Neither options are ideal, but she knows which of the two is a lesser evil.

“Thank you,” she says, nodding. “I’ll stay.”

Iris opens the door and steps aside for her. “Good. I’m glad.”

It’s been seasons since she set foot in Mistel’s shop, but not much has changed. She always found the store to be a little distasteful — after all, what value is there in buying other people’s dusty junk? But the store has been known to draw in a great deal of tourism from the surrounding towns, so she tries to be polite whenever it comes up in conversation.

She’s never been to the upstairs section of the house, so she’s surprised to find upon entering that the main living is actually very tastefully decorated, with dark hardwood and lovely purple curtains. There’s even a phonograph sitting in the corner that adds a quaint, vintage touch.

“Elise, these eclairs are delicious,” Agate squeals, pulling her from her thoughts. The corners of her mouth are smeared with chocolate. “Like, so yum!”

“I tried to tell her to save the dessert until later,” Angela adds, pushing her glasses further up on her nose. She, too, is dressed in pajamas — though the fact that her simple black top and bottoms don’t have any pandas on them makes Elise feel a little more at ease. “She wouldn’t listen — as usual.”

“No matter,” Iris says, crossing the room to sit next to Agate on the couch. As soon as she does so, the latter snuggles right up against her shoulder. “Elise, feel free to sit and have some snacks. There’s some cab sauv, but if you want something a little less dry Minori should be bringing some rosé later.”

“The sauvignon is fine, thank you.”

As Iris pours her a glass, Elise attempts to decide where she should sit. Since the five present girls — Agate, Angela, Iris, Lillie, and Licorice — are occupying the two couches, she chooses a rocking chair that’s just slightly off to the side.

She now realizes that Agate’s pajamas aren’t even pajamas — it’s a onesie. She’s forgotten that such a garment even exists. Licorice is hidden underneath a fuzzy purple blanket, but Elise is quite sure that she’s wearing pajamas as well. As Elise is looking, however, her gaze suddenly comes to rest on the two tiny bundles of fur sitting in Licorice’s lap.

Unable to help herself, she interrupts the girls’ tittering to ask, “Agate, are those…kittens?”

Agate grins. With her mouth still half-full of eclair, she says, “Yup! My cat gave birth a few weeks ago. I thought I’d bring these two over for some cuddles. You wanna hold one?”

Despite her arguably cold heart, not even Elise can turn down that offer.

“Oh, why not.”

Stuffing the rest of the eclair in her mouth, Agate stands and gently lifts one of the kittens from Licorice’s lap. The creature lets out a tiny mew but doesn’t struggle. When Agate places it in Elise’s lap, it takes a few tiny steps on her legs before curling into a ball and beginning to purr.

“She likes you!” Agate comments, gazing adoringly at the kitten before stepping back toward the couch. “She usually takes time to warm up to strangers. You must have a kind aura.”

Elise almost scoffs at the notion — but she catches herself just in time, and attempts to give Agate a half-smile. “I had a cat when I was young — a darling Maine Coon.”

“Oh, I love Maine Coons! They’re so big and cuddly!”

“Indeed.” Elise scratches the little kitten’s cheek with her forefinger, delighting in the way she pushes her cheek against it in response.

A glass of wine later, Elise feels a bit more at ease in the group. She contributes little to the conversation, fearing that her often-snide comments might get her kicked out of the party, but she does her best to listen politely. She learns that Iris has a new book that’s almost ready to be published, and that Angela has been given increasing responsibilities at Marian’s office, since the population of the town has been growing at such a quick rate.

“Lillie,” Iris says after at least an hour has passed, settling deeper into the couch. “What was it that you needed to tell us about?”

An uncharacteristic blush spreads over Lillie’s cheeks. “Oh, um, we should wait until Minori arrives.”

“Where is Nori?” Agate asks. She’s only had a glass of wine, but with the way she’s sleepily splayed across the couch with her head in Iris’ lap, Elise can only assume she has a rather low tolerance for alcohol. “She was supposed to be here, like, an hour ago.”

As if in answer to their prayers, there’s a sudden knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Licorice says.

“No way, you have a kitten in your lap,” Agate replies, yawning. Then, she simply yells, “It’s open!”

There’s a short wait, and then Elise hears the sound of feet coming up the stairs. She looks over her shoulder to see that Minori has arrived — and, bless the Goddess, she’s in work clothes, too. With the person that invited her finally here and not wearing pajamas, perhaps she can finally begin to relax.

“Noooori!” Agate greets. “Didja bring the Rosé?”

“Of course I did,” she says, approaching them. “Though it looks like perhaps you don’t need any, Agate.”

Agate pouts. “I’m not even tipsy, I’m just sleepy. It was a long day of kitten-sitting.”

“Fair enough.” That’s when Minori finally notices Elise’s presence. Her entire demeanor lights up. “Elise! You came!”

Elise clears her throat. “My schedule had an opening. I thought it would only be polite to accept your invitation.”

“Well, I’m really glad your schedule opened up.” She sets the Rosé on the coffee table and reaches for the bottle opener. “Sorry I’m so late, guys. I was at the Guild giving Veronica my plans for the White Day festival.”

“There’s going to be a White Day festival?” Licorice asks.

“Yup.”

Elise can’t prevent her relieved sigh. “So you figured something out. About time.”

The other girls look a little taken aback by her bluntness — and perhaps, in hindsight, she might’ve been a little gentler — but Minori actually nods in agreement.

“I know — it was really coming down to the wire. But I didn’t get a good idea until I talked to Otmar this morning at Raeger’s restaurant.”

“Otmar?” Angela peers at Minori suspiciously. “What is the festival, exactly?”

“It’s a lunch auction,” Minori explains. “Otmar says they used to do them all the time when he was younger, but eventually it became kind of…frowned upon. But I’m tweaking it so it’s less weird, don’t worry.”

“What’s a lunch auction?” Agate asks.

“It’s like this,” Minori begins after taking a sip of wine. “Anyone in town can make a lunch. You can put in a picnic basket or tupperware or a lunch bag — doesn’t matter, as long as it’s edible and packaged somehow. That lunch gets put on the auction table, and then it gets auctioned.” She takes another sip. “Whoever pays the most for the lunch gets to eat it with the person who made it — unless, of course, that person is uncomfortable with whoever bought their lunch, and we’re gonna have ways to monitor that.”

“But what if someone buys several lunches?” Iris asks.

“Well, then I guess it can either be a speed-date situation or a group lunch. You know?” She grins. “And, you know, nobody is required to put their lunch for sale. It’s supposed to just be a massive picnic, with a cute auction thrown in.”

“It’s brilliant,” Elise comments, earning some surprised looks from the other girls. “After all, there are famous bachelors and bachelorettes in this town — Raeger’s lunch is sure to fetch a high price, for example.”

Lillie looks away, crestfallen. But Minori doesn’t notice — instead she smiles at Elise’s compliment.

“Thanks. I’m glad you like it. I actually was hoping you might put a lunch for sale.”

A wily smile spreads across Elise’s lips. “Oh, most certainly. I’ll invite a group of my suitors so they can fight over me and ratchet up the price. I presume all the proceeds are going to our fundraising efforts?”

“Absolutely. Speaking of,” Minori says, looking to Iris, “is Mistel around? I was hoping he might agree to being our auctioneer.”

“He had a meeting with a possible buyer in Norchester,” Iris explains, “but he promised to be back sometime tonight. If you stay long enough, you’re bound to run into him.”

“Great.” She leans back into the rocking chair she’s chosen to inhibit, the one opposite Elise. She, rather abruptly, gulps down the remaining rosé in her wine glass. Meeting the stunned gazes of her friends, she admits, “It’s been a really long three days, you guys.”

The girls dissolve into giggles, of course. Even Elise, softened by the effects of the wine and the relief that Minori has finally come up with a White Day plan, can’t stop the smile that edges onto her lips.

“Oh, by the way, I expect all of you to put lunches up for sale,” Minori says, “not just Elise.”

“Ooh, nuggets,” Agate says, “You know I’m no good at cooking.”

Iris strokes Agate’s hair. “I’ll help you, angel.”

“Talk about celebrity bachelorettes.” Agate rubs her eyes and finally sits up on the couch again. “I bet Iris will have loads of people trying to buy her lunch, what with her new bestselling book.”

“It’s not just me!” Iris objects, though her cheeks are flushed pink. “Lillie is a weather reporter, for goodness’ sake — you don’t think she already has a gaggle of young men wanting to go on a date with her?”

Lillie turns beet red. “Iris —“

“Actually,” Minori cuts in, her tone weighted with double meaning, “Lillie, maybe you should tell them about, you know, the thing.”

Agate squeals. “Ooh, a thing?! What thing?”

Watching them go back and forth, Elise is surprised that women of their age still engage in such idle gossip. Of course, Agate is rather young, so at least she has that excuse, but Iris is at least thirty. Elise has always been taught that, past twelve years of age, she can never get too excited in public, let alone squeal.

It is, as much as she finds it a little distasteful, terribly refreshing. In fact, saccharine as it may be, the buzzing excitement of the girls’ energies makes her head feel a little lighter.

The kitten in her lap squirms a bit. Elise lays a hand on her tiny head, and she starts to purr again.

“It’s not really a…thing,” Lillie starts, pulling Elise out of her thoughts. “It’s just, uh, you know. Well, I guess it’s kind of a thing.”

“Oh,” Licorice breathes. “It’s Raeger, isn’t it?”

Licorice hasn’t talked much this entire time, so Elise is surprised to hear that she would make such a confident accusation. Minori and Lillie must be equally surprised, because their mouths drop open. Lillie hides her face in her hands and lets out a little whimper.

“How did you know?” Minori asks, while the other girls readjust in their seats a little, listening intently.

“I, uh, well,” Licorice stammers, caught in the spotlight, “I saw what happened at the New Year’s Festival. I had assumed — but, I’m sorry, it wasn’t really my business —“

“No, no, it’s fine,” Lillie says, waving a hand. She seems to be coming, at least partly, to her senses. “I should’ve known someone would probably see.”

“See what?” Angela asks, one perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised in anticipation.

“Indeed, do tell,” Iris says, adjusting her wine glass in her hand a little.

Thus, Lillie recounts the fateful tale from the New Year’s festival, starting with the dreadful man who kept following her and ending with how Raeger swooped in to save her with a kiss.

“And ever since then,” she finishes, her voice quiet, “I guess I just haven’t been able to see him the same way.”

Surprisingly enough, Lillie’s tale tugs at Elise’s (admittedly numbered) heart strings. Lillie is one of the few people in town that Elise could come up with absolutely no reason to hold a grudge against: she’s a sweet girl with a respectable job, and her unbreakable bond with her sister and father is straight out of a fairy tale. It seems logical that the only piece missing from Lillie’s puzzle would be that she ends up dating her best friend from childhood — and Elise, being a closet fairytale-lover, feels its their responsibility to see the Lillie’s tale reach a happily-ever-after.

“We must concoct a plan, of course,” Elise says, taking a sip of wine.

The other girls look at her with doe eyes. “A plan?” Licorice asks.

“Indeed. A plan. Raeger and Lillie are childhood friends. It’s only right they end up together.”

“Oh. Um, of course.” Licorice ducks her head just a little. Elise makes a mental note of her reaction, marking it down for later — just in case.

“You mean, like, play matchmakers?” Agate asks, her eyes sparkling.

Lillie defensively waves her hands in front of her face. “No, no, that really won’t be —“

“Great idea, Elise.” Minori completely ignores Lillie’s disbelieving stare. “Raeger just needs to see Lillie as more than a childhood friend, you know?”

“She has to rock her hot bod!” Agate agrees, throwing her hands in the air.

“Agate!” Lillie squeaks, hiding her face in her hands.

“But how?” Angela asks, a little desolately. “Are you suggesting she walk into Raeger’s restaurant wearing lingerie?”

The girls become quiet, considering Angela’s words. She’s right: they would need an excuse for Lillie to get gussied up. It would be uncharacteristic of her to walk around town in thigh-highs — and, worse, it could sully her flawless reputation as the adored Norchester weather reporter.

“What about the fashion show?” Iris muses. “Anyone can be a model, yes?”

Agate grins. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! We can design a super cute outfit and Lillie can be one of the models!”

Elise smirks. “You know, that’s…plausible.”

“But isn’t the fashion show in, like, three days?” Lillie asks, taking her head out of her hands just briefly to bestow an incredulous look on Elise. “You can’t make a dress in three days.”

“Of course you can,” Minori replies. “Designing only takes a few hours. We could design it tonight, all together, if we wanted to.”

“Ooh, sounds like fun!” Agate says, jumping up. “Iris, where’s your paper and pencil?”

Iris shakes her head, standing. “Downstairs. Come help me get some.”

“Okay!”

They stand from the sofa and start toward the staircase. Lillie, meanwhile, has turned sheet-white.

“Oh, no,” she says, “Absolutely not. This is not happening.”

“Why not, Lillie?” Minori asks. Elise notices that her voice has softened with sincerity; all traces of teasing are gone. “It’s not a bad idea. Raeger already loves you as his best friend. He just needs to love you as a young woman, too.”

Angela nods. “That’s fair.”

Lillie looks back and forth between all of them. “But…I…who will I model for? You already designed your dress days ago, Nori.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just use this new design —“

Elise clicks her tongue. “Certainly not.” She makes eye contact. “As the Agricultural Representative, you have a responsibility to win every single contest from now until Fall. You need to give it your best, and hiring your best friend as your model could dilute your chances of victory for multiple reasons.”

Lillie sighs in relief, not even looking at all offended at Elise’s words. “Finally some rationality. Thank you, Elise.”

“Which is why,” Elise continues, disregarding her, “Lillie will model for me. We can slightly misinterpret the theme to ensure I can only come in second place — not first.”

Minori blinks, stunned. Then, a grin lights up her entire face.

“Elise, you minx,” she drawls, taking a sip of wine. “You’d better be careful, or I might actually start to consider you a friend instead of a rival.”

Her cheeks suddenly feel a little pink. “Yes, well, it’s almost certainly the wine that’s making me feel more generous than usual.” She looks down at her lap. “And this precious kitten.” As if she can understand Elise, the baby cat raises its head and blinks. Elise’s heart turns to mush. “Yes, sweet baby, I’m talking about you. Now go back to sleep.”

“So do I have absolutely no say in this?” Lillie asks, exasperated.

“Certainly not,” Elise says, and a “nope” comes from Minori. When Lillie looks helplessly to Licorice and Angela, they just smile at her.

“It is a pretty good idea,” Licorice says softly, bringing her glass of rosé to her lips. “I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“We’ll help you win Kamil’s heart next fashion contest, Licorice,” Elise says dryly.

Licorice’s face turns ashen, and Elise immediately regrets her comment. Apparently, Licorice’s rather obvious crush on Kamil is not obvious to everyone, because the remaining girls in the room gasp.

Of course, Elise can’t take anything back — so she keeps her head high, finishing off her third glass of wine but completely avoiding Licorice’s gaze.

“Licorice, you like Kamil?” Minori asks, gently.

But the botanist just stands from the sofa, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “I’ve got to use the bathroom. Excuse me.”

She tiptoes past the girls and heads for the staircase. Elise’s ears are burning, but she doesn’t say anything, lest she risk offending anyone else. She suddenly makes eye contact with Minori — who, rather than looking miffed or appalled, gives her a sympathetic look.

“Perhaps I should head home for the night,” she says, already lifting herself from the chair — much to the kitten’s protest — to gather her things.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Angela says with a sigh. “We need your help designing the dress.” She pauses to straighten the hem of her shirt. “Don’t worry about it, Elise. I knew, too. Licorice is shy, but she’ll be okay.” She looks up at Lillie. “Actually, I think she’ll feel a little less lonely knowing there’s someone in the same boat.”

Before anyone can comment further on the matter, Iris and Agate trudge back up the stairs, arms full of paper and pens.

“Alright, time to make the prettiest friggin’ toga the world has ever seen!” Agate cries, dumping her pile of paper on the coffee table.

Iris and Mistel’s Kitchen. Night.

Three hours later, the girls manage to throw together a viable design for the fashion contest. Elise agrees to take it home and sew it up by the competition — of course, Minori mentally notes that she’ll have to confirm with her again tomorrow, seeing as Elise also downed at least six glasses of wine by the time she started home. In fact, her rival-friend was so inebriated that she actually kissed both of Minori’s cheeks before leaving. She smiles at the memory.

Elise also ended up taking home the little kitten that spent the entire night in her lap. Agate tries to give the other kitten, the tom-cat, to Minori, but she insists that she’d rather pick him up later in the week when she can consider adopting a new pet with a sober mindset. She isn’t quite as brave as Elise.

One by one the girls leave until it’s just Iris and Minori, the latter of whom insists on staying to help clean up and do dishes.

“Are you sure?” Iris asks when she offers to help. “You’re not too tired?”

“I’m pretty wired up, actually,” she replies. “Doing dishes usually helps calm me down. Something about the warm water.”

And so, they situate themselves at the sink: Iris on drying duty and Minori on washing. Their lack of conversation doesn’t feel awkward, rather, Minori feels at peace. After all, it’s been a long — but terribly fun — evening, and Minori has never been one to force conversation when it isn’t necessary.

Eventually, however, Iris comments over the steady rush of the sink water, “I saw you and Klaus sitting in the West Park earlier today.”

From her slightly cautious tone, Minori doesn’t know quite how to respond. She settles with nonchalance — after all, she’s quite sure that if any of the girls, even Iris, have discovered her budding feelings for Klaus, they would’ve brought it up during the course of the evening.

“Oh, um, yeah.” She wipes her hands briefly on one of the dish towels. "He was helping me with some of my ideas for the White Day festival.”

Iris smiles thoughtfully. “He does have a rather good listening ear, doesn’t he? I used to work through ideas for my novels with him all the time.”

They fall into silence again, and Minori wonders if — hopes, really — that that’s the end of that conversation. To her understanding, Iris has long-since moved on from her feelings for Klaus. Apparently they dated before Minori was in town, and only for a very short while. She hadn’t previously considered that if Iris still harbors feelings for him, even something small, that it could put a wedge in their friendship.

Minori grabs another wine glass from their stack next to the sink. The stem is stained with chocolate — no doubt from the delicious eclairs that Elise brought.

“Minori,” Iris begins — and she immediately knows where this conversation is going from her tone of voice — “I don’t mean to pry, but —“

“There’s nothing going on between me and Klaus,” she blurts out, refusing to make eye contact with Iris. “At least, not like that.”

But Iris snorts, rather uncharacteristically. “You misunderstand me, dearest. I’m long past my feelings for Klaus — if there ever were deep ‘feelings’ in the first place.”

As she passes the washed wine glass to Iris, they’re forced to make eye contact. But she looks more sincere than any actress Minori has ever seen on TV, so her heartbeat slows down a little. “Oh. Sorry.”

Iris shrugs. Smiles. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

A slight pause. Minori turns the faucet knob to the right to heat up the water a little more. Suddenly the tips of her fingers feel frozen.

“It’s just,” Iris starts again, not making eye contact, “no matter where you stand on the matter, Klaus looks at you in a way I’ve never seen him look at anyone.” She sets the now-dry wine glass on the counter. “You must notice that he has feelings for you.”

Minori scoffs. “Oh, I highly doubt there are any ‘feelings’ involved. We’re just…playful friends.”

Still, despite her joking, her heart flutters in her chest. Klaus does look at her in a sort of funny way, like he’s staring straight into her soul. And today, when he asked how he might identify her lunch at the White Day auction — does he really intend on buying it? Does that mean he wants to go on a date with her? She certainly wouldn’t deny him if he asked her on a date. And, on that note, if he came to her house at midnight and declared he wanted to make rampant love to her, well, she might play coy for a little bit, but she might not deny that, either, but perhaps that’s just because she so loves the way his hair might look in the moonlight as he kisses her senselessly —

“Minori?”

“What! Oh, shit —“

Iris calling her name causes her to jump, which in turn causes her to drop the plate she’s been vigorously scrubbing into the sink. The resulting splash of water drenches the front of her sweater.

“I’m so sorry,” Iris says, handing her a dry rag. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s totally fine, I was just zoning. You know, like I do.” She takes the rag and dabs helplessly at her sweater.

Iris kindly reaches over and turns off the faucet. Pulling the last dish from the sink, she forgoes her towel method and instead just places it on the drying rack.

“All I’m saying,” she says, turning around so that she can lean with her back against the counter, “is that Klaus…isn’t exactly who he seems.”

Minori pauses in her dabbing. She looks up at Iris with wide eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, it’s like this.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Klaus’ past is a mystery. Half of his current life is a mystery. And he’ll do absolutely everything in his power to keep it that way.”

She blinks. Remembers how, earlier today when they were talking in the park, he completely avoided her questions about where he came from and what he did before he arrived in Oak Tree Town. And —

“Have you noticed how often he goes to the city?” Iris asks, quietly. “And how when you ask why he’s going, he never answers?”

Minori doesn’t respond — not because she doesn’t agree, but more because she’s scared of the implications. Klaus is indeed gone from Oak Tree Town a couple of times a week, sometimes for full days and nights. He did, after all, promise to find her a cotton candy maker.

“Does he have, like, another job or something?” she asks, hoping Iris can provide a simple answer.

But she just shrugs. “I have no idea.” Her expression softens. “And truthfully, Minori, if you do have feelings for him —“

“Which I don’t.”

A coy smile appears on Iris’ lips. “Of course. But on the off-chance that you’re lying, which wouldn’t be unusual because you’re a terrible liar…” She inhales. Resets in a more serious tone. “I’m not trying to dissuade you from a relationship, if that’s what you want. But I care for you, and I’d hate for this to end in heartbreak.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not about to hand him my heart to break, isn’t it?”

The door to the house swings open. The creaking of the wood startles Minori a bit, and she’s grateful there’s nothing for her to drop in the dish water this time.

“What’s this about heartbreak?”

Mistel, finally returned from his meeting in Norchester, stands in the doorway. His hair is wind-tousled, and his almost boyish physique is swallowed in a large gray overcoat.

“You’re back,” Iris greets, smiling at her brother. “How was the meeting?”

Mistel’s demeanor turns unusually dull. “Awful, to be rather honest.” He sighs, removing his suave top hat and hanging it on a hook near the door. "Right before I left, I couldn’t find the blueprints I meant to sell with the antique.” In a show of defeat, he hangs his head. “I’m afraid they’ve been stolen.”

Minori blinks. “Stolen?” She feels like that conclusion might’ve been a little bit rushed, but Mistel is nothing if not shamelessly dramatic.

Iris seems to be thinking the same thing. “But how do you know you haven’t just misplaced them?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “I tore the house apart looking before I left.” Donning a tiny smile, he adds, “I thought you’d be upset about the state I left it in.”

She tuts a bit, crossing her arms. “Yes, well, Agate and I did a lot of cleaning before the rest of the girls came over. But I didn’t realize it was because something had been stolen.” In a tone that sounds more like a worried mother than a frustrated sister, she adds, “You should’ve told me.”

He crosses to sit at the kitchen table. “Alas, but then I would’ve ruined your lovely ladies’ soirée.” Collapsing into the chair, he explains, “In any case, yesterday I laid out the blueprints on my desk in the shop so that I would be prepared for the meeting. Even though I looked everywhere for them, they were gone. A keen customer must’ve realized how much they were worth and snatched them when I wasn’t looking.”

“And just how much are they worth?” Minori asks, turning around to lean against the counter. She isn’t sure she believes that anyone in Oak Tree Town would do such a thing, but perhaps for the right price, a visiting tourist might’ve been tempted.

“At least ten thousand dollars.”

She utters a rather colorful curse. “Ten thousand dollars?”

Mistel nods sullenly. He looks rather like a waterboarded cat. “Indeed.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, frustrated that someone could do this to her friend. “It must’ve been one of your out-of-town customers. We’ll make a poster or something. I’ll let Veronica know when I head to the Guild for our meeting tomorrow.”

Mistel waves a hand. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure they’re long gone from Oak Tree Town by now.” With a sigh, he adds, “Of course, thank you, in any case.”

Iris opens one of the cabinet doors to start putting away the dishes. As she does so, Minori makes a mental note to let Veronica know about the missing blueprints, anyway. Surely they could put together some sort of investigation.

Still, she remains a little doubtful. Oak Tree Town doesn’t have a proper police force, let alone any stray detectives. They share a law enforcement with the next biggest town over — they’ve just never really had to worry about crime in such a nice town. Now, with the growing population and increased tourism, she wonders if this, too, will have to change.

“Oh, Minori, why don’t you ask Mistel about the White Day festival?” Iris suggests, pulling her from her melancholy thoughts. “No doubt that will cheer him up.”

Mistel lifts his head. “A White Day festival?”

Her worries of change will have to wait, she decides, as she notices the hopeful look in MIstel’s eyes.

She grins. “Indeed. Mistel, how would you like to be an auctioneer for a day?”

Elise’s Manor. Night.

Elise’s walk home is uneventful. In her drunken state, she nearly trips up the cobblestone stairs leading up to her mansion, but she can’t bring herself to mind. After all, the night sky is peppered with gleaming stars, and with her newly-adopted kitten curled up in her deep peacoat pocket, she feels a deep sense of contentment.

She approaches the front door of the mansion, fumbling in the not-kitten pocket for her keyring. She stands on the porch a bit longer than usual, trying to find her house key with nothing more than the moonlight as her guide. A long time ago, when she first moved to Oak Tree Town, she denied her locksmith’s suggestion to just give her a master key for every building on the farm. Instead, she requested each key be color-coded, with the key to her own home being her favorite shade of pink.

She finally finds the right key, and sighs. She would like to capture this moment, she thinks — between the wine, the lingering effects of laughing with the girls, and her new kitten, she feels rather content just now, standing on the porch, drinking in the spring moonlight.

That contentment is shattered, however, when she hears something shatter just inside the house. Despite the immediate pounding in her heart, she shoves the key in the lock, turns it, and shoves the front door open.

Inside, she’s met with a scene that, to any person who didn’t just singlehandedly down a bottle of wine in one evening, would be very worrisome: Madame Dupont stands at the bottom of the stairs in her nightgown, while a very alarmed-looking Nadi stands opposite her in the entrance of the parlor. The antique lamp that usually sits on the little table next to the banister is shattered on the floor in between them, and Dupont is holding what remains of the glass body.

“Merde, mon dieu,” Elise swears, looking between them with wide eyes. “What the hell —“

“You,” Madame hisses, noticing her for the first time. She takes a heavy step toward her, waving the broken lamp-shard. “You lying little witch —“

Madame raises her hand — the one with the glass shard— high into the air, preparing to strike.

Due to her incapacitation, Elise’s reaction time is abysmally slow. Nadi’s, however, is not. In two large strides, he crosses the foyer to stand in front of Elise, blocking her from Dupont.

While Elise appreciates the gallant gesture, she knows that this battle is between her and ex-nanny. She feebly attempts to elbow Nadi out of the way, but he won’t budge — she catches his gaze when he looks over his shoulder at her and his eyes are steely gray.

“Don’t touch her,” Nadi says, and Elise is surprised — and impressed — by the intensity of his warning.

She stands on her tiptoes, attempting to make eye contact with Madame over Nadi’s shoulder. “Sweet Angelique,” she drawls, trying in vain to conceal her slurring, “please do explain to me why you’ve broken my favorite foyer lamp.”

“I’ll tell you when you stop hiding behind your Silk Country street rat —“

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Elise finally pushes Nadi out of the way using both her arms. He stumbles to the side, thankfully making no effort to stand between them again, allowing her to stand-face-to-face with Madame.

“Nadi had no part in this,” she explains, finally understanding what’s happening: their Prince-ruse is up. “I paid him off to keep quiet about our little prank.” She looks over at him — at the way he’s perched, ready to jump to her defense, and, upon feeling the warmth that blossoms in her chest like a spring crocus, adds, “He’s a more esteemed member of this household than you are and ever will be, and for the rest of your duration here, you’re to treat him as such.”

As much as she means for the speech to be dignified, her last couple of words slur together. In an attempt to regain her mental foothold, she reaches for the loping stair banister, but instead loses her balance when she underestimates how far away it is. Nadi is quick to stretch out an arm to catch her, while Madame steps away, disgusted.

“Elise, are you alright?” Nadi asks. If she weren’t so woozy, she might be touched by the evident concern in his tone.

“Certainly,” she replies, raising a finger and a foot and abruptly falling back against Nadi once again. The warmth radiating from his chest makes her feel like she’s standing with her back to a cozy bonfire. She remembers the night sky, her moment of contentment, and smiles despite herself.

Madame’s nose crinkles. She must piece together the implications of her slurring, stumbling, and strangely sappy expression. “Mon dieu, you’re drunk.”

It’s less of a question and more of a disgusted realization. Elise grins.

“Absolutely,” she agrees, and promptly throws up right in front of Madame’s feet.

The next few moments pass like an out-of-body experience: Nadi manages to support her while she threatens to collapse on the floor. Madame starts fuming in French about how while she was off “galavanting” with her “nightmare girl-club,” she called Elise’s father and found out that Nadi is indeed not a prince from Silk Country and that Elise indeed has made a fool of her for the past several days. Meanwhile, Nadi calls for Jenny to help Elise and clean up her mess. And meanwhile to that, Madame keeps screaming in French —

“Ça suffit!” Elise cries finally, shocking all of them into silence. Somehow, standing in front of Madame with some drool on the corner of her mouth and supported by Nadi’s arm around her waist, she feels without fear for the first time in days.

“Cela suffira Madame, merci beaucoup.” She sighs. Wipes the drool from her mouth. Nods at her best servant. “Jenny, when you’re finished cleaning this up, please take Madame Dupont to bed. I fear she’s feeling ill.”

Jenny stands from the puke-stain and nods. “Yes ma’am.” Perhaps Elise is imagining it, but she thinks she sees a tiny smile playing on her servant’s lips.

“I will not be — be put to bed,” Madame splutters.

“Oh but yes, you most certainly will, and as will I,” Elise replies, wiping her bangs away from her sweaty forehead. “I think the both of us could benefit from some rest. We can discuss our dispute in the morning. Le matin apporte les renouveaux; that’s what my mother always said.” She tries to stand straight but staggers; Nadi catches her. “Goodnight,” she manages, and then drops her head again.

Jenny, bless her, takes the shard of the broken lamp out of Madame’s hand and drops it in her cleaning bucket. Then, she motions to the stairs. “Shall we, ma’am?”

Madame shoots Elise the nastiest glare to ever exist, and then turns on her heel, trouncing up the stairs with Jenny obediently close at her heels.

When they’re gone, Elise sinks into herself. She feels heavy. Hopefully, she thinks as she stares at the stain she’s left on the runner rug, the calmness in her stomach means she’s done sicking all over the floor. She wonders if perhaps she shouldn’t have had quite so much wine at Iris’ darling get-together — but then, of course, she doesn’t dare imagine how this situation might’ve gone down had she been sober.

Nadi suddenly clears his throat. She starts — she’s entirely forgotten he’s still there, even though he’s half-supporting her as she clings to his waist with one arm.

“Elise, are you…alright?” he asks gently, like prodding a sleeping tiger with a stick. He’s looking at her with one eyebrow raised. He’s in pajamas. Pajamas! She hasn’t seen a grown man in pajamas since she was a teenager, or younger.

“Oh, absolutely,” she replies, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “I always feel just peachy after sicking all over my foyer floor, don’t you?”

“Dupont didn’t…frighten you?” he asks, and he’s still looking at her so peculiarly, like she’s a kitten who’s been forced to take a bath.

She shakes her head. “Dupont doesn’t scare me. Few things do. Besides, my drunkenness makes for a perfect suit of armor against her word-daggers, wouldn’t you agree, dear Nadi?”

He scoffs, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “You really are drunk. You know, in my two years of working here, I’ve never seen you take even a sip of alcohol. I guess now I know why.”

“Mmm.” She points a lazy finger at him. “I resent that insinuation.” Lips loose with wine, she continues, “It’s not that I’m an angry drunk or even a sloppy drunk, it’s actually that I find myself particularly amiable when I’m intoxicated — and one must keep up appearances.”

“You’re out of your mind. Come on, let’s get you up—“

Whatever he’s about to say is abruptly interrupted by a mewling sound from her pocket.

She gasps. “Mon minou!”

“Your what?”

She reaches into her pocket and gently pulls out her new kitten. “Oh, my sweet princess, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot you were in there!” She brushes her nose with the kitten’s. “Are you alright, my darling?”

“You’re kidding,” Nadi says, deadpan, staring at the kitten in disbelief.

“Indeed, I’m kitten,” she replies, chortling at her distasteful pun.

He pinches his the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You need to go to bed.”

She cradles her kitten in her arms and sighs. “Yes, well, I’d rather like to, but I don’t completely trust myself to get up the stairs. Shall I sleep in the parlor? Or my office?” Addressing her kitten, she adds, “What do you think, ma princesse? Where would we be more comfy?”

“Neither,” Nadi answers instead, touching the small of her back. Guiding her toward the staircase, he continues, “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

Elise is content enough with this decision. As much as it would be easier to fall into oblivion in her office chair or the parlor or even the floor, at this point, she would rather like to wrap herself up in her pink duvet with minou and sleep until well after the sun is up.

“You know, Nadi,” she says when they’re halfway up the stairs, “your cold façade doesn’t trick me. You can be pleasant — when you want to be.” Her voice is loud and brash to be saying such words, especially in the quiet tenseness of the entry foyer.

He doesn’t respond, but he moves a hand to her waist as she stumbles a little against the banister. She likes the way his arm feels like a wall against the small of her back, like she could lean all the way backwards and still never fall. He would catch her, she thinks. It is a soft sentiment, one that she wouldn’t dare allow herself to feel were she sober.

They reach the door to her bedroom and she slumps against the frame, exhausted. Little minou jumps out of her arms and proudly enters the room, as if she somehow has some keen intuition that tells her she’s arrived home.

“Goodnight, Elise,” Nadi says, starting to turn away from her.

“Wait.”

He stops. Looks at her. Grins. “What, do you need to be tucked in, too?”

Her shoes are pinching her toes, her brain is swimming, and her forehead is terribly sweaty — and yet all she can focus on is the way his hair looks so nice when it’s tied away from his face. It accentuates the sharpness of his jawline, reveals the muscles in his neck.

She crosses her arms over her chest.

“If you tell anyone about what happened tonight,” she begins, surprisingly un-slurred, “and I mean any of it, I’ll find the remains of the lamp Madame shattered and shank you with it myself. Got it?”

But she may as well have threatened to put a downy pillow under his head and sing him to sleep, because he just chuckles quietly.

“Of course, your highness. I wouldn’t expect anything otherwise.”

“Excellent. Goodnight, Nadi.”

“Goodnight, Elise. Sleep well.”

#draw a scene from this chapter and i'll love u forever #i love this chapter y'all #the plot thickens #Blue lace #lousylarksings #story of seasons #klaus #minori #annie #elise #nadi

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fandomcares · 6 years

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The Project Sparky Silent Auction Starts NOW!

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caltropspress · 3 years

Text

Notes on AKAI SOLO’s Eleventh Wind

Rhythm in poetry need not be “smooth” or “musical” (since that word has a questionable meaning). Be cautious of these descriptions as a so-called “good ear.”

—“Manifesto” from Russell Atkins’ Juxtapositions

I try to become really liquid with the shit—not even liquid. I try to become formless.

—AKAI SOLO

Always the same thing. A drop of hope glimmers, then a sea of despair begins to rage, and always the pain, always the pain, always the anguish, always one and the same thing.

—Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

I've been robbing motherfuckers since the slave ships.

—The Notorious B.I.G., “Gimme the Loot”

There’s an “unfinished” aesthetic (I mean it gently, fondly) to AKAI SOLO’s work. His rhymes often start in medias res. The listener needs to become oriented to what he’s spewing, but he barely allows you to catch your breath. For anyone who’s ever been thrown [au]topsy-turvy by an ocean’s wave, you can respect the power of the primordial soup flow. Each verse is a wipeout. It’s Ron Wilson’s relentless drums on the Surfaris’ 1963 “Wipe Out” and the Fat Boys’ rollicking 1987 version all at once—joy pulled from despair.

2. “…a sunken system”

What is flow? In AKAI’s case, it’s something abrupt—both a step-up and a step-to. Is it free-form? Is it automatic writing gone horribly wrong? Is it asemic writing? Is it a Ouija-like push of the pen across the page? A flower doodled on scrap paper? Is it AKAI’s language acquisition happening in real time—a babbling? It’s not an infantile flow, though. Mannish boy? Man-child? It sometimes sounds like lips smacking of Mississippi mud. Think of AKAI on Shrine’s “Parables” (which begins with the lapping of waves—not the babbling brook): he takes “a deep sea soak in plasma.” The structure and borders of AKAI’s bars are liquid (formless); his words wash over.

3. “Pondering of the painter in between strokes.” (An Unknown Infinite, “Concrete Slides”)

Who’s out of pocket? Geochemistry tells us small pockets of water pulsate deep below the Earth’s surface. I find AKAI to be offbeat in both senses of the word. He’s both outré and outer space. Antediluvian and FEMA flood recovery plan. His bars rupture the very notion of time, of meter. To rap along with AKAI is to have an out-of-body experience—our neuroscience skitters and we gain an astral perspective on what the physical mouth is doing. Sheldon Pearce has called AKAI’s verses “impressionistic.” Plugging into AKAI’s music is to induce the Stendhal syndrome—beholding the sublimity of Claude Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, but—more accurately—Calida Garcia Rawles’ Singularity, seeing as how AKAI keeps it hyper-real. He “signs” nearly all his songs—another painterly touch.

4. The Earth is a great place to visit, but I ain't stayin’. (J-Ro, The Alkaholiks)

AKAI SOLO is for the antisocial kid who quotes Bruce Lee under their yearbook photo: Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless—like water. Water is everywhere on Eleventh Wind, even if the album title suggests other elemental forces. AKAI sometimes slurs, but not drunkenly—this isn’t some stumbling and staggering likwidation: it’s a reflection of your own grogginess, your own inertia from sleeping on his flow. There are oceans between J.M.W. Turner’s The Slave Ship and the “Big Pimpin’” of Jay-Z, but AKAI’s poetics bridge the two. He comes at us, off-kilter, aslant, like the uneasy and queasy cover art for O.G.C.’s Da Storm.

5. “…a ship came, seeking harbour, fleeing from torture & swords” (from Kamau Brathwaite’s “Noom”)

The content often defies logical reasoning. He spits non-sequiturs in a literal sense, in that he does not follow. He machetes his own path (cutlass, more likely). AKAI is Cappadonna with his words—his slang is editorial, and it floods similarly. Zilla Rocca has called Cappadonna’s work “a waterfall of energy and creativity.” The same, seriously, could be applied to AKAI SOLO. I’ll call it logorrhea—and I don’t mean that pejoratively. It’s the seasickness you stomach so you can see the sunset from hundreds of miles off land.

The songs on Eleventh Wind are essentially single verses. There’s no middle eight, only an interminable Middle Passage. And water is everywhere.

AKAI’s lineage traces to the same cove you’d find Mr. Complex and Saafir washed ashore. Like those predecessors, his un-rhymes and rhythm-driven bars beat against the rocks, ebbing just when you think he’s flowing. He’s an H2O proof MC. He’s Black hydropower, and, like the ancestors, AKAI continues to speak of rivers, of swerve of shore to bend of bay.

On “An Ode to the Isolated,” argov’s production sounds submerged, certifiably Cousteau. We’re immediately in the deep, and the beat platforms AKAI’s aqua-lung breath control. He’s “in a den of dissonance dissolving,” which puts language to what’s happening sonically here better than a critic ever could. AKAI is “overwhelmed by your deep blueness”—the vast blue sea. These are pandemic blues. The Covid-minded lyric, “Masks donned as requested,” doubles as the masculine trap to swallow pain, smothering emotion in gritty sand, while still forward-facing a street persona. AKAI has acknowledged Eleventh Wind was, in part, generated from a depressive state.

[Testimony of John Cranston, a sailor upon the Polly, describing a slave woman hoisted down to sea from the mainmast in a chair after being isolated for small pox, June 15, 1791]

Q: Did you not hear her speak or make any Noises when she was thrown over—or see her struggle? A: No—a Mask was ty’d round her mouth & Eyes that she could not, & it was done to prevent her making any Noise that the other Slaves might not hear, least they should rise. Q: Do you recollect to hear the Capt. say any thing after the scene was ended? A: All he said was he was sorry he had lost so good a Chair. Q: Did any person endeavour to prevent him throwing her [over]board? A: No.

“Tetsuo” draws on Tsukamoto’s trilogy of cyberpunk perversity. How AKAI could feel “washed before the water touch the skin” is beyond me, as the skin crawls with maggots. The penetration of metal rods, but no tetanus—no lockjaw. Only body horror flow. He’s sketching futures—and all of them are nightmarish: “Surrounded by a blanket of ashes, / We all fall down like that one song said we would.” AKAI vaguely alludes to a plague rhyme of yore. And the uncertainties we’re living with come through even in his drafts, as the liner notes on PTP’s cassette release of the album provide a set of lyric options: “Surrounded by a sea/bed/blanket…” Choose your own misadventure.

9. From at least the sixteenth century onward, a major part of the ocean engineering of ships has been to...minimize the wake. But the effect of trauma is the opposite. It is to make maximal the wake. (Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being)

On “Tainted,” AKAI—young as he may be—identifies the foolishness of some of his peers: “N----s wanna toast on a slave ship / …sinking with the drink.” AKAI suggests they’re still on the slave ship, ignorant of the fact. When he goes off on a paranoid tangent full of what seem to be elementary internal rhymes, it’s anything but: “hitting a lark / in the dark / in the park / skill a shark / or a narc / ill a mark on his job every time.” This litany of monosyllabic rhymes sounds an alarm.

10. “Even though the vessels differ, we’re all still sailing. / …navigation through suffering.”

“Still Sailing” acts as a centerpiece for the water imagery on Eleventh Wind. It’s also a self-assessment of his style. The “wavelength irregular” puns on wave and owns the irregular flow; “my groove goofy,” he admits. His vulnerability is stunning, refreshing: “I was ensuring my work was worth something.” Such vulnerability is liquid, is flux, reflects reality:

In a dirt sea, all I am is a seed Reaching for what I mean to Rooted in what it is, galvanized by what can be.

Even AKAI’s other nature metaphors—like earth (be it rare-earth or “Real Earth,” no matter), seeds, and roots—are built on water ones (“dirt sea”). This is Wallace Stevens-level abstraction. “Flowing like katanas of grass / Landscaping through with blazing sound waves” does it again (“flowing”/“grass”). And, of course, the mention of flowing katanas invites a Liquid Swords comparison. With the even cuts of AKAI’s sharp lyrics, it’s warranted.

I want to feel like Vast Aire, “like Moses with a staff that parts the Red Sea,” but it’s not so simple. Meaning is slippery on the album—hard to get your footing, your sea legs. Listeners are pulled into rip-tides and torn asunder, repeatedly. AKAI’s songs are raw—not in a hardcore way—in a work-in-progress sense, the way some of the most sincere songs humans have recorded are at times unfinished ones. Like Dylan’s “Santa Fe,” for instance, where the words converge into a slurry.

11. “Your water heavier than it’s supposed to be and they know that.”

On “Candor,” AKAI speaks on the burden of family discord, a “dilemma with me and mines.” In venting, he channels and subverts LL Cool J: “Don’t call it a comeback / These are just preliminary steps / On your back like structural racism is.” Where LL foregrounded his pugnacious masculinity, masking his insecurities (all the while calling for his “Mama”), AKAI is more likely to allow his tears to rain down like a monsoon. Candor has its origins in kand, meaning “to shine.” AKAI’s words offer glimmers of clarity, of openness.

12. “Depression stirs me before the morning chirps.”

Eleventh Wind closes with “Nebula”—gases flow, dust is bathed in glowing starlight. Again, we’re persevering: “Sound like nil singing / Feeling like nebula unraveling / Feeling like infinity expanding.” The consecutive gerunds emphasize AKAI’s desperation. He’s nihilistic here, nonexistent (“nil”) and grasping for meaning. In that way, he’s not so different from us approaching his music. Whether people are hot or cold, irate or aloof, he turns to water for comfort: “When I want to feel the heat I don’t get from people, I resort to water. / When I want to feel the cold I know people for, I resort to water.” AKAI SOLO doesn’t just bless us, he christens us.

Images:

The Fat Boys & The Beach Boys, “Wipeout” music video (screen shot) | The Surfaris, “Wipe Out” 12” (Decca, 1963) | Fat Boys, “Wipeout!” 12” (Tin Pan Apple, 1987) | Jay-Z, “Big Pimpin’” music video (screen shot) | J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840) | Originoo Gunn Clappaz, Da Storm cassette cover (Duck Down/Priority Records, 1996) | Claudia Garcia Rawles, Singularity (2018) | The Alkaholiks, Likwidation album cover (Loud, 1997) | James Neagle, Frontispiece for the Dying Negro (1793) | Screen shot from Tetsuo II: Body Hammer (Shinya Tsukamoto, 1992) | Hokusai, Feminine Wave (1845) | Carina Nebula, NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team | Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise (1872)

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hippopotatomus · 4 years

Text

It’s party time! Square dancing is introduced for the intrepid, the inexperienced, and the deranged, and nobody gets hurt. Sylvia’s kids discover the kitchen and the joys of Jello. Finally, they load into Newt and take the refurbished amphibious vehicle for a test run.

Now that there is kind of a plot, you might need to backtrack a bit. Here’s a link if you decide to start reading at the beginning. There’s a helpful chart below to give you a chance to sort out the rodents. Recommended snack: Jello, especially those fancy molded kinds with random foodstuffs trapped inside. Soundtrack: Old Time Square Dance Music. Switch to Truckin‘ (Grateful Dead) once they start driving around.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everybody piles into the amphibious vehicle, otherwise known as “Newt,” and take him for an offroad test drive around the principality and into the River Dobby.

He ran into Bond first and dispatched the little budgie to fetch the hens and have them herd Sylvia’s kids over to the makeshift ballroom in time for the first dance. Then he wandered toward the glow in the workshop windows where the sulky millwright and his crew of naked mole rats worked away on the zeppelin.

“We have plenty of time to finish this. You guys ate, right? And then came back down to work again? Take the night off, listen to some music, have some dessert. I won’t even bug you about dancing. Newt’s ready to drive, and that’s good enough for tomorrow. Come on and take a break.”

Rodney scowled at Dobby but nodded toward his workers and they put down their tools and scampered toward the rowdy ballroom. Dobby stood on tiptoes and tried to peer into the windows of the amphibious vehicle and frowned. He opened the door and looked up at the driver’s seat. Rodney cleared his throat, stepped forward and pulled out a little step from the undercarriage. Dobby smiled and stepped up into Newt, and sat in the driver’s seat. Rodney shut the door and Dobby looked behind him into the Salon. The carpets, couches, curtains, and chandeliers were exactly like his sketches. He turned back to Rodney, who now seemed to be standing way down below him, and clutched the steering wheel to stave off a little dizzy spell.

“I saw that,” said Rodney. “If you’re woozy about this height, well, what are you going to do when the airship lifts off the ground?”

“I’m fine. It just surprised me for a minute. Annabelle is going to be driving, or piloting, or whatever. I plan to ride in the back. I’m going to lay on a couch and let Conchita feed me grapes.”

“What do you think Sylvia will say about that?”

“Oh, Conchita can feed her grapes, too!”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Okay, come on down from there. Let’s go to the dance. Are the desserts served yet?”

“Of course not, but there’s still some fruit and a couple willow branches left.”

They trudged back up the hill to the ballroom. Three small squirrels screamed past them, a trio of hens huffing and puffing not far behind. The goose was approaching the microphone as they entered the fray.

“That tune was Who Hit Nelly with a Stovepipe. Now, who’s ready to dance? We’re going to need four couples to a square. Looks like we can easily come up with four squares tonight. Can you please give it a bit of thought and choose couples who aren’t ten times as big as you are? That’s okay for some of the circle dances, but it’s kinda dangerous for this one, okay? I’m talking to you, down there. Yes, you. Can you please switch out with that couple in the square next to you? Yeah, that’s going to be better. Okay, how are we doing, now? Need one more couple in this square up front. Prince D! What are you doing? Where’s your partner, get up here!”

Dobby looked around for Sylvia and spotted her in a square near the back, partnered up with Kipling. She shrugged and smiled at him from across the room. Dobby looked around for a partner, grabbed the surprised millwright and pulled him forward into the front square.

“All right,” said the goose. “Rodney’s gonna dance tonight! I’m Silly Goose, and I’m gonna be calling the dances tonight, so pay attention! Couple one is closest to me, couple two is on their right, and on around to four. Make a note of it. Each couple has a raven and a lark: raven on the right, lark on the left.”

There was a lot of talking in the squares, each group determining the couple numbers. Then the raven lark controversy, with a lot of switching around due to some bird preferences, and even some couples changing when someone refused to be a raven. These shenanigans persisted until the caller tapped the mic.

“Quiet up, y’all! We’re going to start with an allemande left with your corner. Ignore your partner for the moment, reach out with your left paw toward the nearest fool, shake paws and turn right around, return to face your partner. Okay, so far so good. Now we’re going to learn a right and left grand, and I sure darned hope at least a few of you know it already.”

She reached down for a sip of water before she continued. The crowd was attentive but unruly, polite but pushy, and they finally made it through the last instruction before they forgot the first one.

“Okay, the band’s gonna play Dogs in the Dishes for us. Everybody ready?

With your corner left allemande, Back to your partner for a right left grand, Hand over hand around that ring, Meet your own for a big fat swing, Swing your partner round and round, Any old way but upside down, Couple one, rip and snort, Down the center and cut em off short, Raven go gee and the lark go haw, Now all back home where you belong!”

Silly Goose called half a dozen dances and after each dance, everybody chose new partners. After the first dance ended, Dobby made a beeline for Sylvia, nearly knocking over the millwright. He was happy to be abandoned until Bianca cornered him and he ended up being ensnared for every dance because the ladies were so excited to see him joining the fun. Sylvia seemed to be enjoying herself, and Dobby only stepped on her toes twice, a new personal best for a night of dancing. Dessert was served, the band kept playing until the final tune, The Snouts and Ears of America.

“Did they get dessert?”

Sylvia snorted and shifted Tix back up onto her shoulder. Dobby had Cu and Sali in a backpack his decorator had made up from leftover curtain fabric.

“I guess you didn’t hear. I don’t know if I want to tell you but the rabbits are going to tell you anyway. The hens were supposed to bring them up to the ballroom, but they were so tuckered out that these little monsters got ahead of them, took a wrong turn and ended up in the kitchen. Fortunately, they had never seen petits fours before and didn’t know they were food. They went straight for the Jello molds. They’d never seen those, either, and decided they were perfect for jumping. Mind you, it’s all rumors, I wasn’t there, and you shouldn’t be mad at your hens, either. Mission impossible, right?”

#gallery-0-4 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-4 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-4 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-4 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

Dobby laughed. “I heard. I’m glad we were able to give you a break. Jello is easy to fix, magic, you know. It would have been trickier to create new cakes, but Jello? That was easy. The rabbits weren’t angry, just a bit excited.”

“But my kids shouldn’t be getting away with being naughty like that. It doesn’t help when we get home, you know.”

“I guess you didn’t hear all of it. The hens got there right away, wouldn’t let your kids have any dessert until everybody else had eaten. I hear it nearly killed them. They thought there would be nothing left.”

Sylvia laughed. “Well let’s cram them into bed and call it a day!”

~~~~~~~~~~

After a disaster free brunch, Dobby led Sylvia and her three musketeers (complete with hats) down to the workshop. Rodney was attaching nautical bumpers to Newt’s sides as the Peahen in charge of decorating selected the colors.

“Are you kids ready for a ride? Hop on and check it out. I need to load on the snacks and then we can go.”

“Snacks?” said Sylvia. “We just finished brunch!”

“You never know how long you’ll be away. Best to be prepared.”

Sylvia narrowed her eyes, but perked up when she climbed up into the shiny amphibious vehicle. The little squirrels bounded past her, each one claiming a sumptuous sofa. A rabbit followed with trays, boxes, and bags of snacks to be stowed in the small kitchenette. Dobby walked around to the passenger entrance where Rodney stood ready to load him in.

“I want Sylvia to drive Newt, but I’m coming along to take notes or make adjustments,” said Rodney, as he placed his shoulder in position to nudge our Prince up into the vehicle. “I’ll add a small step on this side, too.”

“Oof,” and Dobby was in. He worked his way back, noting that each tiny squirrel had commandeered a plush couch, leaving him only a selection of smaller club chairs. Sylvia was already in the driver’s seat, and she looked back to check on her smaller charges.

“What are you guys doing? You’ve taken all the best seats so The Prince is stuck with the little chairs! One of you had better give up your seat, pronto!”

“It’s fine,” said Dobby. “I’m already buckled in back here. We’re just driving around, it’s not a test flight, or anything.”

The rabbit grabbed some empty boxes and hopped out the passenger side. Rodney stepped up into the vehicle’s salon, checked everyone’s seatbelts, strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat, and they were off.

“It’s a standard gearshift, maybe a bit touchy at the clutch—“ said Rodney.

Sylvia shot him a withering glance, and drove Newt smoothly up the slope to the main driveway.

“How about you navigate. Can you talk me through a test course with a variety of terrain? Some slopes, some bumps, some deep water?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Rodney. “Turn left here, and we’ll go off-road in a jiffy. We can take the scenic route past the final resting place of the walking palace, and go down into the river. Come up at the fields, cut across on a farm road, and head back. There’s a small road just beyond a gazebo on the right. Here it is, turn right here.”

Sylvia expertly turned off the paved road onto a glorified deer trail through the brush. Branches scratched the sides of the vehicle and randomly poked the open windows. Sylvia looked at Rodney, who was busy peering ahead, oblivious to the forest trying to claw its way into the plush salon.

“The exterior has a fused silicon coating,” he said. “Nothing can scratch, puncture, or gouge this thing. I promise.”

Sylvia alternately bumped and galloped the responsive Newt over the uneven path, slowing to cross over small logs and large boulders. She turned to grin at Rodney.

“This is fun! I’m going to be sad when it’s off the ground, dangling from the airship. I’m glad Annabelle is taking over when the motocross driving becomes boring piloting. Do you know when that test flight is? Any idea?”

“Friday afternoon. We’re going to wait until you get here. You are coming Friday, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan. The party is Saturday, right? Are you going to that? I don’t quite understand the concept, but I think we are all going by zeppelin.” She glanced back at the prince, who was snoozing in an awkward position in his club chair. “But we haven’t been invited to the actual party. Does he expect us to hang out in the parking lot until the party is over?”

“Nobody wants to go to the party, not even the Prince. He wants to make a dramatic entrance, eat some cake, and leave. He wants us all there, waiting as emergency back-up, and an excuse to leave early. It should be fun, and he’s planned a big bash next Sunday for all of us. The rabbits have already submitted menus three times, and he keeps adding courses. There will be a band and dancing, of course, but he’s also asked for crafts tables and games. Oops! We passed the turn for the river. Can you back up? We need to go back to that clump of macadamia trees. Did you see the path on the right? That goes down to the river past the rusting heap that was the walking palace. Someday I’ll haul it out of there and strip it for parts.”

Newt trundled down the path and as the broken no-longer-walking palace came into view, there was a flurry of furry activity in the back. When Sylvia turned around, all three little squirrels were standing on one couch, leaning out the open window and chattering about the rusted magnificence of the ruined palace.

“All three of you! Sit back down, seat belts on! I don’t want to see you out of your seats again! You understand?”

The wailing started, waking the snoozing prince.

“The windows are too high! We can’t see out,” said Sali. She turned to the Prince. “Can you make us some really really really tall couches?”

The Prince considered this request. “No,” he said. “Sit down, buckle up. Right now. Then I will consider some hanging chairs, maybe those woven bamboo ones. They will have to be on tracks so you can move from one side to the other without unbuckling. I’ll have to think it through, and then, of course I will have to run it past my decorator. Will you need headphone jacks so you can listen to music? Bookshelves? Coat hooks, hat racks, built-in storage, cup holders?”

Cu gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s ridiculous.”

Dobby gave him a wide-eyed look. “What? You don’t want the cup holders?”

“Yes, we do!” said Tix. “But I think magazine racks and a tray table would be better than bookshelves. I don’t think we’ll have time to read a whole book, but I am going to bring my comic books if we have a magazine rack. They’re not going to fly out the window are they?”

Dobby considered this seriously. “I think it will work if it is an enclosed box with a lid. What do you think? You have some good ideas. Is there anything else Newt needs? That’s the purpose of a test drive: to work out the bugs, fine tune the accoutrements, spiff it up a bit. Think about it and let me know.”

Cu stared at him. “We need snacks.”

Dobby stared back. “Not until we are on the river. It’s too bumpy here.”

“Is everything okay back there?” Sylvia took her eyes off the road long enough to catch the stare down.

“Everything is just dandy back here. When we get into the river, it’s kind of boring. Why don’t you hand over the controls to Rodney at that point, join us back here for snacks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Soon they were driving into the river . . .

Soon, they were driving down the soft bank of the river. The wheels spun a bit, trying to get purchase, a rooster tail of sand following their dubious progress. Rodney took a pencil from behind his ear and made a note on his clipboard.

“I’ll weld on a winch onto the back.”

“Not a sky hook?”

Rodney looked at her to see if she was serious. She was smiling, but right at that moment, her eyes opened wide and her mouth formed an O. Newt slid sideways and there was a gurgling sound as they plunged into the river. Rodney made another note on his clipboard.

“All-weather tires”

Newt bobbed about for a few seconds and then leveled out, spinning slowly to face downstream. They drifted slowly with the current.

To be continued . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

The stunning Cast of Characters:

~~~~~~~~~~

This story needs a lot more illustrations! Select an event from this story (how about jello?), draw a picture of it, and send me an email. I’ll reply so that you can attach a digital copy of your masterpiece to it. I’ll add it to the story!

Or, if you’d rather help with the glossary, send me the list of words you had to look up (or should have looked up, but didn’t!). Someday, I will start putting together the glossary. Do know what an amphibian is?

[contact-form] We've got more square dancing, more dessert, and (finally) a test drive in Newt, the passenger car part of the zeppelin. It's party time! Square dancing is introduced for the intrepid, the inexperienced, and the deranged, and nobody gets hurt.

#capybara #Dobby #fiction #Jello #Newt #Prince Dobalob #square dance #Sylvia #zeppelin

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feywildrp · 6 years

Photo

THE BELLWETHER // Nadia Ives. Unaligned human, Ford supermodel. Born in 1988. Living at the Easton, Apt. 08B.

“I want to know how you can grow bigger. Don't go looking for some kind of rescue, you are the only one who can save you. We are more than our scars, more than the sum of our parts.” —Mary Lambert, Sum of Our Parts.

KNOWN TRAITS // Elegant, savvy, defiant, perseverant, unravelling.

Work as an escape from life. Airfare to take you away from skin that smells like moth balls and drug store cologne. Hair on the ground. Helplessness and sacrifice. Doing what you can and running when you can’t. Milan, Paris, London, Tokyo. Vicuna and spider silk hemlines. Pearls that take decades to make draped around your neck. Housefire heavy breathing, ash under your fingernails. Unthinkable choices. Around the world doesn’t change your world.

History

⇢ Trigger warnings: cancer, death, housefire mentions.

Nadia Ives was born the younger sister of Kevin Ives, who now insists on being called Forest. Nadia grew up in a stable, two-parent household in Astoria, Queens. Her father worked in construction and her mother was a fashion designer. In a modern turn on an old tale, it was her mother who was the breadwinner, with a higher salary than her husband. She worked for DKNY and travelled often to look over fabrics and factories. Nadia’s father was proud of his wife and proud to help raise the children, doing the cooking and helping with homework. Nadia admired her mother, clinging to her slacks whenever she was home, looking over the fashion sketches and playing with any fabrics swatches she could. A young Nadia enjoyed creating “monsters” with these swatches, while an older Nadia learned to hand-sew them to her Barbie dolls. She always knew she wanted a life like her mother’s—free to travel the world and have experiences, able to come back to a home she loved. Nadia was certain she wanted to become a model, doing faux-runway shows down the hallway for her fourteenth birthday party. By 16, she was signed to a modeling agency. Her older brother made it to her first show, even though he was busy with college and firefighting. Nadia had a close relationship with her family, and, for awhile, their lives were normal.

This changed when Nadia’s father’s chainsmoking habit reared its head and the outcome was a cancer diagnosis in 2010. A gloom hung over the entire family. Kevin moved back home and started giving all of his extra salary to the medical expenses, which prompted Nadia to do the same. She didn’t want to give up on her dreams though—and her father gave his blessings to continue, wouldn’t have her wait by his bedside. All the same, Nadia came home when she could, even as her career took off and she got signed with Ford, becoming one of the top names in the business. Sometimes, it was what kept her sane—somewhere to go that wasn’t home, especially as Kevin became less and less present. It was like he was making Nadia and her mother take care of everything and it felt suffocating. He didn’t even show up to work, as far as Nadia knew, in late 2015. And when their father finally passed in January 2016, he was nowhere to be found. She had to plan the funeral and make all the arrangements herself, even though she was in the middle of prepping for next month’s Fashion Week. It was almost unforgivable. But what was worse was when her firefighter big brother not only didn’t show up when her apartment caught fire in April, but didn’t even check in on her. It was just Nadia in the hospital’s burn ward, face in gauze, hand held by a new widow.

Occupation

Supermodel.

Nadia is a highly paid fashion model with a worldwide reputation and a background in haute couture and commercial modeling, signed with IMG at 16 and then Ford in 2011. Becoming badly scarred in 2016 was awful; she was aging past prime and couldn’t afford to lose time in the limelight—but couldn’t model with a scarred face. Desperation helped her find the Rookery, where she’s now a regular user of the expensive, elusive elixir #99.

Connections

Forest: Nadia hates referring to Kevin as Forest. She has her theories now about the name, but still harbours a lot of resentment for how he went missing just when she needed him: during the funeral and during the fire. Now he reappears like normal, lecturing her on what she does at night, trying to play big brother? Fuck off.

Larkspur: The person who introduced her to the Rookery, Nadia learned what she knows about the fey from Larkspur—just enough to matter, enough to get her into the back room of the Rookery for elixirs. She and Larkspur have become very close friends, partying together whenever Nadia has a spare moment for escapism.

Frost: Nadia’s Runner, an enabler who gets Nadia her precious elixir #99—though nothing else, because Frost knows Nadia hangs out with Larkspur and that Runners are banned from providing Lark with any elixirs. Frost has told Nadia she’s not supposed to mix and match... but Nadia’s almost always taking #99.

PLAYLIST 1. When I Grow Up // 2. Hopeless Wanderer // 3. Sum of Our Parts

Nadia is portrayed by Lily Collins. The faceclaim is NEGOTIABLE. Nadia is currently TAKEN by Ange and not available for application.

#lsrpg #original rp #literate rp #lily collins #lily collins fc #bio #unaligned #human #nadiabio #taken

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browniefox · 6 years

Text

The Dark an Light Side of the Moon 14

Pro No Evens of @trulymightypotato‘s Royal Expectations au

Gar and Lozul go home

Epilogue

It’s done! It’s a bit uneventful, for a final thing, but that’s just how it turned out

oOo

The guards surrounded them, looking out into the woods.

Violetscale watched as Bluescale cut open her palms before taking the knife and doing her own.

And Gar’s ‘family’ stood just outside of the circle.

“I suppose this is goodbye.” He blinked furiously. He hadn’t known them long, he shouldn’t be getting this emotional over them.

“Hey, let it out.” Snow patted his back, and that was all the push he needed until he was weeping. “Gar, it’s okay. You need to go home.”

“I know. I know.” Gar sniffled, clinging to the man that wasn’t really his Protector. “But I’ll never see any of you again. It feels so cruel, to have finally met my family only for it to be pulled away from me.”

“We’ll never forget you.” Snow comforted. After a moment Gar was able to pull himself together enough as Agora walked up to him.

“Good luck with your Royal.” Agora held out their hand. “She’s lucky to have a devoted dog by her side.”

“I’ll take it.” Gar gave a small laugh, wiping away a few tears as he shook the other’s hand.

“Someday, I’m going to be as cool as you!” Lark cheered, bouncing a bit.

“When your father gets back, I have a new story for him.” Gar held out the pages he’d been holding. They were bound in just string, but he’d only had so much time to throw it together. “It’s everything I can remember, as much of it as I could write down.”

“That’s so cool!” Lark happily accepted the book and hugged Gar tightly, taking the air out of his lungs. “Thank you!”

“No problem.” Gar returned the hug. He held it probably just a bit too long, but that was okay. He pulled back, staring at Lark’s face. Who needed memories of his past, he just needed this imagine of his son’s face to last forever, with joy and happiness in a world where he would be raised safely. And his daughter. He turned to face this woman before him, so grown, so much more than the three year old he had never been able to meet, never been able to even imagine.

“Inside I’ve written you each a note. Something a bit more thought out. Just about things I hope for you. I know I have no right to ask any of it but I guess I just want to leave even just the slightest difference in your life.”

“Gar,” Edel gave a soft smile. “I’ll never forget you. And, well, here,” She shoved her own stack of parchment at him. Gar carefully unfolded the stack to find carefully done charcoal sketches of Lark, Snow, and Edel. “Don’t forget us.”

“Edel,” He crying again. Gar swept her up in a hug. This would be the last chance he’d ever have to hold his daughter, he wanted it to last forever. But Molly was waiting for him, and he needed to return to her. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

And this wasn’t his Edel, not from his world, she technically couldn’t say anything for the one he orphaned. Yet still, he could pretend for a moment.

“Garuku, we should get started.”

Violetscale nudged Gar with the back of their hand. Reluctantly he pulled away from Edel.

“Yeah, I know.”

He looked at them as he went to the middle of the circle. The dragons both put their hands to the edge of the spell. Violetscale nodded at him and the runes lit up.

Gar unraveled as the world became blankness, losing himself in the nothingness. All senses disappeared, and though he didn’t come back together, his magic still just unconnected strings, some deep part of him woke up, blinked eyes that didn’t exist to see a white void. The only other thing was a metallic blue string pulling him out into the distance and an unconnected royal blue and two pale blues, also stretched taut and ever so slowly moving.

He started walking.

Molly’s magic tugged gently at his core, and with every step the force got stronger.

A figure became visible in the distance, making its own slow progression forward, towards Gar. He knew who it was before he could make out their features, but it was still strange to see your own face on somebody else.

He looked older than Gar. Gray hairs, more wrinkles. He stumbled every few steps, practically being dragged by the strings pulling him home. But when he saw Gar he managed to grind his feet into the nonexistent ground and stop, staring at his look-a-like.

“You’re… Garuku Bluemoon.”

“A pleasure to meet you King Lozul of the Changing Realms.” Gar puts a fist over his head and gives a sort of small bow.

“Is my family safe?” It’s nice, to know that himself of this world still cares deeply about his family.

“I saw to it personally.” Gar promised. “Did you stand in for me?”

“Molly is safe. Nothing much happened during my stay.” Lozul replied.

“You probably shouldn’t keep them waiting. I don’t know how long Bluescale can keep up the spell.” Gar warned.

“You were a demon.” Lozul stated, ignoring Gar’s comment as he continued to fight the pull of the magic and bindings.

“Yes. You succeeded where I failed.” Gar admitted to the better him, the lighter one who was a king.

“And you were stronger than I’d ever be.” Lozul stared at Gar, having just come to this realization.

“Take care of your children.” Gar nodded, moving forward again.

“Our children.” Lozul corrected even as he stumbled again, almost falling on his face as he gave into the pull.

Eventually, Gar could feel his own magic coming back together, wrapping around this part of himself. Bone was woven, muscle and skin knit together as he was deposited on the floor of the castle - and immediately hit with a wave of worry and caring, so powerful it almost knocked him over. Just a few days and he forgot what a bond felt like.

“G… Gar?”

Gar looked over to see Molly kneeling next to him - he was on the floor.

“Molly.” The Protector sat up and embraced his Royal, quelling her anxiety and pushing only joy and relief to her through their bond.

Well, look who decided to turn back up.

The voice he never thought he’d here again graced his ears and Gar turned to see the Shade of Snow floating behind him. He couldn’t stop the groan.

“So I’m not home then.”

Nah, you’re home, Bluescale just decided that Lozul would like somebody a bit more familiar around.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Gar grinned, looking down into the magic. The Royal blue spread through everything. It was thin and worn, nothing like the thick ropes that the other place had boasted, but this magic was his home. He was finally returned to it.

oOo

Lozul didn’t show back up right away.

After Gar disappeared the light died away to just glimmering in the crevices of the runes. They had been warned that this may happen, that this wasn’t really the reverse of the spell so things may happen differently, slower, but it still made Edel nervous as the dragons continued to throw their magic into the hole, Bluescale trembling ever so slightly.

“Edel,” Lark set the back of his head against Edel, staring at the runes, clutching the ‘book’ Gar had left them desperately, “What if we end up with neither?”

And she hadn’t even considered the possibility. A warm wave of confidence filled her stomach and when she looked Agora offered a small but genuine half-smile.

“Lozul will pull through.” Snow said, no hint of hesitation in his voice. Edel’s hand found the one Lark wasn’t using to hold his book

“Then I’ll just have to step up. The people already thought dad was sick, we’ll just have to tell them he died. We’ll figure it out.”

“Just as long as I don’t lose my sister.” Lark huffed, knocking the back of his head into her gently.

The circle flared to life again and Edel heard Bluescale scream a bit as the light became blinding. She quickly covered both her and Lark’s eyes, and when she pulled them away she was greeted by a familiar sight.

A figure, most likely male, kneeling in the center of the circle in black (with accents of pink) armor, the helmet of which was shaped like a wolf. Snow nodded to her, and on that cue she slowly, hesitantly, approached them. She bent down to kneel like them, heart thudding in her chest desperately.

“D… dad?”

“... Edel?” One gloved hand came up and touched her cheek. “Edelweiss!”

He pounced on her, tackling her into a hug, and it was like a spell on the rest was broken as Lark and Snow joined the fray. At some point somebody removed the helmet so that her father’s face - not Gar, her father - could be seen and he kissed cheeks and foreheads.

It had been a while since she’d felt this young.

Oo Epilogue oO

“Are we there yet?”

“We weren’t there five minutes ago. We aren’t there now. So just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“I’ve been ‘enjoying’ the ride for weeks! I don’t want to enjoy the ride anymore, I want to get off the ride.”

Wade sighed as Patrick and JP devolved into their usual bickering around this time of day. When JP was getting anxious to be doing anything and Patrick’s patience had finally worn away.

“Here, amuse yourself a bit and stop being so annoying.” Wade looked back just in time to see Patrick lobbing a book at JP, who just barely caught it.

“‘The Darker Moon’? But I just read this!” JP complained.

“Did you read it, or did you skim it until you found the sword fighting guide - and then break Wade’s sword?” JP grumbled a response, but flipped open the book. “I always found it to be quite the page turner. So interesting of another view of how our lives may’ve gone.”

“My dad used to read it to me and my siblings every night.” Wade chimed in. Of course, they didn’t read just any iteration of the decently popular book. His dad had read the second copy of it, written in Queen Edelweiss own hand complete with all the old phrases that had required explanation to what they meant every thirty seconds. The one JP currently held was undoubtedly one that had been updated for easier reading. “Pass it over here, I’ll read it to you.”

JP threw the book and Wade caught it. Even if JP ended up not paying attention, it would distract Wade from the endless mass of trees.

He managed to get to the part right before The Demon Prince Garuku Bluemoon broke his bindings and created a bloodbath when a Patrick cleared his throat.

“JP?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re here.”

Septimal was smaller than Primus, but equally bustling and lively. As they entered the city walls people began to flock around them eagerly, excited to see a Royal so close. Wade did his best to appear as the warm, absolutely not nervous Prince, waving to them and smiling. Static did his job of glaring at anybody who appeared threatening, and JP was essentially weeping in joy over the fact of not eating jerky ever again. Wade had no idea how the kid was going to survive a return trip with that kind of an attitude towards jerky.

Havendal met them halfway to the castle, a grin on his face as their escorts merged together.

“I trust your trip went well?” He asked cordially.

“As well as any trip from Primus to Septimal can go. We didn’t run into any problems at least.” Wade had never known Havendal very well, but as far as he was aware the man at least was good at his job. He and his wife hadn’t managed to have any children yet though, despite their efforts.

“We’ll get you all settled in the castle tonight, and then I’ll catch you up on the issues.” It was a common thing for Wade or his sister or younger brother to do, visit the other districts and see for themselves how things were going. “Is there anything you need?”

“Actually, there is something I’d like to have fixed.” Wade drew his sword - only the hilt, as the blade was no longer connected to the rest of it. “JP got a bit… over-excited? While practicing. His sword is also like this.”

“We have an amazing blacksmith.” Havendal reassured. “I’ll send out an order for two enchanted swords.”

“Why enchanted swords?” JP asked. “Isn’t that a little extra?”

“Have you ever read ‘The Darker Moon’?”

“We were actually just reading it on the way here.” Wade smiled.

“Well, call us paranoid, but some people read into it.” Havendal shrugged. “The Demon camp in it was in the Seventh Realm, so we want to be prepared just in case something happens.” He summoned over an attendant.

“Actually,” Wade broke in, “I could always just go down personally. It would be nice to be around other people again, see the city for myself.”

“Of course. It’s the building with the most smoke coming from it. Do you need anything?”

“A cloak would be nice.” Wade said. “I don’t want to be swarmed as soon as I leave the castle.”

“No problem.” Havendal spoke to one of his servants and in a moment a nice cloak was produced.

“I want to go too, let me go.” JP begged.

“Maybe later,” Wade offered. “Why don’t you go explore the castle?”

JP perked up at that, as if he’d forgotten that he was in a new, very large building that he did not know every nook and cranny of.

Even when there wasn’t a Royal going down the streets, they were still bustling. Shortly behind him he knew Static was following behind diligently, watching the citizens in the streets in case they tried to make an attack. Wade almost ended up going to what looked like a bakery, practically through the front door before he realized that there was no way the it was a forge. Patrick caught up to him and directed him to a building down a completely different street.

“Hello?” Wade stood in the stone entryway, yelling over the sound of metal pounding on metal. After a moment it stopped and the person set down what they were working with.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

Oh.

She was beautiful.

Wade blinked, for a second forgetting what he had come for.

“Uh, yes, uh, I’m here to order two enchanted blades.”

She smiled, head tilted a bit as she looked at him.

“... aren’t you the Royal who came in today? Prince Wade Barnes?”

“Yes, I am,” Wade extended a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” The woman took off her glove and shook his hand, strong and callused. “I’m Molly.”

#browniefox writes #moon au #royal expectations #garuku bluemoon #lordminion777

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claraxbarton · 7 years

Text

Lark

For Cocktail Fridays!

It’s a 2x5, a follow-up to the 1x2x5 Nightsong that I wrote a while back.

Under the cut!

Prompt: “How ‘bout a drink to celebrate?”

“It’s 8am.”

A/N: Follow-up of sorts to Nightsong

A/N2: Thanks always to Ro for editing my things and supporting me in all the ways

Pairings: 1x2x5, 2x5

Warnings: language, sexy times, day drinking

Lark

The scenic designer was an asshole.

A brilliant asshole, but an asshole all the same.

After a miserably-long technical rehearsal on Sunday night, which Wufei finally, firmly ended at midnight with the release of actors because they were union and there were rules, the production team had met to discuss the plan for the rest of the week.

The show, which went into first previews on Thursday night, was the most complicated, expensive clusterfuck Wufei had ever been part of.

In some ways, he deeply regretted taking the job. It was his first Off-Broadway show - and while that was a big step up from the Off-Off Broadway shows he had stage managed during graduate school - he actually started to wonder, three rehearsals in, if he had bitten off more than he could chew with this project. It was his biggest show, and his first show after completing his MFA program.

Of course, it had been Duo who recommended him for the gig. Duo, who was the lighting designer for the show, whose faith in Wufei’s competence was at once encouraging and unnerving.

And complicated.

Wufei had to wonder how much of Duo’s confidence had to do with actually trusting in Wufei’s ability to do the project, and how much was tied into his relationship with Wufei.

They had been together for nearly six months, Wufei tentatively easing into the complex relationship Duo and Heero had with each other, and while he didn’t regret even a moment of his time with the two men, Wufei did wonder if Duo was really being objective about things.

Especially after the meeting on Sunday night.

The scenic designer insisted on having almost the entire day on Monday to re-paint and re-dress key elements of the set.

And no, he couldn’t share the stage with electrics.

Electrics, meaning Duo.

Duo, who had nearly twenty focus notes and a slew of lighting cues to rewrite because the scenery…

The scenery was a monster.

It was gorgeous, there was no denying that, but it wasn’t at all like the initial plans. Over the five-week rehearsal process, it had changed, turning into a bewildering and frightening forest of twisted steel and a sheer canopy of leaves.

It was a far cry from the realistic trees that had been sketched out months ago and passed off to Duo.

And Duo, who had tried his best to guess what things would look like after the scenic designer refused to build a new model or even offer up detailed, scaled drawings of the new design, hadn’t guessed quite right.

During the Sunday night meeting, the rest of the team sat and watched Duo and the scenic designer argue over who should get stage time when, and after a pointed look from the director, Wufei had sighed and stepped in.

And screwed over his boyfriend. Or whatever Duo was. It felt like more than that.

Of course, after the look of betrayal Duo gave him when Wufei declared that the scenic designer would have the stage from 10am until 5pm, the call time for the evening rehearsal, Wufei had to wonder if he would still be anything to the other man.

“Fine,” Duo had muttered, and scrubbed at his face. “I’ll come in at six and get to work.”

Duo’s assistant had sputtered in indignation. Six, after all, was only five hours away.

Duo had rolled his eyes and told the assistant to stay home and sleep. Had said he would do the work by himself.

And then he had packed up and left after the meeting, not waiting for Wufei, not trying to cajole Wufei into staying with him that night.

Wufei had tried to shove down his pain at that, and had instead commuted out to his own apartment on Long Island.

He set his alarm for noon and curled into his comforter and tried to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, however, he groaned and reset his alarm for five.

Duo had focus notes, which meant Duo was going to be on a ladder. Alone. With barely any sleep. If anything happened to him, Wufei was going to feel pissed and guilty about it.

It felt like only ten minutes later when the alarm went off, and Wufei almost fell out of bed as he lunged for his phone to end it.

Unfortunately, the commute into the city did not feel like ten minutes.

His train was running late, and it was 6:30 by the time Wufei arrived at the theatre.

And, of course, he walked in to see Duo balanced precariously on a ladder, cursing at a lighting instrument.

He waited until Duo was done before announcing his presence.

“Need a hand?”

Duo looked at him with a mixture of anger, relief and guilt.

“You should be sleeping,” Duo muttered, and started to move the ladder into a new position.

Wufei rolled his eyes, dropped his bag, and picked up the page of notes Duo had dropped on the front of the stage.

He scanned over them, looking for something that he could do without fucking it up.

“I’ll get you these new gel cuts,” he said.

Silence from Duo, and he looked up to see the other man scowling at him.

“What?”

Duo shrugged one shoulder, and Wufei had learned enough about him over the last few months to know that it was a defensive move. Something Duo did when he knew he was in the wrong.

“You should be sleeping,” Duo said again. “Your commute-”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.” But it still stung.

Duo swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Thanks for the help.”

“I’m happy to help,” Wufei said sincerely, and Duo nodded again, looking even guiltier.

An hour later, the focus notes were done, and Duo was down at the lighting console to start reprogramming cues.

Wufei acted as a stage walker - moving around the scenery and showing Duo where actors stood in certain scenes so that he could perfect the cues.

He was fairly certain he fell asleep standing up, several times, and he had no idea how much time had passed when Duo let out a triumphant sound.

Wufei blinked into the darkness and saw Duo’s arms raised over his head.

“Fucking done,” Duo groaned. “For now. Until that asshole redesigns the show again.”

Wufei snorted in both amusement and commiseration.

“I need more coffee. You?”

Wufei shrugged, and jumped down from the stage to follow Duo out of the theatre and into the breakroom.

He leaned against the counter and watched while Duo poured himself a new cup of coffee and dumped in an entirely horrifying amount of sugar.

Duo opened the fridge to grab milk and paused.

“What?” Wufei asked.

Duo reached in and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. There was an index card taped to it that said ‘Drink Me.’

Duo arched an eyebrow at Wufei.

“It’s for a show in the other space. They need empty bottles, and the props person doesn’t drink, so she’s been leaving liquor in the fridge to be emptied,” Wufei explained.

It had been happening for weeks now, and more than once Wufei had had to shepard half-drunk actors out of the theatre after rehearsals.

“Well. How ‘bout we celebrate?”

Wufei arched an eyebrow at him, and then glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s 8am.”

Duo smirked.

“Exactly. And I’m done with notes - thanks to you. We should celebrate.”

Wufei gave him a look, but Duo was completely unperturbed.

With a sigh, Wufei reached past Duo and opened up the cabinet that contained an assortment of cups, plates and bowls.

He pulled out two cups and put them on the counter.

Duo grinned, and poured far too much of the amber liquid into the two cups. He put the nearly-empty bottle back in the fridge and raised one of the glasses.

Wufei grimaced and picked up the other.

He wasn’t a heavy drinker, and he didn’t even want to think about what the liquor was going to do to his empty stomach.

“Toast?” Duo asked.

“To early morning work calls?” Wufei hazarded.

Duo snorted, but gamely took a sip of his drink.

Wufei followed suit, and coughed at the burning sensation.

“To assholes who have boyfriends who are too good to them?” Duo held up his cup again.

Wufei looked at him, and saw that Duo looked apologetic, shoulders raised slightly and head ducked down.

Wufei raised his glass and drank.

“To assholes who are going to absolutely make it up to their boyfriends,” he said after Duo drank.

“Hmm.” Duo tossed back the rest of his drink, and Wufei did the same. “What did you have in mind?”

Neither of them had to be back until that evening, and while Wufei would probably come back earlier, just to see if the theatre was still standing and clean up his paperwork, he could think of all sorts of ways for Duo to apologize to him. All involving sleep and food.

Before he could suggest any of them, however, Duo smirked and sank to his knees in front of Wufei.

It was a sight that Wufei didn’t think he would ever get used to.

Duo, gorgeous and confident and so sexy that one smirk from him had Wufei’s pulse racing, kneeling at Wufei’s feet and looking up at him through his thick lashes, was beyond any fantasy Wufei had ever had.

Duo reached for Wufei’s hips, pulling him closer and smoothing his hands over the waistband of Wufei’s khakis.

“Duo?”

“Nothing like getting drunk and then fucking at 8am, is there?” Duo asked as he started to unzip Wufei’s pants.

“No,” Wufei breathed, thinking of all of the reasons why this was a Very Bad Idea. Reasons that evaporated as soon as Duo leaned forward and pressed his open mouth against the cotton of Wufei’s briefs, warm and wet against his stirring cock.

“Step one as my apology for being an ass?” Duo suggested as he tugged down the briefs and exposed Wufei to the cool air.

Wufei shivered, and then shuddered as Duo licked him. Duo took the soft flesh into his mouth, leisurely coaxing Wufei to full erection.

Once Wufei was hard, Duo pulled back and smirked up at him.

“It’s too bad Heero’s in Denver. If he was at home, I’d skype him so he could watch us.”

The idea had merit, but Wufei also knew that if they woke up Heero at five am just to watch them fuck, the other man would not be pleased.

“You’re such an exhibitionist,” Wufei muttered.

Duo grinned at him, and then rose to his feet and pressed a firm kiss against Wufei’s mouth, teasing his lips open until their tongues tangled together and they were both breathless.

“Be right back. I’m going to go steal a condom from the sound guy’s supplies and some aloe from the first-aid kit.”

Wufei rolled his eyes, but Duo was out of the room before he could say anything.

The wireless microphones that they used for the actors in the show were wrapped in condoms to prevent sweat damaging the sensitive units. The condoms were unlubricated, and Wufei had been working in theatres long enough to listen to the complaints of sound engineers who found their condom supplies mysteriously diminished after the location was discovered.

Duo reappeared, brandishing his stolen goods with a smirk.

Wufei rolled his eyes and took both from him.

“Where do you want me?” Duo asked, tugging off his shirt and shoving down his jeans and boxers without finesse.

Wufei didn’t care, though. The sight of Duo’s naked body needed no fancy reveal.

He loved the lean, narrow planes of Duo’s torso, the jut of his hips and the way his thighs flexed, the dark curls that framed his cock. The tattoos scattered across Duo’s body, each with their own story, whispered to Wufei in the dark over the preceding months.

“Wufei?”

Duo was grinning at him, amused at Wufei’s obvious appreciation for him.

Duo ran a hand down his torso and wrapped it around his cock, stroking himself until his face and chest were flushed and his lips were parted.

“Bend over the table,” Wufei instructed, gesturing to the small cafe table in the breakroom.

The table that he usually sat at every night as he typed up reports.

It would be good to have an entirely different kind of memory associated with it.

Duo grinned and positioned himself, his toes just barely touching the ground, and Wufei took a moment to appreciate the vision before moving behind Duo.

He stroked a hand down Duo’s spine, and Duo shivered and moaned, arching into the touch.

Wufei put the condom and aloe down on the table beside Duo’s hip, and used both hands to squeeze Duo’s ass.

They had worked together on two shows since first meeting, since Duo had first propositioned Wufei. And while there had been more than a few late nights spent at the theatres kissing and groping each other - even one memorable night of Duo sucking him off in the booth - this was the first time they had ever had sex in a theatre.

Wufei felt just enough anxiety over someone walking in and catching them that it gave his arousal an edge.

He prepared Duo quickly, using the aloe to work his body open, to tease Duo into gasping and cursing and writhing under him, and when Wufei finally slid into Duo’s body, the unlubricated condom needing every last bit of the aloe to make the motion smooth, Wufei knew he wasn’t going to last long.

His tension and arousal were heightened by the whiskey, and he could tell that Duo was in an equal state.

It wasn’t going to last long, but that didn’t mean Wufei didn’t want it to feel good, for him and for Duo.

“You’re so tight,” he panted, trying to find a pace that would work for both of them.

“That’s because I’ve been sleeping alone for the past two weeks,” Duo grunted. He shifted back against Wufei, changing up the rhythm just enough.

“Whose fault is that?” he growled.

“Sorry,” Duo panted, “I’m an ass.”

“Hm,” Wufei agreed. He squeezed Duo’s cheeks, hard enough that Duo hissed. “You are.”

“I know,” Duo moaned. “I know.”

The force of Wufei’s thrusts rocked the table, and Duo with it.

Wufei bent down and pressed a kiss to the nape of Duo’s neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“It’s okay,” he told Duo. “You’re going to make it up to me, remember?”

And then he started fucking Duo hard enough that neither of them had breath for conversation.

The small room was filled with the sound of their flesh meeting, of Duo’s broken pleas for more, and Wufei’s groans as he repeatedly sank into the hot, tight sheath of Duo’s body.

Duo came first, and his body drew Wufei deeper, clenching around him and spurring his own climax.

Wufei was left feeling both overwhelmed with sensation and amazingly empty.

He pressed his face against Duo’s back, and tried to catch his breath.

Predictably, Duo caught his breath first.

“Now that is a celebration.”

-o-

#cocktail friday #2x5 #nightsong #lark #gundam wing #1x2x5 #theatre sex

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